Дональд Уэстлейк - Enough [A Travesty (novel) and Ordo (novelette)]

“Mr. Thorpe,” he said, “you’re a grade A son of a bitch, do you know that?”

“Of course,” I said, “I could tell a simpler story.”

If it weren’t for the pistol he knew to be in my pocket, I think he would have tried taking a poke at me. “You’d goddam better,” he said.

I smiled at him. “And you’d goddam better give me back my nine thousand dollars.”

It was good to be home again, my possessions once more about me. And it was very good to have been able to do Edgarson in the eye. If I hadn’t been able to even the score with him somehow it would surely have rankled in my mind a good long time, but as it was the expression on his face as he’d handed back fistful after fistful of green paper was a memory I would treasure always.

After a leisurely shower and shave, and a nice lunch of chicken breasts in grape sauce (left over from Kit’s last visit), I sat at my desk to tot up the results of the day’s activities and to learn that Edgarson had stiffed me for two hundred thirty dollars. I chuckled indulgently; let him save face if he wanted. Even with that petty larceny, and the incredible interest the pawnbrokers had charged me for the two-hour use of their money, my bank robbery had left me nearly twenty-four hundred dollars richer than when I’d gotten up this morning. My checking account was healthy, Edgarson was no longer a threat, and surely it wouldn’t be impossible to replace that R left behind at the bank. Life, all in all, was not unpleasant.

And what did the evening hold in store? A screening, a dinner for two? Checking my calendar, I saw that today’s notation read, “Dinner, Laura, 7:30.”

Well. Well, it looked as though I had an unexpected free evening. Wonder what Kit’s doing tonight?

I had nearly finished dialing Kit’s number when it suddenly struck me that I had better keep that original date with Laura. It was noted on my calendar, why wouldn’t it also appear on hers? At seven-thirty tonight I’d better be in the lobby of Laura’s apartment building, ready for our date, ringing her doorbell.

Somebody buzzed to let me in.

Laura? Laura , I thought, and I wasn’t sure myself whether I was thinking of Laura Penney or of the 1944 Otto Preminger movie. Either way it was the dead girl come back to life, and a nasty shock. Gene Tierney moved in the shadowy recesses of my mind, and I felt uncomfortably like Dana Andrews as I pushed open the door and crossed the pocket lobby to the pocket elevator.

When I emerged on the fourth floor a man wearing an open black overcoat and a dark gray suit was standing in Laura’s open doorway. A cop, obviously. He looked like Dana Andrews, so what did that make me? Clifton Webb?

I know nothing , I reminded myself. I am here to pick up my dinner date, and I have no idea who this man is .

I stopped, just into the vestibule, frowning and looking around as though thinking I might have gotten off at the wrong floor. In fact, I held the elevator, in case I should want to reboard.

The policeman, a black-haired fortyish Dana Andrews with cold eyes and blue chin and dandruffy shoulders, said, “Can I help you?”

My outer self remained bewildered. “I’m looking for Laura Penney.”

“Would you be Mr. Thorpe?”

So she had made a note. “Yes, I am,” I said, and released the elevator door, which grumbled shut behind me. “Is something wrong?” My hands hid themselves in my topcoat pockets.

“Come in.”

I crossed the threshold as he stood to one side, watching me. I tried not to look at the spot where I’d last seen her, but my eyes insisted, and it was with great relief that I saw nobody there. To cover my eyes’ indiscretion, I turned my head left and right, looking at everything in the room, continuing to fail to understand the situation. “Where is Laura?” I turned to the policeman, who was closing the door. “And who are you?”

“Detective Sergeant Bray,” he said. “I’m a police officer. There’s been an accident.”

“An accident? Laura?”

“Did you know Mrs. Penney well?”

“ Did I know her? For God’s sake, man, what’s happened?”

“I’m sorry to break it to you this way, Mr. Thorpe,” he said, “but I’m afraid she’s dead.”

“Dead!”

“Come along,” he said, taking my elbow. “Come sit down.”

I permitted myself to be moved, as though too stunned to act from my own volition, and when he’d seated us, me on the sofa and himself to my right in the chrome-and-leather chair, I said, “An accident? What kind of accident?”

“Frankly, Mr. Thorpe,” he said, “there’s some question about that. When was the last time you saw Mrs. Penney?”

“Yesterday. We had dinner together.”

“You brought her home?”

“Yes, of course.”

“At about what time?”

“Possibly nine, nine-thirty, I don’t know exactly.”

“And when did you leave?”

“Oh, I didn’t stay,” I said. “In fact, I didn’t come up, I simply saw her to the door.”

“You didn’t come up?” He sounded mildly surprised. “Wasn’t that unusual?”

“Not at all. I wouldn’t want to give the wrong impression about our relationship, we weren’t... lovers, or anything like that. I have a steady girl friend, named Kit Markowitz.”

“You and Mrs. Penney were just good friends,” he suggested.

Was there irony in that remark? His manner seemed bland, unsuspicious; I took him at face value and said, “That’s right. But are you suggesting—” I paused, as though struck by a sudden disquieting thought. “Did somebody do something to her?”

He frowned. “Such as what, Mr. Thorpe?”

“I don’t know, I was just — I just remembered what she was saying last night.”

“And what was that?”

“It was all very vague,” I said. “She had the idea there was a man hanging around, following her. She pointed him out last night, standing on the sidewalk across the street.”

“You saw this man?”

“He was just a man,” I said. “He didn’t seem interested in Laura or me in particular. She had the idea her ex-husband had hired somebody to make trouble for her.”

“Do you know Mr. Penney?”

“No. I believe he’s in Chicago or somewhere.”

He nodded. “Could you describe the man you saw last night?”

“I only saw him for a minute. Across the street.”

“As best you can.”

“Well, I’d say he was in his mid-forties. Wearing a brown topcoat. He seemed heavyset, and I got the impression of a large nose. Sort of a W. C. Fields nose.”

Bray nodded throughout my description, but wrote nothing down. “And you say Mrs. Penney seemed afraid of this man?”

“Well, not afraid, exactly. Upset, I suppose. I offered to come upstairs with her if she was worried, but she said she wanted to phone her husband. I had the idea she wanted privacy for that.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Sergeant Bray, uh — Is it Sergeant Bray?”

“That’s right.”

“Well— Could you tell me what happened?”

“We’re not entirely sure as yet,” he told me. “Mrs. Penney fell in this room and struck her head. She might have been alone here, she might have slipped. On the other hand, it seems likely there was someone with her.”

“Why?” I asked, and movement to my left made me turn my head.

It was another one, in black pea jacket and brown slacks, coming into the room from deeper in the apartment and carrying what I recognized immediately as my socks. As I caught sight of him he said, “Al, I found these and— Oh, sorry.”