by Marc Behm
She threw the handkerchief into the fireplace, removed her tan jacket, draped it neatly over a chair, opened a closet, took out a sheet.
She went back into the kitchen, wrapped Brice in the sheet, dragged him outside, rolled him off the rear porch and into the thickets.
The Eye retreated into the trees.
She found a shovel in the carport, dug a hole on the edge of the clearing, and buried him.
Now she was on her hands and knees, naked, scrubbing the kitchen floor. There was a smear of red on the refrigerator. She wiped it clean with a glove, soaped it, scoured it.
The Eye listened. She was whistling ‘La Paloma.’
She went to the sink, washed the knife, dried it, put it back into the buffet drawer, poured a shot of Gaston, gulped it down, washed and dried the glass.
She took a clean towel from the pantry and went through the lodge, wiping away fingerprints. Then, still wearing her gloves, she took a bath. She dozed in the tub for a half-hour. The moon was high. Whippoorwills were singing all up and down the hillside. In her half-sleep she removed one glove and put her bare hand on her heart.
The Eye’s throat was rank with thirst. He slipped into the kitchen and drank a glass of water. There was a spot of blood on the wall. He dabbed it with a rag. They were supposed to be going to Miami, so it would be days – probably weeks – before Brice was missed. Good enough. The grave was a risk, though. The freshly turned earth was a giveaway. And rats or foxes might uncover it. He took the shovel from the carport. He dug up the body, hauled it into the woods. He dug another hole in a patch of ferns. He rebuffed it, refilled the hole, came back to the clearing just as she climbed out of the tub. She shaved her legs with Brice’s razor. That reminded him – he had to buy a new razor. She went into the other room and dropped the gloves into the fireplace.
He put the shovel back in the carport.
She dressed, putting on the boots and tan outfit. She packed the Italian shoes and her blue wedding frock in the overnight case. She took another long swig of cognac and then put the bottle in the case, too. She went into the bedroom again, pulled the billfold from the pocket of his coat, counted the money, stuffed the bills into her sack. She found some more bills in his trouser pocket, at least two or three hundred, and threw them into the sack. All his loose change, too – quarters, nickels, dimes, everything. She wiped the billfold with the edge of the bedspread, flipped it to the floor under a chair. She lit a Gitane, picked up her case and sack, came outside. She locked the door behind her.
The Eye ran down the hill and got into the Accord. He drove off toward St. Vincent. A few minutes later the Porsche appeared behind him. He accelerated.
She followed him all the way to Fort Vale, then passed him.
During the instant the two cars rolled abreast of each other he glanced at her. She was looking straight ahead, oblivious of him.
They got back to the city at seven thirty. She left the car in a long-term parking garage, having changed wigs during the trip. As she walked down Carter Street she was Eve Granger again.
The Eye followed her, abandoning the Accord with vast relief.
She went directly to the Hotel Concorde. The doorman saluted her. ‘Morning, Miss Granger.’
‘Hi!’
She went into the lobby. Voragine waved to her. ‘What d’you say, Miss Granger!’
‘Good morning,’ She took her key and walked into an elevator.
The Eye floated in, sat down in the lounge. Voragine came over to him. ‘I saw Flatfleet in Scipio’s last night,’ he said. ‘He told me you was in Montreal.’
‘I just got back.’
‘You catch that guy?’
‘Not yet. I’m convinced he’s still here.’
‘There ain’t nobody at the hotel with the initials J.R.’
‘That doesn’t mean anything. What about R.J.?’
‘R.J.?’
‘You know, backwards. They often do that when they change names. Just switch the initials around.’
‘Yeah, that’s an idea. I’ll take a look.’ He ambled away.
Eve Granger checked out at nine o’clock. She took a taxi to the air terminal. During the ride uptown she removed her wig.
She bought a one-way ticket to Chicago, paying for it in cash. Her name now was Dorothea Bishop.
4
Without her wig and wearing no makeup, she looked much younger. Eighteen or nineteen. Her short-cropped hair was brushed down across her forehead and her eyes masked with dark glasses. She was in various shades of gray this morning, with black stockings, carrying a blue Lufthansa bag.
At the airport bookstore she bought a newspaper and a paperback, the Folger edition of Hamlet. She started toward the bar, then thought better of it, going into the lounge instead.
A cruising sailor tried his luck, asking her if she was, by any chance, Jennifer O’Neill. She didn’t even hear him, sat down by a window, opened her paper to the horoscope page. Then she read Hamlet until her flight was announced.
She continued to read on the plane. She finished Act One and reread it, marking several passages with an orange felt pen.
Sitting across the aisle was a young man in a pink shirt. He leaned toward her.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. There was no response. ‘Excuse me.’ She glanced at him. ‘Do you mind if I flirt with you?’
‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘But wait until I finish this.’
She read the end of Scene Five.
Rest, rest, perturbed spirit.
She underlined it.
He got up, came across the aisle, and sat down beside her. A stewardess passed.
‘A martini, please,’ he said, and turned to Dorothea. ‘What will you have?’ She didn’t answer. He turned back to the stewardess. ‘Two martinis.’
‘No,’ Dorothea lowered her book. ‘A cognac.’ And she read on:
O cursed spite
That ever I was born to set it right,
Nay, come, let’s go together.
She put the book into her Lufthansa bag. She looked out the window at the infinity of blueness.
‘It’s not that I’m forward or brash or anything like that,’ the young man said, ‘but I always have to make the first move. It’s defensive, you see. If a girl makes a pass at me, I’m immediately suspicious.’
‘Why?’ She appraised him out of the corner of her eye. Bronzed. About thirty. A Cardin suit. A striped velvet vest. A gold fountain pen. The pinkness of his shirt drenching everything.
‘It’s because of the business I’m in.’
‘What business are you in?’
‘Oh, by the way, I’m Bing Argyle.’
‘Dorothea Bishop.’
The stewardess brought them their drinks, and they toasted.
‘Can I ask you a very personal question, Dorothea?’
‘Go ahead.’ She looked out at the sky again. She strained the muscles of her left hand, forcing the bent index to slide around the glass.
‘What color are your eyes?’ She pulled off her glasses, faced him.
He gasped. ‘Viridis, by God! I don’t believe it! Pure viridis!’
‘You mean green?’
‘Don’t be prosaic. They’re Indian emeralds. Unalloyed spotless unblemished Rajasthan emeralds!’
‘Hot dog!’
‘I ought to know!’ He glanced at the aisle, reached into his pocket, pulled out a small oblong velvet box. He snapped it open, smirking. It contained two large emeralds.
‘Very impressive,’ she said.
‘I’m not trying to impress you. If I was, I’d just give them to you. But they’re not mine. I’m only a peddler.’
‘May I?’ She took the box and held the gems against the porthole.
Puzzle Number Seven had the Eye completely stumped. Hints such as two down, Leper King, three across, Capital in Czechoslovakia, and one down, Kraut Cat Five, got him nowhere. He marked the page and went on to Number Eight.
Dorothea Bishop came up the ais
le past his seat. A stewardess stopped her.
‘Excuse me …’ She wasn’t at all sure of herself, but her eyes were as hard as stones. ‘You’re not from Cleveland by any chance, are you?’
‘No.’
‘Your name isn’t Doris Fleming?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘I’m sorry – it – the –’ The stewardess stammered and tried to smile. ‘The resemblance is – A friend of mine was going with a – a girl who looks exactly like you. In Cleveland. A few years ago.’
Dorothea put her hands on her hips. ‘I’ve never been to Cleveland.’
‘I could have sworn …’
‘Everybody looks like somebody else.’ She walked on, entered the John.
Another stewardess came by the Eye’s seat.
‘It’s her,’ the first girl whispered. ‘I’m sure of it.’
‘Who is she?’ the other asked.
‘She took a guy away from me once.’
‘Good riddance.’
‘They went off somewhere together, and that’s the last anybody ever heard of him.’
‘Maybe he joined the Foreign Legion.’
The two of them walked up the aisle.
The Eye got to his feet and moved aft. Doris Fleming! Christ! Sure! Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Balls! He was forgetting every one of old Flatfleet’s rule-of-thumb commandments. How many other bodies were there? How many wigs? How many names? The No Smoking sign went on. He could feel the deck tilting beneath his feet. And how many other witnesses could remember her and identify her? How long could she last?
The door opened, and Dorothea came out of the John, her lips tight with rage. She passed him without a glance.
At O’Hare she and Bing Argyle left the plane together. The stewardess was standing on the ramp, glaring at her. Dorothea smiled at her.
Bing was still trying smoothly to snare her, totally unaware of his own captivity. ‘Where are you staying, Dorothea?’
‘I don’t know yet. I’ve never been to Chicago before.’
‘What about the Ritz-Carlton? It’s the only place, take my word for it.’
‘All right.’ She put her arm through his. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’
He beamed with conquest. They took a taxi together to East Pearson and checked into the Ritz-Carlton. She was given room 1214. The Eye managed to get into 1211, just across the hall from her. Bing was downstairs in 1109.
The Eye left his door ajar. He sat down on a cushion on the floor and watched the hallway. He returned to Puzzle Number Seven and tried to break it. Leper King, eight letters, Kraut Cat Five, seven letters, Capital in Czechoslovakia, four letters, and several other fucking twisters – This head, Arctic swordfish, Adrastea – continued to thwart him.
Rain splashed on the window. A bellboy brought Dorothea a basket of pears. In the late afternoon she went out, wearing slacks and a turtleneck, overshoes, and a windbreaker, carrying an umbrella.
The Eye followed her.
They walked around the block twice. She gave a beggar woman fifty cents, then stood in the rain, gazing at the traffic. She walked down St. Clair Street, turned into East Huron, went all the way to the Lake, came back up the Drive to Pearson. She met the same beggar woman again on Seneca Street and gave her another fifty cents. She bought a Trib and leaned in a doorway, reading her horoscope. The Eye retrieved the paper when she threw it away.
CAPRICORN. Health OK, if you don’t overdo it.
You need a rest, but who doesn’t?
Beryl is your color. Sat. is your day.
AQUARIUS encounters are the best.
She ate another pear. On Michigan Avenue a black girl tried to pick her up.
She went back to the hotel at six.
At eight Bing Argyle, carrying an attaché case and a rose, wearing a scarlet Palazzi dinner jacket, knocked on the door of 1214. When he saw Dorothea, wearing a lime green evening gown, her hair wrapped in an olive silk band, he dropped to one knee in the corridor and imitated a trumpet.
‘Ta-ta-ta-taaa! Crescendo! I swear it, you are – excuse my inadequacy – pretty!’
‘What is your birthday?’ she asked.
‘February the seventeenth.’ He got to his feet. ‘Nineteen forty-five.’
‘Aquarius!’
‘Yup. The water bearer. And the flower bearer.’ He gave her the rose. The door closed behind them.
Across the hall, the door of 1211 closed too.
The Eye went downstairs and waited for them. A half-hour later he followed them across the crowded lobby to the street.
‘You’ll love them,’ Bing was saying. ‘They’re sweet people. They’re Arabs.’
‘Arabs?’
‘Egyptians, Iraqis, Syrians. They’re so rich they don’t know what to do with all their shekels. One of them just – get this – just bought three skyscrapers on North Michigan Avenue. I love money, don’t you?’
‘Sure.’
‘But imagine John D. Rockefeller wearing a burnoose. It’s delirious!’
The party was in a high domino on North Boulevard, in a penthouse overlooking the Shore Drive and Lincoln Park. A sign on the door of the entryway read Jews Need Not Apply.
Dorothea and Bing walked through several immense ballrooms aswarm with Second City beautiful people enjoying a spree. Musicians in farmer duds were playing fiddles and banjos, and two columns of guests were barn dancing. One room was a Casbah souk filled with hucksters’ stands and booths and sweaty hirelings in turbans and djellabas serving food and drink.
‘Well met, Bing Argyle!’ a voice called.
Bing led Dorothea over to the host, a round little man who looked like a South American orchestra leader.
‘Abdel baby!’ Bing hugged him. ‘Shalom!’
‘Bing, my dear! Ravi de vous voir. Who is this charming girl?’
‘Dorothea Bishop, Abdel Idfa. He’s the Sheik of Kilowatt or something.’
‘Kuwait.’ Abdel kissed Dorothea’s hand. ‘Welcome to my party, fair maid. Oh, isn’t she comely!’
‘She’s a shiksa, too,’ Bing said.
‘Bing, do you have the merchandise?’
Bing held up the attaché case. ‘At your service!’
Abdel scowled at Dorothea. ‘Are you a virgin, child?’ he asked.
‘That’s none of your fucking business,’ she said.
Bing blushed and laughed, cackling. Abdel and Dorothea smiled at each other, both simmering with sudden hate.
In the souk a Palestinian wearing sunglasses, a cream suit, black and white shoes, a red shirt, and a purple necktie, was standing in a bevy of student-looking girls, talking about the Crusades.
‘The Franks were far more imperialistic than the Romans or Jews,’ he said. ‘They annexed the entire country and called themselves the Counts of Tripoli and the Princes of Antioch and the Dukes of St. Jean d’Acre and whatnot. They tried to make serfs of all of Islam.’
‘My favorite person is Saladin,’ one of the girls put in.
‘Yes,’ the Palestinian agreed. ‘Salah-ed-Din. Well, he put a stop to their freebooting.’
‘And who was the poor king with leprosy?’ another girl asked. ‘He used to win all his battles lying in a basket, because he couldn’t stand up.’
‘That would be Baudouin the Fourth,’ the Palestinian told her. ‘A figure of tragic repulsiveness.’
The Eye pushed through the crowd. ‘What was his name?’ he asked.
The Palestinian glared at him fiercely, his black glasses like holes. ‘Baudouin the Fourth,’ he said.
‘He was a king?’
‘Yes. He called himself the King of Jerusalem.’
‘And he had leprosy?’
‘He did. Why do you ask?’
The Eye walked off into the mob. Baudouin! Eight letters! That would unclog the whole fucking puzzle maybe! He went to one of the booths and ate a dish of ice cream.
Dorothea walked over to another booth and examined the array of bottles. She was alone. Bi
ng was off somewhere with Abdel. She found a Rémy Martin and poured a drink. Lying on the end of the counter was a gold cigarette case. She picked it up and slid it into the bosom of her lime gown.
The Eye watched her from behind a nearby tent and followed her out of the room.
She joined the barn dance, spinning nimbly from partner to partner, skipping and hopping lightfootedly, grinning, flushed with pleasure.
The music ended.
She went out on the windy terrace.
She wiped her face with her arm and stood at the balustrade and gazed down at Lake Michigan. The North Shore traffic moved like a worm of gems around Lincoln Park. Her foot touched something. She bent over, picked up a Fourex pack. Rolled in Foil Pink … natural skins … ‘Non-Slip’ XXXX … She pitched it into the chasm.
She moved through a jungle of plants, her face raised, her nostrils sniffing the air. The darkness was scented with foliage and water. On a table before her was a scimitar in a rusty scabbard. She picked it up, drew out the blade. Her head turned, she looked over her shoulder. Through a window behind her she saw Abdel and Bing sitting at a table. The two emeralds twinkled in a blotter between them. Another man came into the room.
‘Excuse me, sir. Mr. Iscari is here.’
‘Ah, good! Excuse me a second, Bing.’
They left. Bing was alone. She rapped on the pane. He rose, opened the window. His jowls spread in surprise.
‘Dorothea …’
He came out on the terrace and walked straight into the blade. It pierced his abdomen, traversed him.
She went into the room, picked up the emeralds, ran back across the terrace into the crowded penthouse. A TV comic was standing in a whirlwind of laughter, telling jokes. The crowd applauded. In the entryway coats and wraps were piled on chairs and sofas. She took a mink, slipped into it, went out to the elevator.
The Eye tugged Bing through the plants, rolled him into a corner of the terrace behind a row of pots. Abdel came out of the room.
‘Bing? Where are you, my dear?’
The Eye clubbed him behind the ear with the edge of his hand, toppling him. He dragged him into the greenery, pushed the table in front of him.
The TV comic was firing joke after joke into the storm of laughter and applause. No one paid any attention to the Eye as he wandered across the room into the entryway.