Death of an Angel by Frances Lockridge Page A

and started toward them. After a few steps, he said, “I’ve seen you better, Mary.”
    She was on her feet. The movement was quick, lithe, for all its haste, infinitely graceful.
    â€œYou!” she said. “Don’t call me that.”
    â€œAll right, Mary,” the man said. “I’ll call you Naomi. You still didn’t get very far, did you? All that trouble for nothing.”
    â€œYou spoiled it,” she said. The beauty was still in the voice. “You—you spoil everything.” The little hesitancy, the little catch, was there. “You always did. Always—always—always.”
    She formed two slender, graceful hands into tight fists, and shook them, both together, at the stocky man. At which, he laughed again.

6
    Sunday, 12:20 A.M. to 4:20 P.M.
    The stocky man’s laughter was brief. It seemed to Bill Weigand that, this time, there was amusement in it.
    â€œAct one, scene two,” the man said. “Impotent rage. Or—is it petulance, my dear?”
    â€œGet out of here,” Naomi Shaw said. “Just get out of here.” Her voice went up somewhat. It was still a lovely voice, but it was not quite the same voice. There was, Bill thought, suddenly a trace of Missouri in it—the merest trace of Missouri.
    â€œPear-shaped tones, Mary,” the man said. “Where are the pear-shaped tones?” He seemed suddenly to remember Bill’s presence. “For two years,” he said. “Almost two years, I heard about pear-shaped tones. You know what they are?”
    Bill had heard the term.
    â€œNever could visualize it,” the man said. “Not that she doesn’t talk right nice. Don’t you think she does?”
    â€œSometimes,” the girl said, “I could kill you, Bob. Sometimes I don’t know why I didn’t.”
    â€œNow, honey,” the man said, “I didn’t give you a chance, remember? Anyway, you aren’t big enough. Don’t you remember what a little girl you are?” He smiled, then, and the smile momentarily broke the squareness of his face. “And,” he said, “you didn’t want to, honey. You never will want to.” He turned to Weigand. “She was stringing you along,” he said. “But I guess you got that, didn’t you?”
    â€œYes,” Bill said.
    â€œMatter of fact,” the man said, “I thought she was pretty good, didn’t you? Not convincing, maybe. But, hell, she didn’t have much time. And, like she said, nobody wrote the words for her.” He nodded his noticeably square head. “Pretty good act.”
    â€œYou always do things like this,” Naomi Shaw said. “Always. Always .” But, now, her voice was softly down again; now the accents of Missouri were smoothed out of it. Naomi Shaw went a few steps, seemed to flow the few steps, and sat in the corner of a sofa. “He always did,” she said, to Bill.
    â€œSuppose,” Bill Weigand said, “we make this a little less private. For one thing, who are you?”
    â€œName’s Carr,” the stocky man said. “Robert Carr, construction engineer. The lady’s ex.”
    â€œNot enough,” Naomi said. “Not enough by half.”
    â€œTalks British, don’t she?” Carr said. “Not arf she don’t. Gets ideas in her pretty head, too. Don’t you, honey?”
    â€œA year and eight months,” Naomi said. “The longest year and eight months ever.”
    â€œThat’s right,” Carr said. “Gave me the best year and eight months of her life, the lady did. But Chile—nope. Not for Mary Shaftlich Carr. Not Chile.”
    â€œHe’s not fair,” Naomi said, to Bill. “He’s never fair. And, there’s no secret I changed my name. Everybody does.”
    â€œYou have to get used to that sort of thing,” Carr said. “Everybody’s in the theater. You know that,