far darker than ordinary ones."
"I do have an eye condition. They are quite weak, and bright lights irritate them."
"Yes, that's what I said."
He returned her smile.
He crushed out his cigarette, and as though this were a signal, a soft, sickening music slithered from out of a speaker set high on the wall above the bar. He took another drink of beer.
"I suppose Weatherton got in a few shots at the resurrection of bodies, too?"
"Yes."
And if I die here? he wondered. What will become of me? Will I be denied Glyve and return?
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Your nostrils flared. Your brows contracted."
"You study features too much. It's that awful music."
"I like looking at you," she said. "But let's finish and go to my place. I'll play you something different. There is a thing I want to show you and ask you about, too."
"What is it?"
"I'd rather wait."
"All right."
They finished their drinks, and he paid. They departed, his feelings of apprehension subsiding as they moved into the light he filtered.
They climbed the stairs and entered her third-floor apartment. Just over the threshold. she halted and made a small noise in the back of her throat.
He pushed past her, moving quickly to the left. Then he halted.
"What is it?" he asked, searching the room with his eyes.
"I'm sure I didn't leave the place like this. Those papers on the floor... I don't think that chair was over there. Or that drawer opened. Or the closet door..."
He moved back to her side, studied the lock for scratches, found none. He crossed the room then, and she heard a sound that could only be the clicking of a knife blade as he entered the bedroom.
After a moment he emerged, vanished into the other room, passed from there into the bathroom. When he reappeared, he asked her, "Was that window by the table opened the way it is now?"
"I think so," she said. "Yes, I guess it was."
He sighed. He examined the windowsill, then said, "A gust of wind probably blew your papers. As for the drawer and the closet, I'd bet you left them open yourself this morning. And you've probably forgotten about moving the chair."
"I'm a very orderly person," she said, closing the door to the landing; and when she turned she said, "But I guess you're right."
"Why are you nervous?"
She moved about the apartment, picking up papers.
"Where did you get that knife?" she asked him.
"What knife?"
She slammed the closet door, turned and glared at him.
"The one you had in your hand a minute ago!"
He extended his hands, palms forward.
"I have no knife. You may search me if you wish. You will not find a weapon."
She moved to the chest of drawers, closed the one which had been opened. Stooping, she opened a lower one and removed a newsprint-wrapped parcel.
"This is a part of it," she said. "Why am I nervous? This is why!"
She placed the parcel on the table and undid the strings which held it.
He moved to her side and watched as she unwrapped the papers. Inside were three very old books.
"I thought you'd taken those back already!"
"I intended to-"
"That was the agreement."
"I want to know where you obtained them and how."
He shook his head.
"We also agreed that if I were to recover them, you would not ask me those questions."
She placed the books side by side, then pointed at the spine of one and the cover of another.
"I am certain those were not there before," she said. "They are bloodstains, aren't they?"
"I don't know."
"I tried to wipe some of the smaller ones off with a damp tissue. What came off certainly looked like dried blood."
He shrugged.
"When I told you these books had been stolen from their cases in the Rare Books Room and you offered to recover them, I said, 'Okay'." She continued, "I agreed that if you could get them back. I'd see that it was an anonymous return. No questions. But I never thought this meant bloodshed. The stains alone would not have made me think that that is what happened. But then I began considering you
"I do have an eye condition. They are quite weak, and bright lights irritate them."
"Yes, that's what I said."
He returned her smile.
He crushed out his cigarette, and as though this were a signal, a soft, sickening music slithered from out of a speaker set high on the wall above the bar. He took another drink of beer.
"I suppose Weatherton got in a few shots at the resurrection of bodies, too?"
"Yes."
And if I die here? he wondered. What will become of me? Will I be denied Glyve and return?
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Your nostrils flared. Your brows contracted."
"You study features too much. It's that awful music."
"I like looking at you," she said. "But let's finish and go to my place. I'll play you something different. There is a thing I want to show you and ask you about, too."
"What is it?"
"I'd rather wait."
"All right."
They finished their drinks, and he paid. They departed, his feelings of apprehension subsiding as they moved into the light he filtered.
They climbed the stairs and entered her third-floor apartment. Just over the threshold. she halted and made a small noise in the back of her throat.
He pushed past her, moving quickly to the left. Then he halted.
"What is it?" he asked, searching the room with his eyes.
"I'm sure I didn't leave the place like this. Those papers on the floor... I don't think that chair was over there. Or that drawer opened. Or the closet door..."
He moved back to her side, studied the lock for scratches, found none. He crossed the room then, and she heard a sound that could only be the clicking of a knife blade as he entered the bedroom.
After a moment he emerged, vanished into the other room, passed from there into the bathroom. When he reappeared, he asked her, "Was that window by the table opened the way it is now?"
"I think so," she said. "Yes, I guess it was."
He sighed. He examined the windowsill, then said, "A gust of wind probably blew your papers. As for the drawer and the closet, I'd bet you left them open yourself this morning. And you've probably forgotten about moving the chair."
"I'm a very orderly person," she said, closing the door to the landing; and when she turned she said, "But I guess you're right."
"Why are you nervous?"
She moved about the apartment, picking up papers.
"Where did you get that knife?" she asked him.
"What knife?"
She slammed the closet door, turned and glared at him.
"The one you had in your hand a minute ago!"
He extended his hands, palms forward.
"I have no knife. You may search me if you wish. You will not find a weapon."
She moved to the chest of drawers, closed the one which had been opened. Stooping, she opened a lower one and removed a newsprint-wrapped parcel.
"This is a part of it," she said. "Why am I nervous? This is why!"
She placed the parcel on the table and undid the strings which held it.
He moved to her side and watched as she unwrapped the papers. Inside were three very old books.
"I thought you'd taken those back already!"
"I intended to-"
"That was the agreement."
"I want to know where you obtained them and how."
He shook his head.
"We also agreed that if I were to recover them, you would not ask me those questions."
She placed the books side by side, then pointed at the spine of one and the cover of another.
"I am certain those were not there before," she said. "They are bloodstains, aren't they?"
"I don't know."
"I tried to wipe some of the smaller ones off with a damp tissue. What came off certainly looked like dried blood."
He shrugged.
"When I told you these books had been stolen from their cases in the Rare Books Room and you offered to recover them, I said, 'Okay'." She continued, "I agreed that if you could get them back. I'd see that it was an anonymous return. No questions. But I never thought this meant bloodshed. The stains alone would not have made me think that that is what happened. But then I began considering you
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