The Third Figure by Collin Wilcox Page B

false, I would never know.
    Wearily I got out of bed, showered, dressed and had breakfast. I had decided to phone Charlene Vennezio, and at nine thirty I dialed her number. From her manner I was sure she’d already heard of my arrival in Los Angeles, and as we talked I felt as if I were an especially unwelcome salesman, begging a reluctant prospect for an appointment. Finally, in a brusk voice, almost rudely, she said I could come to her apartment just after lunchtime.
    The apartment building was a new stone-and-glass structure, and as I entered the lobby I decided that the rent for one of the larger apartments would probably exceed my monthly reporter’s salary. Her apartment was on the tenth floor, and as I pressed the button marked “C. Vennezio” I could hear a voice inside. Then, abruptly, the door came open. A tall, dark-haired girl dressed in slim-tapered slacks and a man’s white shirt stared at me appraisingly as I introduced myself. Then she turned back into the room.
    “Come in,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m on the phone. Sit down.”
    I closed the hallway door behind me, and followed her into the living room. She stood in front of a huge plate glass window, holding the phone in her hand, trailing a long cord. Even though her back was turned to me, exasperation was plain in her stance as she listened for a moment before saying into the phone:
    “I’ll tell you one more time, Mr. Leonard: That car was promised for ten o’clock this morning, and it’s now one o’clock in the afternoon. I’ll also remind you that the car is still on warranty. Now, I’m leaving this afternoon for a trip. I either want that car ready, or I want one just like it. And I don’t mean a used car, either. If you can’t get my car fixed, I want a demonstrator. And I—What?”
    She listened impatiently, then said, “I don’t know anything about vapor locks, Mr. Leonard. I just know about warranties, and the Better Business Bureau.” She dropped the receiver into the phone’s cradle, pivoted and deposited the phone on a small side table. For a long moment she stood in the center of the room, looking down at me as I sat on her sofa. Then, unexpectedly, she smiled.
    “So you’re my mother’s own private clairvoyant?” Her voice was lightly derisive. She moved back to lean against a low credenza, half sitting—stretching out her long, elegant legs. Something in Charlene Vennezio’s disdainful assurance and restless vitality reminded me of Carmen. Fiery was the word Mrs. Hanson had used. It seemed an accurate adjective.
    “My name is Drake,” I said, irritated at her flippancy. “Stephen Drake.”
    She nodded, still derisively smiling. “That’s what you said in the hallway. And on the phone, too. It seems to me that I read something about you a few years ago. Something about solving the murder of a very important man. Was that you?”
    I shrugged. “It depends on who the man was. It could have been me.”
    Her smile faded. “So now you’re going to do the same for us. Is that right?”
    Again I shrugged, and decided not to answer. I was wishing that she’d sit down in a chair and get to the business at hand. She had a disturbing effect on me, with her legs braced straight out and her torso arched upward as she leaned back against the credenza.
    “There was a time,” she said abruptly, “when I was interested in psychology, including ESP. In fact psychology was the only thing I ever took in school that really interested me.” Suddenly she straightened, then paced with long strides to a nearby easy chair, sitting to face me. Now she crossed her legs.
    “Have you ever studied psychology, Mr. Drake?” she asked.
    I didn’t like the conversation’s direction. She was questioning me, instead of my questioning her. I pointed to the phone.
    “I overheard you say that you’re leaving this afternoon an a trip. I wouldn’t want to—”
    “I just said that. Everyone says they’re going on a trip when