indecent! If I repeat to Dris what you just said—”
“Still, wouldn’t you like proof that it isn’t so?”
“I wouldn’t lower myself to entertain such a contemptible suspicion!”
“You wouldn’t, eh? You don’t sound— What’s that!”
Carr stiffened. Looking down, he saw that he had knocked over a stupid little doorstop in the form of a porcelain Pekinese sitting up to beg. He started for the bathroom door, but he had hardly taken the first painfully cautious step when he heard, from that direction, faintly, but unmistakably, the sound of someone else moving around. He froze, then turned toward the hall. He heard the stamp of high heels, a little throaty exclamation of surprise from Mr. Wilson, a softly pattering rush, the paralyzing fighting squall of a cat, a flailing of shadows, a smash and clatter as if a cane or umbrella had been brought down on a table, and Mr. Wilson’s exclamation:
“Damn!”
Next Carr caught a glimpse of Miss Hackman. She had on a pearl gray evening dress, off the shoulders, and a mink wrap over her arm. She was coming down the hall, but she didn’t see him.
At the same moment something launched itself at her from behind. The cat Gigolo landed in the faultless golden hair, claws raking. Miss Hackman screamed.
The ensuing battle was too quick and confused for Carr to follow it clearly, and most of it took place in the little hall, out of sight except for the shadows. Twice more the cane or umbrella smashed down. Mr. Wilson and Miss Hackman shouted and yelled at each other at the same time, the cat squalled continually. Then Mr. Wilson shouted, “The door!” There came a final whangling blow, followed by Mr. Wilson’s “Damn!”
For the next few moment’s, only heavy breathing from the hallway, then Miss Hackman’s voice, rising to a vindictive wail: “Bitch! Look what it did to my cheek. Oh, why must there be cats!”
Then Mr. Wilson, grimly businesslike: “It hasn’t got away. It’s trapped on the stairs. We can get it.”
Miss Hackman: “This wouldn’t have happened if we’d brought the beast!”
Mr. Wilson: “The beast! This afternoon you thought differently. Do you remember what happened to Dris?”
Miss Hackman: “That was his own fault. He shouldn’t have teased it. Besides, the beast likes me.”
Mr. Wilson: “Yes, I’ve seen her look at you and lick her chops. We’re wasting time, Miss Hackman. You’ll have a lot more than a scratched cheek—or a snapped-off hand—to snivel about if we don’t clear up this mess right away. Come on. We’ve got to kill that cat.”
Carr heard footsteps, then the sound of Mr. Wilson’s voice growing fainter as he ascended the stairs, calling out softly and wheedlingly, “Here, kitty. Here, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty,” and a few moments later Miss Hackman joined in with a sugariness that made Carr shake:
“Here, kitty.”
The voices moved off. Carr waited a little. Then he tiptoed across the room and peered through the bathroom door. The white-tiled cubicle was empty, but beyond it was another open door, leading to another bedroom.
He could see that it was a smaller bedroom, but friendlier. There was a littered dressing table with lamps whose little pink shades were awry. On the wall he recognized prints of paintings by Degas and Toulouse-Lautrec. Beside the dressing-table was a small bookcase overflowing with sheet-music piled helter-skelter and novels with bright, torn dust-covers. There was a bottle of ink on the dressing table, mixed in with the cosmetics. It was overturned and a large dry brown stain pooled out from it.
His heart began to pound as he crossed the bathroom’s white tiles. He remembered the brown ink on the paper Jane had dropped.
But there was something strange about the bedroom he was approaching. Despite the lively, adolescent disorder, there was an ancient feel to it, almost a museum feel—like some historic room kept just as its illustrious occupant had left it.
“Still, wouldn’t you like proof that it isn’t so?”
“I wouldn’t lower myself to entertain such a contemptible suspicion!”
“You wouldn’t, eh? You don’t sound— What’s that!”
Carr stiffened. Looking down, he saw that he had knocked over a stupid little doorstop in the form of a porcelain Pekinese sitting up to beg. He started for the bathroom door, but he had hardly taken the first painfully cautious step when he heard, from that direction, faintly, but unmistakably, the sound of someone else moving around. He froze, then turned toward the hall. He heard the stamp of high heels, a little throaty exclamation of surprise from Mr. Wilson, a softly pattering rush, the paralyzing fighting squall of a cat, a flailing of shadows, a smash and clatter as if a cane or umbrella had been brought down on a table, and Mr. Wilson’s exclamation:
“Damn!”
Next Carr caught a glimpse of Miss Hackman. She had on a pearl gray evening dress, off the shoulders, and a mink wrap over her arm. She was coming down the hall, but she didn’t see him.
At the same moment something launched itself at her from behind. The cat Gigolo landed in the faultless golden hair, claws raking. Miss Hackman screamed.
The ensuing battle was too quick and confused for Carr to follow it clearly, and most of it took place in the little hall, out of sight except for the shadows. Twice more the cane or umbrella smashed down. Mr. Wilson and Miss Hackman shouted and yelled at each other at the same time, the cat squalled continually. Then Mr. Wilson shouted, “The door!” There came a final whangling blow, followed by Mr. Wilson’s “Damn!”
For the next few moment’s, only heavy breathing from the hallway, then Miss Hackman’s voice, rising to a vindictive wail: “Bitch! Look what it did to my cheek. Oh, why must there be cats!”
Then Mr. Wilson, grimly businesslike: “It hasn’t got away. It’s trapped on the stairs. We can get it.”
Miss Hackman: “This wouldn’t have happened if we’d brought the beast!”
Mr. Wilson: “The beast! This afternoon you thought differently. Do you remember what happened to Dris?”
Miss Hackman: “That was his own fault. He shouldn’t have teased it. Besides, the beast likes me.”
Mr. Wilson: “Yes, I’ve seen her look at you and lick her chops. We’re wasting time, Miss Hackman. You’ll have a lot more than a scratched cheek—or a snapped-off hand—to snivel about if we don’t clear up this mess right away. Come on. We’ve got to kill that cat.”
Carr heard footsteps, then the sound of Mr. Wilson’s voice growing fainter as he ascended the stairs, calling out softly and wheedlingly, “Here, kitty. Here, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty,” and a few moments later Miss Hackman joined in with a sugariness that made Carr shake:
“Here, kitty.”
The voices moved off. Carr waited a little. Then he tiptoed across the room and peered through the bathroom door. The white-tiled cubicle was empty, but beyond it was another open door, leading to another bedroom.
He could see that it was a smaller bedroom, but friendlier. There was a littered dressing table with lamps whose little pink shades were awry. On the wall he recognized prints of paintings by Degas and Toulouse-Lautrec. Beside the dressing-table was a small bookcase overflowing with sheet-music piled helter-skelter and novels with bright, torn dust-covers. There was a bottle of ink on the dressing table, mixed in with the cosmetics. It was overturned and a large dry brown stain pooled out from it.
His heart began to pound as he crossed the bathroom’s white tiles. He remembered the brown ink on the paper Jane had dropped.
But there was something strange about the bedroom he was approaching. Despite the lively, adolescent disorder, there was an ancient feel to it, almost a museum feel—like some historic room kept just as its illustrious occupant had left it.