The Cunning

  His fingers twisted, captured, curled, moved upward. He still felt nothing, and in a moment he would no longer have the need to do so.

  Dark now. Can’t see what you’re doing. Don’t have to see. Just do it. Now.

  The door opened behind him, and Sylvia came into the room.

  NINETEEN

  “What are you doing?”

  Warren tensed at the sound of her voice. Quickly his hand found its way into his jacket pocket, and then he turned his head.

  Sylvia stood silhouetted against the open doorway, peering at him through the shadows.

  Had she seen his movement? Too dark for that—but the doubt remained until her words dispelled it. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”

  “I must have dozed off,” he said. And wondered at his surge of relief as he realized she hadn’t noticed his hasty gesture. Mama’s little boy, afraid she’d catch him with his hand in the cookie jar. “I didn’t expect you back so early.”

  “They got me out fast.” Sylvia moved to the floor lamp near the doorway, switched on the light. “The place was a madhouse, everybody rushing in at the last moment. I guess it’s because of that affair over at the clubhouse tonight.” She closed the front door, came toward him in the lamplight. “How do I look?”

  “Fine.”

  She stared down at him, eyes troubled. “Warren, are you all right?”

  “Sure.” But it was an effort to say it, an effort to smile, an even greater effort to nod. Suddenly he was weak all over, conscious of the need to control the trembling, conscious too of the perspiration filming his forehead and hands. “I’m just tired.”

  “Want a drink?”

  “Well—”

  “Do you good. Me too.” She turned and started briskly toward the hall. “Stay where you are. I’ll get it.”

  “Thanks.”

  He made no attempt to follow; he wasn’t sure he was capable of locomotion. And he didn’t want to go into the kitchen where she could see him under the bright overhead light, not while he was perspiring like this. Warren felt the wetness under his armpits, soaking through the undershirt.

  She was calling from the kitchen now. “Scotch and rocks okay?”

  “Fine,” he said.

  Fine. Sure. Thanks. Where were the words now? What had become of all the elegant eloquence of a few moments ago, when he’d been talking to himself? And what had happened to that lofty detachment, that icy objectivity? The phony philosopher, sitting so smugly in his tub until she came and pulled the plug on him. Now he was naked and shivering, and he needed a drink.

  “Here you are.”

  He downed half of it in a single swallow, grateful for the burn and the bite.

  When he glanced up Sylvia was seated across from him, twirling her glass. He sensed the speculation in her stare, countered it quickly.

  “What have they done with your hair?” he said. “You look different.”

  “So you finally noticed.” Her features softened with her smile. “I let Ronnie try something new, for the party tonight.”

  “That’s right. The party.”

  “Don’t tell me you forgot.”

  “Of course not.”

  But he had forgotten. What was the need of remembering a party you didn’t plan to attend? Only now—

  Now Sylvia was sipping her drink. And she did look different; it wasn’t just the change in hairstyle. There was a freshness in her face, an elusive expression around her eyes and mouth.

  “Do you know this is the first time we’ve been together all day?” she said. “How was the brunch?”

  “The brunch?” He was still studying her face, and it took a moment for him to catch himself, consider his answer. He found the moment in his glass, then glanced up. “Oh, you know. A lot of strangers making small talk. Most of them are in town for some kind of greeting-card convention—people Jerry does busines with.” He hesitated, conscious of Sylvia’s eyes upon him. “None of our friends there. I met a man named Crile—”

  “Roy Crile?” Sylvia nodded. “I know him. We’re in the Great Books program together, every Wednesday.”

  “Funny, he never said anything.” Warren tried to remember just what Crile had said about meeting before. “Oh, yeah, he told me we met at the Bascombs’ last summer.”

  “Yes, that’s right.” Sylvia spoke quickly. “Anyone else interesting?”

  Sure. Dolly Dimples. She wanted to get laid but I couldn’t oblige. Is that interesting enough for you?

  But he couldn’t say it. All that came out was, “A woman named Dolly Gluck. Used to be Dolly Dimples, one of those child stars in the silent days. Pretty much of a mess now. Matter of fact, she almost passed out. Jerry asked me to walk her to her door—she lives just behind them, over on Court.”

  “I see.”

  He didn’t want to give her time to see, so he kept on talking. “Then I came on home. You know me; one drink on an empty stomach and I’ve had it.”

  “You didn’t eat any lunch?”

  “I wasn’t hungry. And there was no point going back to that mob scene.” He was suddenly aware of the defensive note in his voice and wondered if she noticed. All right, attack is the best defense. “What did you do?” he said.

  “I told you on the phone. I cleaned up here and then I went to the beauty parlor.”

  “Didn’t you say something about doing some shopping first?”

  “Oh, that.” Sylvia took another sip of her drink. “I had to let it go. There wasn’t time.”

  But he noted the moment of hesitation before she answered him. Was she holding something back, playing his game?

  Ridiculous. Or was it? It takes one to know one.

  “Speaking of time—” Sylvia rose quickly, glancing at her watch. “Almost six-thirty. We’d better start getting dressed.” She reached out, taking the empty glass from his hand. “The sooner we get there the sooner you can have something to eat. You must be starved by now.”

  Warren took a deep breath. Now was the moment. The moment to tell her he wasn’t dressing, that she should go on alone.

  But she wouldn’t leave him. Not unless she had some special reason of her own for attending the affair. Affair. Was Roy Crile one of the guests tonight?

  Ridiculous. He was an old man, Sylvia wouldn’t be interested in him. But why had he left so abruptly this noon, said he was going to get a drink and never returned? There was something here, something nagging at the back of his mind—

  “Come along,” Sylvia said.

  “All right.”

  Damn it, he was hungry. And supposing he did go—nothing was changed except his schedule. He could still carry out his purpose. Warren’s hand dipped into his pocket as he rose, and his fingers found reassurance there.

  That was the answer. Carry it with him. And then, at a moment’s notice, whenever he chose—

  But first it might be interesting to get a few answers. Why was Sylvia so evasive? Why had she changed? What was the meaning of that new look? It hadn’t come from the beauty parlor and he needed a clue as to its real source. Perhaps the party would provide a few answers. There’d be a lot of other people there besides Roy Crile. Friends of Sylvia’s; maybe more than friends.

  Wouldn’t it be funny if all this while when he’d been concealing his plans from Sylvia, she’d been concealing plans of her own?

  No, it wouldn’t be funny. Not funny at all. But it sure as hell explained at least a part of the reason for the barrier between them. It takes two to tango. All these months of lessons and classes and appointments. And all the while—

  Warren followed Sylvia toward the bedroom, shaking his head. Not so fast. Don’t jump to conclusions. Innocent until proven guilty. Projection of his own guilt over Dolly. And yet—something nagging, nagging away.

  It wasn’t until Warren entered the bedroom that the answer came.

  Roy Crile, telling him they’d met last summer at the Bascombs’. He remembered, now. The Bascombs had given an outdoor barbecue, one of those
hideous suburban shambles where the host wears a chef’s hat and an apron decorated with funny sayings and the stains of spilled martinis. Warren had always hated such doings and this was one time he put his foot down. “Go ahead if you like,” he told Sylvia. “But I’m staying home and watching the ball game.”

  Which is exactly what happened.

  He never went to the Bascombs’. Sylvia had gone—alone.

  But she wouldn’t be alone tonight. He would be there, and so would Crile.

  It was going to be an interesting party.

  TWENTY

  Emily Nesbitt sat at the window, staring out at Eden.

  the lord god planted a garden in eden in the east and there he put the man whom he had formed. and out of the ground he made to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight and good for food. the tree of life in the midst of the garden. the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.

  Emily couldn’t see the tree.

  but eden is in the east and this is west. and if there was no eden there was no tree, no life, no good, no evil, no god, only darkness. darkness is when they come. out of the night, the black, brooding basilisks.

  Emily was ready to scream when the lights started to appear.

  and god said, let there be light, and there was light.

  So Emily knew this was Eden, after all. She couldn’t see the tree, but it must be out there. The muscles of her throat relaxed as she continued to stare.

  And the lights came on.

  The light of the sign over the main gate—Eden Estates, in red neon. The light in the guard hut there, and the one at the service gate, the light in the security office and the administration complex where Goldie Schrifft surrendered the switchboard to Diane Lake. Street lamps and parking-lot floods and headlights of cars, cat’s-eyes prowling the night.

  The lights blazed in the clubhouse as the augmented staff toiled in kitchen and dining room, preparing for the dinner-dance.

  The lights shone in Beckley’s office as he sat making his last-minute check of the security schedule for the affair, hoping to Christ he had enough men assigned to cover it adequately, and wishing to Christ he didn’t have to cover it himself. But attendance was one of his duties; it would please everyone if he showed up, and wasn’t that the main thing after all? To please and protect. When you came right down to it, old people had so little pleasure, so little protection. Outside of Eden and places like Leisure World, there was nowhere for them to go. Thank God he had that cabin up in Oregon. When his time came he’d make the best of it—lots of good fishing left, if you knew the river. Sit at a trout stream instead of a desk, that’s the answer. But not now.

  Now the lights were burning in half the houses on the hill. Fireflies flickering, dancing, defiant of the dark.

  In the bedroom, Tom Norwood stirred as the lamp on the nightstand flared across the haggard hollows of his face. His eyes opened, blinking and focusing on Jerry’s face.

  “Rise and shine,” she said.

  “What time is it?”

  “Ten after seven.”

  “Seven—” Tom sat up quickly. “Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

  “I tried, but you were dead to the world.” Jerry turned, moving briskly to the closet. “Come on, it won’t take you long to dress. I’m putting your things out now.”

  Tom swung his legs over the side of the bed, nodding toward the doorway. “But what about the mess in there—?”

  “Everything’s cleaned up.”

  “You did it all yourself?”

  “Somebody had to.”

  “I’m sorry. You should have let me help.”

  “Don’t worry.” Jerry turned, holding out his blue blazer on a hanger. “Here, I’m leaving this on the chair for you. Remember to get your stuff out of the other jacket before we leave. Now you’d better shave. I’m through in the bathroom.”

  Tom gave her a look out of the corner of his eye. “I still wish you’d called me to help.”

  “You can help tonight, by making a good impression on Joe and Irene.”

  Tom scowled. “I wish we didn’t have to go. The two of them are such bloody bores.”

  “Bloody rich bores. The kind that can buy paintings if they want to. Just remember that.” Jerry marched over to the bathroom doorway, reached around to the wall inside. “Here you go.”

  She switched on the bathroom light.

  The bathroom light had been burning for over an hour in Dolly’s place. Thank God it wasn’t any brighter; her eyes were puffy enough as it was. But she needed to see what she was doing and the make-up did help.

  Of all the damned times to get loaded! And for what? The nerve of that creep, running out on her like he did, without even—or had it just been that she’d folded before he had a chance, and it turned him off? She couldn’t really remember, but it didn’t matter anyway.

  What mattered was that she’d better get herself put together for the party.

  Dolly’s tongue explored the roof of her mouth. Fuzzy. What she needed was a good laxative. Damnit, no—the way she felt right now, if she took a laxative she’d disappear.

  Maybe a drink would help, but that was out too. Got to watch the drinking, and the other stuff. Mixing it with liquor was what gave her such a bummer this afternoon. Tonight she was going to play it real cool, like the kids said.

  Dolly giggled. She wasn’t a kid, but she knew you had to play it cool to get somebody hot. Of course she had no way of checking Joe Marks’ temperature; a guy like that may have kept it on ice for years, and it might be quite a job to thaw him out. But if it could be done she was just the one to do it. She’d find a way to raise his thermometer for him.

  Had to put the show on the road, though. There must be something she could take.

  She reached into the medicine cabinet for the Alka-seltzer, shook two tablets into a glass, added water. There, that ought to hold her.

  Dolly raised the fizzing mixture to her lips in a silent toast. Tonight’s the night.

  As she drained her glass the bubbles sparkled under the light.

  So did the lenses of Ed Brice’s spectacles when he held them up to the desk lamp and polished them with his handkerchief. Then he perched them on his nose for a moment, making sure that he could see clearly. Pays to keep your eyes open when you don’t know what you’re getting into.

  Those young punks nowadays had it made. Wiretapping, bugging, all this fancy electronic equipment. None of that kind of thing around in the old days. You had to go in empty-handed, nothing to rely on except yourself, your own eyes and ears. Stop, look and listen, like the fella says.

  But once you learned the ropes, that was enough. It had always paid off for him then and it was going to pay off for him now. And without any rough stuff, either; no doors to break down. Because he had the password, and the cover.

  Ed pushed the glasses into place against the bridge of his nose, thinking of some of the crazy getups he used to wear. False mustaches, wigs, even cotton in the cheeks to change the shape of his face. In those days everybody went in for disguises.

  But this was better. Now his own face was a disguise. Little old bald-headed guy wearing specs—who’d ever suspect him for what he was? Not Joe Marks and his pinko friends. He was going to walk right in and set up a stakeout. He didn’t need any nose-putty and he didn’t need any tape recorders, either. Just his own common sense.

  Ed pushed his chair back from the desk and stood up. As he went over to the closet to get his coat he began to feel the familiar tingling sensation all over, everything jumping around inside him, the excitement grabbing him in the gut. That’s the way it had always been when he went out on an assignment, and that’s the way it was now.

  No two ways about it; he was going to do a good job tonight.

  Slinging the coat over his shoulder, Ed walked back to the desk, reached down to the lamp and turned out the light.

  It was dark in the bedroom as Carrie Humphreys peered through the slanted slats of the blinds. If she stood
there with the lamp off nobody could see her and she had a perfectly good view of the Marks’ place directly up the hillside slope behind her property.

  Of course it wasn’t nearly as good as last year, before Joe Marks went and planted all those rose bushes along the back of their patio, but she could still see what was going on.

  Lord knows she was the last person on earth to pry into other peoples’ business; live and let live, that was her motto. She certainly didn’t believe in being one of those nosey types. But when it comes to neighbors it’s just good common sense to keep track of what goes on, because you never can tell what they might be up to.

  Not that the Markses ever gave her any trouble; they kept pretty much to themselves, went to bed early, and almost never had any company.

  But in a way that was kind of peculiar when you stopped to think about it. Not suspicious, exactly, but you couldn’t help but wonder. Carrie knew for a fact that they were well-fixed; that big car they drove and the clothes Irene wore cost a mint. And there was nothing wrong with their health—Joe Marks was always working in his garden and Irene ran around to classes and community affairs meetings just about every day. So why didn’t they entertain?

  And why were they entertaining now?

  That’s what set Carrie to thinking, and that’s why she’d been keeping her eye on their house off and on all day. So far it was a waste of time because she hadn’t seen a thing; Joe Marks came out to work on the patio in the morning and he was back again after lunch, pruning away, just like nothing was going on. And Irene never so much as showed her face, even though she’d been home all day. Carrie knew it for a fact, because their car never left the garage.

  A pity there was no way of seeing the front of the house, so you could tell if anyone came in or out from the street side. Right now all she had to go on was the lights; they had the living room and kitchen lit up even before it got dark—a shame, the way they wasted electricity. And it still didn’t do any good, because the drapes were all drawn. Probably just doing some house-cleaning before the party, but why did they have to be so secretive about it? The way they acted, you’d think somebody was spying on them.