down a specimen like Vincent Torn is utterly beyond my feeble comprehension. Hold it a minute.”
Aline waited with the receiver at her ear. In a moment Bart’s voice came through again.
“Here it is.” And he repeated a Butterfield number which was etched on Aline’s memory from the preceding evening.
She thanked Bart for the help, and hung up.
So it must have been Gerry Howard who had answered when she tried to call Torn. A “writing chap,” according to Bart. They had the same telephone number.
Her buzzer from the lobby entrance sounded as she turned away from the phone. Her heart beat violently against her ribs as she walked to the small entrance and lifted the mouthpiece. The police? Could they have traced her so quickly?
She said, “Yes?” and a man’s voice responded formally, “Miss Aline Ferris?”
“Y-yes.”
“You probably don’t remember me, but I met you last night at Bart’s party. Gerry Howard. May I see you?”
She said helplessly, “I… guess so,” and pressed the button that would admit him to the building.
What could he want with her? What did he know about last night? A thousand questions tore at her mind while she waited at the door listening for the elevator to stop at her floor. When she heard footsteps in the corridor, she turned the knob slowly and opened the door.
Gerry Howard was slender and dark and dapper. He wore a loose tweed jacket and fawn-colored slacks and a tan sports shirt, and was bareheaded. There was a knowing smile on his face as he approached Aline. Something like a smirk, yet not exactly that. A smile that shared understanding with her, that said without words: You and I know things that are hidden from ordinary mortals. We know them because we are kindred souls, because we are numbered among the initiates.
The implication of his expression repelled Aline, yet frightened and fascinated her. She stood aside as he entered, then closed the door. He paused close beside her, appraising her sexually, with his eyes, nodded his sleek black head approvingly and pursed his thin lips.
He said, “I must have been pretty tight last night. God forgive me, I asked Vinnie what the hell he saw in you when he raved about his new conquest. Now I see, damn it. I was a fool not to see it last night.”
He moved against her abruptly, pinning her against the door, his chest against her breasts, his pelvic bone pressed to hers. He was no taller than she, and his eyes were level with hers, his pouting lips brazenly waiting a quarter of an inch from her mouth.
Aline Ferris wriggled aside and slapped him hard on the left cheek. She was panting violently, and her response was purely automatic.
His expression changed to one of speculation when she slapped him. His lips parted and the tip of his tongue flicked out to move from left to right. He nodded and said dispassionately:
“Much, much too good for Vinnie. He’d never know what to do with a hellcat like you. I shall put you in my next book.”
He turned away from her with seeming lack of interest, strolled over to the couch and dropped down on it. A single lock of black hair fell aslant his forehead, giving him a rakish look, and Aline had a feeling that he had carefully trained it to lie there.
She went over to a chair across the room from him and sat down. “What do you want here?” she demanded angrily.
He looked at her with speculative amusement. “Do I have to say it in four-letter words?”
“No. But I don’t even know you.”
“Does that make a difference?”
“Of course.”
“It didn’t make much last night with Vinnie.”
“Vinnie who? What are you talking about?”
“This is like a slice of dialogue from a particularly bad soap opera,” he said wearily. “The writer has so many pages to fill before the climax of a scene, and so his characters spar along page after page. Let’s not you and me spar.”
“I was not sparring,” Aline responded with spirit. “You’re a total stranger and you
Aline waited with the receiver at her ear. In a moment Bart’s voice came through again.
“Here it is.” And he repeated a Butterfield number which was etched on Aline’s memory from the preceding evening.
She thanked Bart for the help, and hung up.
So it must have been Gerry Howard who had answered when she tried to call Torn. A “writing chap,” according to Bart. They had the same telephone number.
Her buzzer from the lobby entrance sounded as she turned away from the phone. Her heart beat violently against her ribs as she walked to the small entrance and lifted the mouthpiece. The police? Could they have traced her so quickly?
She said, “Yes?” and a man’s voice responded formally, “Miss Aline Ferris?”
“Y-yes.”
“You probably don’t remember me, but I met you last night at Bart’s party. Gerry Howard. May I see you?”
She said helplessly, “I… guess so,” and pressed the button that would admit him to the building.
What could he want with her? What did he know about last night? A thousand questions tore at her mind while she waited at the door listening for the elevator to stop at her floor. When she heard footsteps in the corridor, she turned the knob slowly and opened the door.
Gerry Howard was slender and dark and dapper. He wore a loose tweed jacket and fawn-colored slacks and a tan sports shirt, and was bareheaded. There was a knowing smile on his face as he approached Aline. Something like a smirk, yet not exactly that. A smile that shared understanding with her, that said without words: You and I know things that are hidden from ordinary mortals. We know them because we are kindred souls, because we are numbered among the initiates.
The implication of his expression repelled Aline, yet frightened and fascinated her. She stood aside as he entered, then closed the door. He paused close beside her, appraising her sexually, with his eyes, nodded his sleek black head approvingly and pursed his thin lips.
He said, “I must have been pretty tight last night. God forgive me, I asked Vinnie what the hell he saw in you when he raved about his new conquest. Now I see, damn it. I was a fool not to see it last night.”
He moved against her abruptly, pinning her against the door, his chest against her breasts, his pelvic bone pressed to hers. He was no taller than she, and his eyes were level with hers, his pouting lips brazenly waiting a quarter of an inch from her mouth.
Aline Ferris wriggled aside and slapped him hard on the left cheek. She was panting violently, and her response was purely automatic.
His expression changed to one of speculation when she slapped him. His lips parted and the tip of his tongue flicked out to move from left to right. He nodded and said dispassionately:
“Much, much too good for Vinnie. He’d never know what to do with a hellcat like you. I shall put you in my next book.”
He turned away from her with seeming lack of interest, strolled over to the couch and dropped down on it. A single lock of black hair fell aslant his forehead, giving him a rakish look, and Aline had a feeling that he had carefully trained it to lie there.
She went over to a chair across the room from him and sat down. “What do you want here?” she demanded angrily.
He looked at her with speculative amusement. “Do I have to say it in four-letter words?”
“No. But I don’t even know you.”
“Does that make a difference?”
“Of course.”
“It didn’t make much last night with Vinnie.”
“Vinnie who? What are you talking about?”
“This is like a slice of dialogue from a particularly bad soap opera,” he said wearily. “The writer has so many pages to fill before the climax of a scene, and so his characters spar along page after page. Let’s not you and me spar.”
“I was not sparring,” Aline responded with spirit. “You’re a total stranger and you
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