Woman in the Window by Thomas Gifford Page B

Burgers, spaghetti, beer, not a bad joint. She saw a lot of this singer down there, Susannah Something. Maybe they were lovers, maybe not.” He shrugged. “She did a lot of business, dealt out of the ladies’ room, for all I know—I imagine it’s too much to hope that you’ve ever been there?”
    “The ladies’ room at Lulu’s?”
    “Just plain Lulu’s would suffice.”
    “No, I’ve never been there.”
    “Well, in any case, since our man didn’t plan on having you see him dispose of the gun, it must be irrelevant—your ever having been there, I mean.”
    “It’s too far out of my way.” Natalie was biting her thumbnail. “Why is Lulu’s so important?”
    “It was Alicia Quirk’s métier, that’s all. We figure the guy who killed her, the guy you saw, probably knew her there. After all, the joint was her office.”
    As a consolation prize for MacPherson’s upsetting visit, she arranged to meet Lew at four-thirty at the Algonquin, his choice. When she got there he was waiting by the registration desk chatting with the desk clerk. He disengaged himself, gave her shoulders a quick squeeze, and led the way into the lobby cocktail lounge. The late-afternoon mob was still fifteen minutes away and they got one of the tables with a genteel, elderly couch where they sat side by side. He draped his trench coat and hers over a chair, ordered a pair of gin gimlets, and surveyed the room.
    “Thanks for humoring me,” he said at last. “The Algonquin’s old hat for you but I don’t often get this far downtown. I like to pretend I’m an author at last, drinking in my natural habitat. Is that Irwin Shaw over there?”
    “Afraid not,” she said. “Sorry.”
    “Well, I’ll keep an eye peeled anyway. So, how are you feeling today? Any dizzy spells? Upset tummy?”
    “No, really, I’m just fine, Lew. No ill effects.”
    “Well, that’s fine.” He handed her a gimlet, clicked his glass against hers. “Confusion to our enemies,” he said, watching her over the rim as she took a long sip. “So, you’re supposed to be telling me all about what’s been piling up. Remember?”
    She nodded.
    “Come on, Nat, you look worn out, pale, not terribly perky … and you’ve got me just a little worried. You’re battling with some demons and maybe I can help.” He waited for an answer. “It is my job, sport.” He sat back, waiting again, letting his gaze wander across the lobby.
    She took a sip and set the glass down too hard, splashing her hand. “Oh, Lew. I hate to be making a big deal out of this stupid thing. I—”
    “Rest easy,” he said. “I’m the one who’s dragging it out of you.”
    “Remember how it was at Northwestern? I never was able to keep anything from you … and now I just feel that everything is closing in on me, ever since I looked out my window that night. And,” she felt a flush of anger, “I resent it. I resent the way it’s all affecting me. Everything that happens to me seems so strange—it’s all in my mind. I mean, I don’t even know it was the killer laughing at me on the other side of the door!” She bit her lip and ate some peanuts and caught her breath.
    “But it’s a pretty good bet, isn’t it? And what difference does it make who was laughing? Once Garfein put it all in the papers, the guy knew it was you.” He crossed his neatly pressed trouser legs, patted her arm. “You just called him a killer? But you don’t really know that, do you?”
    “No, no, he’s a killer!” Her voice had risen, and a man passing their table paused momentarily, registered what she had said, raised his thick eyebrows, and went on to a wingbacked chair adjacent to their settee. She heard him banging the bell on his table. She thought she’d recognized him, probably an actor in his turtleneck sweater and expensive hairpiece, leather jacket. It occurred to her that she should point him out to Lew, the celebrity watcher.
    “You know he’s a killer?” Lew said.
    She nodded,