Rather Cool for Mayhem, page 17
“No,” I said. “Let’s get the hell back to town. This place still stinks of Pennington.”
“All right. Let’s have that drink first, though. And will you put that box of roses on the fire, Jim?”
“With pleasure.”
“I’m glad I made up my mind about Henry before you left for New York, Jim. Otherwise you might have thought I was dropping him because he was in trouble.”
“I’m glad, too. Because if you’d known he was in trouble you probably wouldn’t have dropped him.” I put the roses on the fire. They made an ungodly cloud of evilsmelling smoke. “What were you burning just before I woke up this morning?”
Grace smiled. “So you did catch me?”
“I did. What was it?”
“The letters you wrote me from London.”
“That should be a lesson to you. Never keep love letters, because when you see the guy again, you see him in proper perspective and then you have to burn his letters.”
“I burned the letters,” Grace said, “because in one of them you said that if I fell in love with anybody while you were away, you would come right home and shoot him. I thought it best to get rid of a letter like that.”
I looked hard at the fire. I didn’t turn around. The smoke was making my eyes smart.
“If you hadn’t come back with that prescription book tonight,” Grace continued, “I might have thought you went to New York to see Conchita.”
“I did see Conchita,” I said, still not turning around. “And that reminds me I’d better return the prescription book to Grossbeck’s tonight so it can be legally subpoenaed.”
“How was Conchita?” Grace asked.
“Fine. Except that she puts nasty drugs in her drinks, keeps a man-hating cat, doesn’t empty ashtrays, and drapes her laundry around her apartment. Besides, she loves her husband.”
“You saw her alone, then?”
“Yes. She tried to keep me from getting into Grossbeck’s Pharmacy. Eddie’s in that prescription book. He has a weakness that Norman was encouraging.”
“I suspected that,” Grace said. “He’s a queer guy, but I like him.”
“Conchita loves him,” I said. “Conchita would do anything for Eddie.”
“Did she?”
“No,” I said. “Not quite.” I handed Grace her drink. “Here’s to happier days.”
We finished the drink and left. I drove her car. I took the long way around, through Blue Falls, so we could drive along the lake. There was a wisp of a moon, lolling in a featherbed of thick clouds, and the reflections on the lake were very restful. I knew Grace didn’t want conversation and I thought the nip in the air and the peace of the night would do her good. After a while she began to talk, very softly.
“Jim,” she said, “I’ve felt all day that I’m really the one who murdered Norman. Oh, not really. Maybe I wasn’t the answer to his questions. Maybe I couldn’t have pulled him out of whatever was wrecking him. But somebody could have saved him. Somebody could have saved a brilliant mind like that—for society. Maybe I really should go on through life, wiping noses for grownup little boys. Maybe that’s my job, after all.”
“Maybe,” I said.
She didn’t talk again for about ten minutes. Then she said, “Jim, I don’t know a thing about you, what you did during the last three years, what’s happened to you—inside.”
“Oh, nothing’s happened much,” I said. “I had a very comfortable war.”
“I want to hear about it. So far we’ve just talked about me. When shall we talk about you?”
“Tomorrow?”
“I want to take care of Norman tomorrow,” Grace said. “He didn’t have anybody—except Tommy, and Tommy’s too young to understand what’s happened. Norman wouldn’t want a funeral, but he always said he wanted to be cremated. I’ll take care of that.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, Jim. I’d rather be alone.”
We left the lakeshore and headed into the hills.
“What about Tuesday?” I asked after a while. “Are you busy Tuesday?”
“Tuesday will be fine,” she said. “Let’s meet for cocktails Tuesday.”
“Cocktails—at Blindman’s Lake?”
“No. At the Marguery.”
“We had our big fight at the Marguery,” I said. “Is that why?”
“I’d forgotten about that,” Grace said. “But I remember that the Marguery is the only place in town where you admit the martinis are as good as you can make yourself. Remember?”
I remembered. I remembered a lot of things. I felt very warm inside.
About the Author
Lawrence G. Blochman (1900–1975) was an Edgar Award–winning author of mystery novels, a prominent translator of international crime fiction, and served as the fourth president of the Mystery Writers of America. He died in New York City.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1951 by Lawrence G. Blochman
Cover design by Ian Koviak
ISBN: 978-1-5040-8571-7
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Lawrence G. Blochman, Rather Cool for Mayhem
