“Never a girl as pretty as you, or as smart as you, or as warm and exciting as—”
“Ben, please!”
“I’m sorry, Angela. It’s just — I used to think this would be us. It could have been us, you know.”
“Everyone grows up, Ben.”
“Angela, you once said... when we were younger... when you first met Tommy... I called you, I remember, and you told me it was all over between us. Do you remember that?”
“Yes, Ben. I do.”
“You shouldn’t have ended it on the telephone. Not after what we’d been to each other.”
“I’m sorry. I suppose... I just wanted it to be clean, Ben. Over with. Done. I didn’t want one of those long, drawn-out—”
“I know, I know. And okay, I don’t mind. But... when I was talking to you on the phone, I said if... if anything ever went wrong between you and Tommy, I’d be waiting. Remember that?”
“Yes. I remember.”
“And you said, ‘All right, Ben. I’ll keep that in mind.’ Do you remember saying that?”
“It was such a long time ago, Ben. I really don’t—”
“I’m still waiting, Angela.”
“What?”
“If anything should go wrong, if anything at all should happen between you, I’ll be here. You can count on me. I’ll take you in a minute, Angela. I loved you once, Angela, and I still—”
“Ben, please stop it. Please.”
“Just remember. I’ll be waiting for you. I’ll be waiting, Angela.”
The Green Corner was a tree-shaded house with a winding walk lined with azalea bushes in full bloom. Meyer and O’Brien walked leisurely to the front door and rang the bell.
“Coming,” a voice said, and they waited as footsteps approached the door. The door opened. A wispy little woman in a dark-blue dress stood there, smiling. From somewhere in the house, a dog began barking.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hello,” Meyer answered. “Are you the lady of the house?”
“My, do they send salesmen around on Sundays, too?” the little woman asked.
“No, we’re from the police,” Meyer said. The smile dropped from the little woman’s mouth. “Now, don’t be alarmed,” he added hastily. “We only wanted to—”
“I’m only the dog sitter,” the little woman said. “I don’t even live here. I don’t know anything about any lawbreaking that’s been going on. I come to sit with the dog, that’s all.”
“No one’s broken any law,” O’Brien said. “We only wanted to ask some questions, lady.”
“Well, I don’t know anything about anyone who lives here. I only sit with the dog. His name is Butch, and he tears up the furniture if they leave him alone, he gets so lonely and miserable. So I sit with him. Butch is the only one I know here.”
“Do you know the owners of the house?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Travers, yes, but not so good as I know Butch. Butch is a Golden Retriever, but he chews up the furniture. Which is why—”
“Know any of the roomers?”
“Yes, there’s old Mr. Van Ness on the top floor, but he’s out right now. And there’s Mrs. Wittley, but she’s out, too. And then there’s the new girl, Oona Blake, but she’s out, too. And I don’t know any of them real good except Butch. He’s the only reason I come over here. I’m one of the best dog sitters in the neighborhood.”
“This Oona Blake,” O’Brien said. “Is it Miss or Mrs.?”
“Miss, of course. Why, she’s just a young girl.”
“How old?”
“Not thirty yet, I would say.”
“You said she’s out right now. Do you know what time she left?”
“Yes. Early this morning. I know because the Traverses are away for the weekend, which is why I’m sitting with Butch. I got here yesterday. And I was here this morning when Miss Blake left.”
“What time would you say that was?”
“Right after breakfast. I also make the meals when the Traverses are gone.”
“Did anyone call for her?”
“Who? Mrs. Travers?”
“No. Miss Blake.”
“Oh. Oh, yes. As a matter of fact, someone did.”
“Who?”
“Don’t know him. I told you, I don’t know much of the goings-on here. You ask me, the Traverses run this place too loose. Too loose.”
“Was the man carrying anything?”
“What man?”
“The man who picked up Miss Blake.”
“Oh. Him. Yes, he was. A trombone case.”
“A trombone case? Not a trumpet? Or a saxophone?”
“No, a trombone. Don’t I know a trombone when I see one? A long black case. Oh, it was a trombone, all right.”
“What did he look like?”
“I didn’t get a good look. He was sitting in the parlor waiting for her, and the shades were drawn. But I saw the trombone case leaning against the armchair.” The little woman paused. “She won’t be here long, anyway. That Oona Blake.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I was dog-sitting last week. She got three calls in the same day. All from the same place. A real estate agent. She’ll be moving soon, that one.”
“Which real estate agent? Do you recall the name?”
“Certainly. She got three calls in the same day. Besides, it isn’t far from here.”
“What’s the name?” O’Brien asked.
“Pullen Real Estate. It’s the next elevated stop from here. Right on the corner, under the station.”
“Can you tell us what Oona Blake looks like?” Meyer asked.
“Yes, certainly. But I don’t really know very much about her. Where shall I start?”
“What was she wearing when she left here this morning?”
“A red silk dress, rather low cut. Red high-heeled pumps. No stockings. A little sort of red feather in her hair, with a rhinestone clip.”
“Was she carrying a purse?”
“One of these small things that all you can fit into are a compact and lipstick and a few odds and ends.”
“Was that red, too?”
“No. It was a dark blue. Sequins, I believe.”
“And how would you describe her?”
“She’s a blonde. I think it’s natural. She’s very well developed. If you ask me, she’s got a thyroid condition. Anyway, she’s a very big girl. Noisy, I guess. Or perhaps she just talks loud. She’s very pretty, I would say. Blue eyes. She gives an impression of... I don’t know... being strong, I guess. She’s got a nice smile and a pretty nose. Does that help?”
“Yes. Thank you very much.”
“You going to that real estate office now?”
“Yes.”
“I wouldn’t. He’s closed on Sundays.”
The girl dancing with Bert Kling was wearing a red silk dress and red high-heeled pumps. She wore a red feather in her hair, and the feather tickled Kling’s cheek as he maneuvered her over the makeshift dance floor. People were beginning to filter to the tables where cocktails had been placed at each setting. Kling was beginning to feel a little hungry. Perhaps it was the way the girl danced, with a sort of nervous, pushing energy that demanded all his leading skill to counter. She was a very busty girl, and she danced quite close, her long blonde hair brushing his cheek. She seemed quite feminine and lovely — even though she was a big girl — but there was nonetheless this pushing quality about her which gave him the feeling that she was leading him around the dance floor. The strength seemed in direct contradiction to the blue eyes and lovely smile that had first attracted him to her. The eyes and the smile had been totally female. The dancing was the footwork of a steel magnate, a person with something to do, a person anxious to get it done.
The band, once one got used to it, wasn’t really half bad. Playing a medley of foxtrots, they moved smoothly from one number to the next, keeping a steady danceable beat. Sal Martino had put his trombone on a chair that rested on the bandstand alongside him, and he led the orchestra with his right hand, smiling out at the crowd occasionally. Waiters rushed across the lawn carrying drinks. Kling’s eyes moved across the dance floor. Ben Darcy was still dancing with Angela. The pair seemed to be having an argument. Steve Carella was dancing with a redhead who’d undoubtedly leaped from the pages of Playboy although, Kling mused, the same observation could probably be made about the blonde who was pushing him around the floor. Teddy Carella didn’t look too damn happy about the inflammable girl in the green dress. Cotton Hawes didn’t look too happy, either. Dismally, he watched Christine Maxwell dancing with Sam Jones.