She shook her head. The blue eyes darkened with pain. "Only so I could
say no in a nice way."
"Huh?"
"I'm not interested. Not yet." For an instant, there was a brightening
across her face. "Unless you, Bob--"
"Sorry, kid. I'm tied up tonight." He checked his watch. "In fact, I
should have left already."
"Oh," she said listlessly.
"Look here," he said. He took her by the shoulders and forced her to
turn around and meet his gaze. "This can only go on so long, then they
put you in the foundry. Bruce is dead. We're still alive. Start acting
like it."
"It's only been--two days? Three?" She twisted away from him. "Give me
time to get used to it."
"You never will, at this rate. I know you."
"You should," she said with a flick of anger. "Your castoff mistress."
"Castoff, hellfire! We terminated an association which--"
"Yes, yes. I've heard that line too. You warned me and so on. Go ahead,
call yourself a gentleman."
"_Maròn!_" He sprang to his feet and paced the floor. She leaned back
and watched him, breathing hard.
Eventually his temper cooled. "Margery," he said, "I think I know what
Bruce meant to you. Besides being someone you cared for, I mean. He was
your chance at emotional security, wasn't he? A home, children. Why
don't you admit it, you'll always be the little girl from Ohio, and
what's wrong with that? The average man will breed the unaverage one
again, someday when the human race gets back its health. He has before.
But these hipster types are a biological and cultural dead end.
"I can't build your house in Ohio for you. Forget me. Bruce was not
your last chance, but if you sit on your tocus feeling sorry for
yourself, he will have been. Get the devil out of this hole!"
"Thanks for the counsel," she said. It fell flatly on his ears. The
rising fury tinted her and tensed her; she spoke through jaws held
stiff. "So much cheaper than help, isn't it? But it happens I choose to
stay home tonight. Alone. Starting at once."
Kintyre stopped in midstride. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not sure what
I did wrong just now, but I'm sorry."
She slumped. "Please go away," she said without tone. "Call me tomorrow
if you want, but please go away now."
"All right," he said.
She didn't stir as he went out the door.
He walked fast, being late. Anger changed to concern, and then that
faded too, when he had Corinna to think about. Margery would be feeling
better tomorrow, he could make friends again. At the moment, he needed
a bath and a shave and a change of clothes.
Headlines on a news rack caught his eye, an extra edition. Peter and
Eugene Michaelis had been arrested on suspicion of murder.
12
Corinna had an apartment on a quiet street not far from Golden Gate
Park. Kintyre had been told by Bruce that she worked on the staff of
a small art museum, belonged to a little theater group, owned a light
target rifle, and made most of her own clothes. He had seen for himself
that she spoke Italian. That was all. He felt ridiculously like a
schoolboy on his first date.
She opened her door and smiled him in. High heels put her almost on a
level with him. She wore black, which set off her pale hair, but the
sleeves flared and the skirt swirled: it was not mourning.
"I'm nearly ready, Dr. Kintyre. Won't you sit down? Watch out for the
cat, she bites."
Kintyre enjoyed cats; he would have kept one himself if he had
wanted to assume obligations. This was that loveliest of the tribe, a
blue-point Siamese, white as new snow and markings like twilight. She
flowed up toward his extended fist as he settled in a chair. "What's
the name?" he asked.
"Taffimai Metallumai," said Corinna, returning to her
bedroom. "If you remember your Kipling, that means
Small-Person-Without-Any-Manners-Who-Ought-To-Be-Spanked. But she lives
under the name of Tipsy. Gold letters over her door, and so on."
He looked around. This room was individualistically decorated, she
must have done it herself, in reds and blues and a couple of delicate
Chinese paintings. Her books ran toward poetry, drama, and art; but one
shelf held the popular works of Gamow, Russell, Ley, and company. There
was a medium-fi and a lot of good records.
Taffimai Metallumai levitated up onto his lap, gave him a sleepy
turquoise look, and ordered him to scratch her beneath the chin. She
was pure hard muscle under the virginal fur; she must weigh twice as
much as any peasant cat her size.
Kintyre took his attention from the corner where a small worktable held
an unfinished papier-maché mask. Corinna was coming back in. "That was
quick," he said, rising.
"Oh, don't! You're catted! Oh, dear!"
He looked at his gashed thumb. Tipsy told him in a few well chosen
words that he had no business upsetting her without warning.
Corinna's eyes were green distress. "People never do believe my
warning," she said, "and then Snow Leopard j.g. makes a lunch off them
and--Can I tell you how sorry I am?"
"Occupational hazard if you like cats," Kintyre answered. "And I do. We
might put on some stickum, just for appearances."
She regarded him closely. "I believe you mean that," she said. "Thank
you." She led him to the bathroom. The route gave him a glimpse of her
kitchen and a crammed shelf of herbs and spices.
"Instead of going out," he said as he repaired the damage, "I could
probably get a better dinner here."
"Why, I hadn't prepared anything, but--"
"Nonsense. Maybe you'll give me a rain check. Let's go."
Tipsy assured him that she bore no hard feelings, and he stroked
her with real pleasure. It occurred to him that there was something
pathetic about Margery's little caged parakeet, set beside this
beautiful killing engine.
"You're quite a scientist," he remarked, nodding at the books.
"Only as a spectator," said Corinna. "I would have liked to get a
degree in math, but we hadn't the money and I was needed to help in the
restaurant." Her explanation was unresentful.
He helped her into her coat and they went down to his car. "Where are
we going?" she asked.
"I know a Dutch place near Russian Hill," he told her. "Ever been
there? No? Good. Dutch cuisine is badly underrated. It's fully
comparable to the French, in its own way."
She fell silent. He stole a look at the Egyptian profile; it was grave
again.
"Forgive me if I'm tactless," he said.
"You aren't. You're very kind to come and--What good would we do Bruce,
sitting around with our faces dragging on the floor?"
"I thought as much myself," he ventured. "But then, I was only a
friend."
"Bruce never had a better one. I rather imagine you knew him more
intimately than any of his kin. He grew away from us, toward something
of his own. As was right, of course."
Kintyre had no reply.
"And then," she said in a matter-of-fact tone, "he was good. Not holy,
but good. I don't think he will be too long in Purgatory."
Kintyre, for whom the soul was a metaphor, had to think over every
aspect of her remark until he could understand that, quite simply, she
believed it. That was not a consolation he wished to take from her.
"But damn," she whispered, "I'll miss him!"
They drove on in silence. At last she said, more awkwardly than the
average modern woman: "I have to ask you about one thing. I saw a
newspaper today. This girl he--he knew--"
"Yes," said Kintyre, focusing intently on the traffic. "I know her.
They were living together. She's an altogether fine person who would
have made him a wonderful wife. Bruce was very much in love with her
and wanted to get married. She hesitated only because she--was afraid
she might hurt him--she would have changed her mind soon. They were
happy."
Corinna sighed. He could almost feel how she relaxed. "Thank you," she
said. "I have a lot to thank you for, haven't I? We needn't say any
more about this except--if the girl would like to see me, or have me
visit her, I'd be more than glad to."
"I think so," said Kintyre. "In a few more days."
At once he damned himself for an idiot. He had spoken truth; but it
gave Margery the chance to relate a few truths of her own, if she
chose, and what might come of that?
They spoke little for the remainder of the drive. It was, somehow, a
restful quietness.
It was broken when they stepped from the car. Another news rack faced
them, with ARREST FATHER, SON FOR LOMBARDI MURDER staggering across the
page.
Corinna drew a gasp. She snatched Kintyre's hand with fingers that were
suddenly cold. "_Santa Maria_," she mumbled.
He steadied her. "Easy, there," he said.
"I knew it." Her voice came saw-toothed. "I knew it was them. What does
it say?"
He bent over the page. "Not much more than that. Picked up this
afternoon on suspicion, father and son. No details."
"It'll be out tomorrow. Everything. And then the trial."
"I thought you were all for this," he said. "You were convinced of
their guilt and--"
"I wasn't thinking. I was only hurt, and tired. No, I don't want it to
be this way." Slowly, she stiffened herself. "But so be it, then. Can I
have a drink?"
"You can have more than that." He steered her along the sidewalk. She
still moved a little unsurely. "You can have the news I mainly came to
give you."
"What?"
"The Michaelises are not guilty."
A bar stood by their path. He led her inside, to a booth. The drab
routine of checking Corinna's age seemed to help calm her. She asked
for straight Irish whisky, he took beer.