Эллери Куин - The Devil's Cook

It was even farther to the telephone.

What he ought to do, if anything, was to call Maurice Feldman in Los Angeles and inquire about Terry. Appearances demanded it. He was expected by his neighbors, especially that bothersome little Fanny, to make a display of anxiety he by no means felt; indeed, that he was no longer capable of feeling.

In the beginning he had been ardently in love with Terry. But ardor diminishes, and love dies, from chronic neglect and frequent betrayal. (Sometimes the love becomes hate, and then the ardor grows strong again.) It was too bad that things had developed with him and Terry as they had. But there it was, bad gone to worse, and it was far too late to do anything about it. It had been, in fact, too late from the first.

Jay consulted his watch and found that it lacked two minutes of being three o’clock. Allowing for the time difference, it was almost one in Los Angeles. It was, moreover, almost one of a Saturday afternoon. Barring urgent business Feldman would not be in his office; barring inclement weather, if Jay knew his man, Feldman would not be at home. A golf bug, he would almost certainly be on some course trying to break a hundred. The thing to do, Jay decided, was to place a call to Feldman’s home and leave word for the attorney to call him back when he got in. But what was Feldman’s home number? Jay remembered the area code, 213, but the number had slipped his mind. He thought, however, that Terry had written it in the back of the directory on the page provided for listing out-of-town numbers, and he got up with great effort to see, and there it was. He dialed the number and was given the information he expected. Feldman was not at home, but he was expected at five o’clock L.A time. The woman who answered the phone, a maid, assured Jay that she would relay his request that Mr. Feldman return the call. Jay cradled the phone with an exorbitant sense of accomplishment. There! The tiling was done, the gesture made. Now it was possible to resume doing nothing, or next to nothing, until seven o’clock.

Doing nothing, or next to nothing, for four hours is in itself a difficult job. One must, paradoxically, do something in order to accomplish it. Sleeping is as close to doing nothing as a man can get; and Jay, who had slept very little the previous night, went into the bedroom and took off his shoes and lay down on his back on the bed.

It was a precarious position, for it is peculiarly conducive to unpleasant reflections while awake, and to bad dreams when asleep. The trick, of course, was to think of something or someone besides Terry, but this was impossible because she was immediately everywhere at once in the room, even creeping beneath his eyelids when he closed them. He did not resist her presence, which would have been a mistake, and so he achieved a kind of passivity that in the end induced unconsciousness. He slept fitfully until he was awakened by the strident ringing of the telephone in the living room.

The apartment had grown dark while he slept, and he groped his way toward the ringing. As he expected, his greeting brought on the gravelly voice of Maurice Feldman.

“Jay? Feldman here. What’s on your mind?”

“Well, it seems that Terry has wandered off; and I was wondering if she’s shown up in L.A. Have you heard from her?”

“If she’s here, she hasn’t got in touch with me. How long has she been gone?”

“Since yesterday afternoon. When I got home from the university, she was gone.”

“Didn’t she tell anyone where she was going?”

“Apparently not. No one seems to know.”

“What makes you think she came out here? Did she take any clothes with her?”

“Just what she was wearing, so far as I can tell. That’s why I. thought she’d be in touch with you right away.”

“Well, if I hear from her, I’ll let you know immediately.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“I rather suspect, however, that you’ll be hearing from her soon, if she doesn’t return. God knows what makes Terry so erratic. Keep me informed, will you, Jay?”

“Right. Sorry to have bothered you.”

“No bother. I’m glad you called. It’s probably too early to get excited, though, where Terry’s concerned. I suppose you’re accustomed to her habits by this time.”

“Thoroughly. How was your golf game today?”

“Golf? I didn’t play golf. I was tied up at the office.”

“Oh? If I’d known that, I’d have called you there.”

“I’m involved in a rather important court action at the moment. Demands my personal attention. If there’s nothing else on your mind, Jay, I’ve got to dress for dinner. We’re having guests.”

“Right, Maury. Thanks for calling back.”

He hung up and returned to the bedroom. After turning on the ceiling light, he sat on the edge of the bed and put on his shoes. He still wasn’t hungry, but it was a long time since his last meal, and he decided that he had better eat something. On the other hand, he didn’t feel like going to the trouble of preparing anything; besides, he had an urgent need to get out of the apartment. Wearing a topcoat but no hat, he left the building and walked over to a small restaurant near the campus that catered largely to students.

Consuming a bowl of soup and a cold roast-beef sandwich, Jay Miles began at last to face the issue he had heretofore avoided. He considered Brian O’Hara and what, if anything, should be done about him. He would have preferred to do nothing at all, but appearances clearly dictated a gesture in O’Hara’s direction. Terry’s relationship with O’Hara, however much or little it amounted to, incited no anger in Jay, only a soiled sense of shame that he could feel none. This had the effect of augmenting his bitterness toward Terry for stirring in him an emotion that was, at most, no more than incidental to the one he should have felt. Be he did not blame O’Hara for Terry’s initiative. Once he would have blamed O’Hara, but no longer. There had been too many O’Haras.

His attitude was hardly understandable by those who expected him to react “normally.” Ever since Ardis Bowers had made her point about Terry and O’Hara, Jay had realized that, if he wanted to keep the respect of those who were aware of the. circumstances, he would have to go through certain motions. To say nothing, perhaps, of allaying dangerous speculation. At any rate, he was faced with the disagreeable necessity, of seeing O’Hara, and of letting it be known afterward that he had done so.

This being so — acting on Macbeth’s principle in the killing of Duncan — he decided that now was better than later; and he paid his check and left the restaurant.

It was a long walk to the residential hotel in which O’Hara kept a suite. But it was a good night for walking, which also had the effect of delaying the disagreeable encounter. Jay went all the way afoot. It was almost nine o’clock when he reached the hotel, an impressive stack, of stone and steel whose marquee advertised The Rinaldo.

He had to ask at the desk for O’Hara’s suite number, and he was forced to wait while the clerk rang up to see if O’Hara was there in the first place, and if he would receive a caller in the second. Jay rather hoped that he wasn’t, or wouldn’t. But the hope was wasted both ways. O’Hara was and would. Suite 1502, top floor.

Jay went up in the elevator, which rose too fast.

He was admitted by O’Hara himself, alone in the living room of his suite. It was anyone’s guess, of course; as to who might have been in other rooms.

O’Hara, who was sometimes a ruffian in behavior, was far from one in appearance. As tall as Jay, he was wider and thicker in the shoulders, and even narrower in the waist. He held himself erect, but with an effect of being at ease, and he moved with grace. His eyes were cold pale blue. His hair, which was blond, was cropped. His voice, amiably modulated, was a lie.