up an entire block on the middle-lower West Side, built in the ’30s when architects who should have known better were bandying phrases about “modern multiple housing” and “machines for living.” She took the elevator to the 18th floor and knocked sharply on a door at the end of a long corridor. Almost immediately the lid of a metal peephole opened, and a young, strained voice cried, “Who is it?”
“It is I, as you can see for yourself,” said Miss Withers. “May I come in?”
There was the rattle of a chain, and the door opened slowly, reluctantly, as though Iris Dunn would have slammed it in the schoolteacher’s face had she dared. “I thought you were somebody else,” the girl admitted.
“Sometimes I wish I were,” said Miss Withers as she pushed forward into a smallish living room whose wall bed was still down. “Whom were you expecting?”
“Oh—the rental agent,” Iris said.
Sensitive as a cat to her surroundings, Miss Withers felt a tingling up her spine as the door closed behind her. Something was wrong here, very wrong. As the Inspector would say, the joint was jumping, alive with vibrations. It was not just that the room was a shambles of strewn clothing and feminine belongings, with a portable phonograph, trimmed in red leather, playing You’d Be So Easy to Love … The bed was covered with dozens of varicolored evening gowns, the floor cluttered with a heap of framed photographs, most of them autographed by second-magnitude stage and variety stars, which Iris had evidently been trying to tie together with string and newspaper padding.
“Down come the Lares and Penates, eh? Is it moving day?”
“Oh, sure,” said Iris, too brightly, as she shut off the music. “My lease, you know.”
“A nice little furnished flat, isn’t it?” Miss Withers could see partway into a bare little kitchenette, and through an open door into a large and almost luxurious dressing room and bath. “Too bad you have to lose it.”
The girl fidgeted. “Yes, but the place is inconveniently located, you know. It isn’t within walking distance of anything, except maybe Macy’s when there’s a good tail wind.” Iris dumped an armful of summer dresses into an expanding suitcase, every which way.
“Today’s the sixteenth of the month, is it not? Odd that your lease doesn’t end on the first or fifteenth, as they usually do.”
The girl stood stock still. “Why—” She was wound up tight as a spring, hiding something behind a smile that never quite took. Somehow, while perhaps she did not seem as poised and pretty as she had at their first meeting, now she was considerably more engaging, a little younger and more natural. “You know show business,” she said with assumed lightness. “Here today and gone tomorrow.”
“I’ll not keep you long,” said Miss Withers as she removed four pairs of dancing shoes from a chair and planted herself firmly. “So you’ve changed your mind about remaining in the city and are going to take a job with a road company?” She showed her surprise. “And all the time I figured you might have had personal, shall I say romantic reasons for wanting to stay in hot, stuffy New York all this past summer.”
“Not exactly a road company—” Iris began, and stopped.
“Summer stock—in September?”
“No! I’m just going away, if you must know. Hollywood, maybe. I’ve never tried Hollywood.”
“Many others have, particularly in these days of television, without setting the Los Angeles riverbed on fire. But it’s a place to go, especially when one wants to forget a dead romance.” She stared hard at Iris.
“Romance? Heavens, no. Whatever gave you that idea? I’m the bachelor girl type—”
“So I see by the collection of evening dresses spread out for packing. Was it something that happened last evening that changed your mind about staying in town?”
Iris dropped an armful of dresses, with a clatter of hangers. “What?” She swallowed. “Why
“It is I, as you can see for yourself,” said Miss Withers. “May I come in?”
There was the rattle of a chain, and the door opened slowly, reluctantly, as though Iris Dunn would have slammed it in the schoolteacher’s face had she dared. “I thought you were somebody else,” the girl admitted.
“Sometimes I wish I were,” said Miss Withers as she pushed forward into a smallish living room whose wall bed was still down. “Whom were you expecting?”
“Oh—the rental agent,” Iris said.
Sensitive as a cat to her surroundings, Miss Withers felt a tingling up her spine as the door closed behind her. Something was wrong here, very wrong. As the Inspector would say, the joint was jumping, alive with vibrations. It was not just that the room was a shambles of strewn clothing and feminine belongings, with a portable phonograph, trimmed in red leather, playing You’d Be So Easy to Love … The bed was covered with dozens of varicolored evening gowns, the floor cluttered with a heap of framed photographs, most of them autographed by second-magnitude stage and variety stars, which Iris had evidently been trying to tie together with string and newspaper padding.
“Down come the Lares and Penates, eh? Is it moving day?”
“Oh, sure,” said Iris, too brightly, as she shut off the music. “My lease, you know.”
“A nice little furnished flat, isn’t it?” Miss Withers could see partway into a bare little kitchenette, and through an open door into a large and almost luxurious dressing room and bath. “Too bad you have to lose it.”
The girl fidgeted. “Yes, but the place is inconveniently located, you know. It isn’t within walking distance of anything, except maybe Macy’s when there’s a good tail wind.” Iris dumped an armful of summer dresses into an expanding suitcase, every which way.
“Today’s the sixteenth of the month, is it not? Odd that your lease doesn’t end on the first or fifteenth, as they usually do.”
The girl stood stock still. “Why—” She was wound up tight as a spring, hiding something behind a smile that never quite took. Somehow, while perhaps she did not seem as poised and pretty as she had at their first meeting, now she was considerably more engaging, a little younger and more natural. “You know show business,” she said with assumed lightness. “Here today and gone tomorrow.”
“I’ll not keep you long,” said Miss Withers as she removed four pairs of dancing shoes from a chair and planted herself firmly. “So you’ve changed your mind about remaining in the city and are going to take a job with a road company?” She showed her surprise. “And all the time I figured you might have had personal, shall I say romantic reasons for wanting to stay in hot, stuffy New York all this past summer.”
“Not exactly a road company—” Iris began, and stopped.
“Summer stock—in September?”
“No! I’m just going away, if you must know. Hollywood, maybe. I’ve never tried Hollywood.”
“Many others have, particularly in these days of television, without setting the Los Angeles riverbed on fire. But it’s a place to go, especially when one wants to forget a dead romance.” She stared hard at Iris.
“Romance? Heavens, no. Whatever gave you that idea? I’m the bachelor girl type—”
“So I see by the collection of evening dresses spread out for packing. Was it something that happened last evening that changed your mind about staying in town?”
Iris dropped an armful of dresses, with a clatter of hangers. “What?” She swallowed. “Why
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