She Woke to Darkness by Brett Halliday

let him come in with her. Besides, he had driven away thinking she was going straight up to her own apartment. He hadn’t known about the call she made to Torn until he talked to the bartender much later.
    There was no one else in her life who could possibly care enough about whom she slept with to commit murder.
    No. It had to be someone in Torn’s own life. That, or pure accident. A prowler, who entered the room by chance, who was discovered by Torn and who killed him in the ensuing struggle. That would explain the absence of Torn’s wallet. But it hardly explained the two-dollar bill. What chance prowler would pause after murder to add that macabre touch?
    It always came back to Torn himself. To his personal character and associates. And she knew absolutely nothing about him. He was merely a name to her. The name of a nondescript man who had evidently possessed enough sexual attraction for her to phone him at midnight and go to a hotel room with him.
    Who would know about him? Neither Ralph nor Doris knew who he was. Ralph had mentioned hearing him introduced at the party, and had difficulty recalling his name.
    Bart, of course. He was the host and must have invited Torn. Did she dare ask Bart about him? Would Bart wonder why she wanted to know? Would he suspect something?
    Certainly not until he learned that Torn was dead and how he died. Then he would recall that Aline had asked about him. But it wouldn’t matter then. Sooner or later the police were sure to piece together the events of the evening and place her in the death room at the correct time.
    She got up decisively and called Bart’s number. The phone rang several times before his lazy, cultivated voice drawled, “Hello.”
    “Bart. How are you this morning?”
    “Excruciating, my love. Simply excruciating. Tell me, why do I give parties? All sorts of rowdy people come and drink my liquor and make love to my girls and have a perfectly lovely time, and all I get out of it is a lousy hangover. By the way, how are you feeling this morning, Aline?”
    “I have felt worse,” she told him as lightly as she could manage. “I think,” she added doubtfully, “though I really can’t remember when.”
    Bart laughed indulgently. “But you did have a wonderful time. Don’t try to deny that.”
    “It was a lovely party,” she assured him. “So many… interesting people. Some I’d never met before.”
    “And some I hope I never meet again,” he told her dolefully. “What sort of dank rocks do they spring from under when word gets around that I’m throwing a whindig?”
    She chuckled, then said archly, “I hope you don’t include Vincent in that group.”
    “Vincent? Was there actually a Vincent? Ah, yes. It all comes back to me now. Shame on you. What has that gauche fellow got that I haven’t?”
    “I… rather liked him,” she said delicately.
    “And made it quite evident, my love. Yes, indeed. None of us doubted that your intentions toward him were strictly dishonorable. Tell me, frankly, how was it?”
    Aline’s cheeks flamed and she strove to keep her voice casual. “Didn’t you know? Ralph brought me home. All perfectly safe and proper.”
    “I never knew any homecoming with Ralph to be safe and proper,” he chuckled. “And I didn’t know he snatched you away at the last. You and the Vincent slug disappeared about the same time, and I confess I had shameful thoughts about you two.”
    “You can forget them,” she told him lightly, “and that’s really why I’m calling. Who is Vincent Torn, Bart? Where does he live?”
    “I haven’t the faintest idea, my love. Gerry dragged him along. Gerry Howard, you know.”
    “No. I don’t believe I do.”
    “Writing chap. Books and things like that. I thought you knew Gerry. I have his phone number if you want to call up and pump him.”
    “I’d like to, Bart.”
    “Just a minute until I find my book. But why in the name of sweet Jesus an entrancing trollop like you wants to track