Текст книги "Murder on the Run"

Автор книги: Medora Sale

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Chapter 4

Jane stared over the red, blonde, and brown heads of twenty-four sixteen-year-old girls, her own head throbbing unpleasantly. She listened to the rustling murmur grow from surreptitious whispering to barely muted high-pitched giggles.

“Quiet!” she said, her voice pianissimo but nasty. “One more sound and the entire lot of you stays after the bell. I am quite prepared to sit here until five o’clock, if it takes that long for you to learn to work in silence.” Liar. This day had already lasted at least a week. “Does anyone have anything she might like to say before we all start working?” She heard her voice, sharp, sarcastic, and shrewish, echoing in her aching head, cutting through the nervous hush. Amanda Griffiths buried herself deeper in her physics problems. Rosemary Hemphill turned to comment on the situation to the girl next to her, changed her mind, and opened her physics text in an elaborate parody of industry. But a flicker of interest—her first that class—darted across the lumpish face of Cathy Hollingsby, who put up her hand and produced her contribution to science.

“Mrs. Conway, we saw you going into the After Hours last night—my dad and me. Do you go there a lot? We would have stopped and said hello, but we had to get home. My dad said that it was a pretty interesting place.”

The hush was palpable now. Amanda’s interest in problems became all-consuming. Rosemary, silent for once, stared in astonishment at Cathy. Only Cathy would be stupid enough to say something like that to Conway. She wasn’t the kind of teacher you made personal remarks to, especially when she was in such a bitch of a mood.

Anger made Jane’s queasy stomach lurch; blood pounded in her ears. “My life outside this classroom is entirely my own affair.” she said, her voice cold with rage, “and someone with such a miniscule grasp of physics as yours could well spend more of her time on problems and less on gossip. Get to work.” The words echoed and re-echoed inside her fuzzily hollow head. Oh God, let that bell ring now.

Jane rolled off the bed and padded across the dull gray carpet into the bathroom. “Hey, where are you off to?” said a lazy male voice. “You only just got home. Come back to bed, sweetheart. It’s been a while, you know.”

“I know,” she said, splashing water around as she washed with vigour. “But I don’t feel much like a cosy little chat now. I’m going running while it’s still sunny out there. You can stay if you like.”

“Is that a good idea?”

“Which? Staying? Or running?” Shivering in the cool afternoon, she reached for the running clothes on the back of the chair. Neat shorts, a red T-shirt with “Run for Life” on it, proclaiming that she had raced ten kilometers for cardiac research last spring, and a gray hooded sweatshirt.

“Running,” he said, propping himself up on one elbow as he watched her dress. “I wouldn’t have thought it was very good for you—or very safe. Where are you running these days? The same routes?”

“More or less. Up the ravine to Moore Park and then around and back, usually. And what’s wrong with it? You think I can’t outrun some rapist? Or do you think I’ll do myself an injury getting more exercise today? You over-estimate yourself, baby.” She turned her back to him and reached for her well-worn Nikes—she really needed a new pair, she thought, looking at the worn heels—and then sat down and put them on with great care.

“Wait,” he said, as she started her warm-ups. “We still haven’t had that chat, you know. How about a drink somewhere tomorrow after work?”

“I’m not sure about tomorrow.” she said jerkily, as she swung her torso around in deep bends. “I might have something on. Why don’t you call me?” She leaned against the wall and started stretching her calves.

“Can I call you at work?” He got out of bed and began picking up his own clothes.

“No. That’s impossible. Call me here at 4:30.” She was leaning against the dresser, stretching her quadriceps. “I’m off now. I’ll be back in half an hour or so.” She moved toward the living room.

“You’re going to pull a muscle if you don’t watch it,” he said, pulling up his trousers. “You don’t warm up enough.”

“Goddamit, stop trying to run my life. If Grete Waitz doesn’t warm up, why should I?” she said, and flung herself out of the apartment.

Jane shivered as the cold wind hit her bare legs. In spite of what she had said, perhaps she would just drag herself a couple of miles—enough to clear the chalk dust from her lungs, the knots out of her neck and shoulders, the stale alcohol poisons from her bloodstream.

The hangover, the exhaustion, and the sleepless night all made those first steps agony, but imperceptibly the pain faded, her head cleared, her shoulders dropped, and she fell into an easy stride. By the time she had reached the first corner she realized that the heaviness in her legs had disappeared. A long run, that was what she needed, to get away from the whole confusing mess. At that, she veered sharply left past the bridge down to the running path in the ravine. She had a seductive and illusory sense of tremendous speed as she relaxed and let her feet fall down the hill. She hadn’t been running as fast these days. It must be the lack of competition; ever since she had walked out on Doug she’d mostly run alone. You had to admit that he was a good running partner—lousy to live with, but great on his feet.

It was stupid to have let Marny talk her into going to the party; stupider to have let herself get into that fight with Grant; stupider still to have dragged Milly and Jenny off to that bar. And if that bloody kid and her precious dad go around talking about seeing her there. . . . What in hell was a kid doing outside a place like that at 11:30 at night? I wonder what the school will make of it? She grinned as she panted up the hill imagining the look on her department head’s face. What the hell, she thought, as she crested the rise, I’ve lost the crummy job anyway. A beer, that’s what I need, five miles and then a beer, a bath, a sandwich, and at least ten hours’ sleep. Stuff the marking, the girls, and the whole bloody school. She floated down the hill.

Time and distance disappeared; without any clear memory of getting there she had reached the end of the trail and was circling around to travel back the way she had come. Grant’s interesting business proposal teased at the edges of her brain, and she began to idly calculate how much money she could earn if she decided to throw her lot in with him. The noise of rush-hour traffic distracted her a moment, and she stumbled slightly; she hadn’t realized she was that close to the spot where the path drew near to the road. Then music replaced the calculations in her head as she picked up her pace again, and almost drowned out the running footsteps that started up behind her. The footsteps drew closer as she rounded the corner by the wooded section, and she slowed to let the other runner pass. I wish I had leg muscles like a man’s. Tuna on dark rye and a beer. The music in her head slowed down as she relaxed her pace, and the footsteps behind her grew louder and faster.

The first class of the morning had started fifteen minutes earlier. Cassandra Antonini was moving purposefully in the direction of the prep room when she heard a shriek and a burst of giggles coming through the open door of the physics lab, followed closely by a rapidly lurching Slinky toy. Damn that woman. Doesn’t she realize it’s my ass in a sling if some kid electrocutes herself while she sleeps in again? Cassandra was a biologist, happy surrounded by fish and plants and pickled frogs, but nervous with the peculiar equipment in the physics lab. She swooped down on the Slinky. A second later she steamed into the room, roaring the group into order:

“Sally, Heather, Carol, sit down. Everyone, open your textbooks. Let’s see, Miranda, how far did the class get yesterday? Right. Carry on, finish reading chapter seven and make notes on it. Silently! Susanne, go down to the vice-principal’s office and tell Mrs. Lorimer that Mrs. Conway has been delayed. Run! And I shall be next door, with the connecting door to this lab open. I expect absolute silence from all of you.” Awestruck, the girls subsided into stillness.

Maggie Lorimer received the news from Susanne in stony silence; then, reflecting that it wasn’t really the poor child’s fault that her teacher had not shown up for work that morning, she smiled as warmly as she could manage and thanked her for bringing the message, before sending her back to class. With a resigned sigh she reached for her list of teachers who were free this period and the next, jotted down some names and went in search of someone to hold the fort. On her way back she stuck her head in the principal’s office and gave her the news.

“It’s really too much, Roz.” Maggie dropped down in one of the comfortable chairs in front of the desk and spread her hands in annoyance and frustration. “What am I supposed to do? This is the third or fourth time she’s done this since she came. She’s driving me crazy. And the people who have to cover her classes are not too pleased about it, either. There’s going to be a general revolt, I think. They’ll start hiding in broom closets.”

“Relax, Maggie. Our troubles may be over. I interviewed an absolutely marvellous woman last night for the part-time science job next year. She’s been in Europe for two years with her husband, just got back, was teaching for the Etobicoke Board before that, and everyone thinks she’s super. I checked around last night about her. Don’t worry. She’s coming back this afternoon, and if Cassandra likes her, I think I’ll offer her a job starting Monday and get rid of Jane Conway at once. There shouldn’t be a problem, I hope.” Thoughts of lawsuits sprang briefly into her mind. “She’s only here as a supply on a per-diem basis.”

“Sounds great. Does she know any physics?”

“Basically she’s a chemist, but she did enough physics in university to cope. I asked her—rather slyly, I thought—if she would mind teaching physics should the occasion arise. So all we have to do is to convince her that she would like to start working on Monday instead of next September.”

“Tell her it comes with the job—you know, ‘oh, by the way, you start next week.’” Maggie laughed and retreated in the direction of her office. “I’d better try to raise la belle Jane at home. If the pattern holds, she’s probably still asleep.”

Jane Conway’s phone rang shrilly in the empty apartment twenty times before Maggie gave up. She slammed the receiver down and went next door to the general office. Above the ringing of phones and clatter of office machinery, she asked whether either of the two secretaries had taken a message from Jane. In the controlled chaos of early morning, it was just possible, although not likely, that they might not have had time to pass along a message.

Sylvia looked up from the list of absentees that she was annotating as she called homes to check on the girls who hadn’t shown up yet that morning. “Not a word. You mean she hasn’t come in again this morning? I could have used a couple of extra hours myself. Do you want me to call her?”

“No thanks, Sylvia. I tried her a minute ago and there was no answer. How long would it take her to get to work, do you think?”

Sylvia flicked open one of her folders, checked an address, and said, “Ten minutes? Fifteen, if she’s really tired. She only lives over on MacNiece.”

“Okay. We’ll give her ten minutes or so. I wonder if she’ll have the grace to tell us she’s here, or if she’ll just sneak up to her classroom and hope that no one noticed she hadn’t turned up. I think I’ll just drift by there and see. Here, give me some of those absentees, and I’ll do them.”

But fifteen minutes later, it was only a mildly irritated English teacher, marking essays, who was to be seen in Jane’s class. “Damn!” said Maggie, back in the office. “Do you suppose something has happened to her?”

“If you mean Jane Conway,” said Ruth, glancing up from her typewriter, “someone said that she looked terribly ill yesterday.”

“Yesterday,” said Maggie, ruminatively. “When was that? I can’t keep the days straight anymore.” She sighed. “But you’re right. She sat at lunch and stared at the lasagna as though it was laced with arsenic. She was absolutely pea-green. She lives alone, doesn’t she?” Sylvia, who knew everything, nodded. “I suppose I’d better go over there and see if something has happened to her. Oh, God.”

“Why don’t you take Helen Cummings with you?” suggested Sylvia tactfully. “Joyce can hold the fort over at the infirmary until you two get back. Shall I give her a call?”

“What an absolutely brilliant idea. Then if there is anything really wrong, she can cope. She has a stronger stomach than I have.” Maggie was not looking forward to this.

The two women stood staring at each other in frustration on the front steps of the square yellow building. They had been alternately ringing the bell marked “Superintendent” and pounding fiercely on the front door for at least ten minutes. “Maybe we should go around to the back and see if we can get in another door,” suggested Maggie desperately. Then the door slowly opened, and a slightly tousled gray head poked around it.

“Here now. Who’re you looking for? What are you making all that racket for? If they ain’t in they ain’t in.” She started to shut the door. “Any more of that and I’ll call the police.”

“Just a minute,” said Maggie. “Are you the superintendent?”

“No!” said the head. “Not exactly. Anyway, what do you want?” It drew back, preparing for flight.

“Well, maybe you should call the police. We’re looking for Jane Conway, Apartment 403. We’re from the school she works at, and she hasn’t come in today. And she isn’t answering her phone. She might be very ill in there.”

The head slowly re-emerged. “Well—if you think she’ sick, maybe we’d better go up and look.” She cautiously held the door open just wide enough for them to squeeze through. “Now, I don’t usually go into the tenants’ apartments, you know. There’s a law about that. ‘Quiet use and enjoyment,’ it’s called—that’s what they have. And that means the superintendent can’t go in when she feels like it, unless there’s a reason. But I guess this is a reason.” As she talked, she toiled toward the elevator, a large bunch of keys in her hand. “Not that I seen anything suspicious, mind you,” she said, as the elevator groaned up to the fourth floor under their combined weights, “so I don’t know what you expect to find.” She flipped through the keys on her ring, slowly picked out the right one, and inserted it into the lock. “There you are,” she said, as she turned the key with a grimace and flung open the door. “She probably spent the night out, I’d say. Not that it matters to me what the tenants do, as long as they don’t have wild parties and wreck the apartments.” She pushed her way in first, waddling slightly as she moved. “See? Nothing wrong here,” she said, looking around the neat living room. She opened the bedroom door slowly and peered inside. “There, you see? No one in there. Bed hasn’t even been slept in, I’d say. These girls are all like that. I don’t know why you worry—half the time they don’t come home at all at night.”

“Do you know if she went out last night and didn’t come back?” asked Helen.

“How should I know? They all have their own keys. They only bother me if something goes wrong. But I see them sometimes in the morning coming in, still all dressed up.” She waddled out of the bedroom. “None of my business, what they do.”

“Would you mind if I looked in the bathroom?” asked Helen. “She might have fallen and hit her head in there.”

“Go right ahead,” said the super. “It’s through the bedroom, there.”

Helen opened the door, looked around briefly, and shook her head at Maggie. They walked slowly back into the living room. There was nothing in it that would give a hint to its owner’s whereabouts—a briefcase was sitting next to the desk; on it there was a neat pile of student papers, probably waiting to be marked.

“Should we call the police?” asked Helen.

“I don’t know,” said Maggie. “We’d feel like awful fools if she’s sitting in the physics lab right now.”

But as the two women looked hesitantly for the telephone, Sergeant Dubinsky of Homicide was carefully removing leaves and brush from the cold and stiffened remains of the girl they were looking for. The unhappy couple who had stumbled across her stood uneasily nearby, their story told, with no reason to stay, but loathe to depart.

Chapter 5

Eleanor Scott slipped her Rabbit into the last free parking space in front of Kingsmede Hall and looked uncertainly around her. Something very peculiar was going on. Two police cruisers were pulled up in front of the main entrance, giving the school a decidedly ominous air. She walked around them and went slowly into the building, where she cautiously peered into the room marked “Principal.” It contained only the principal’s secretary, deep in conversation on the telephone. “Is she available?” Eleanor mouthed soundlessly.

Annabel looked up and shook her head. She covered the mouthpiece long enough to hiss: “If you want to wait, she might be able to see you—but you know how things are right now. It’s pretty bad.”

“I’ll be in the staff room,” she muttered, completely baffled, “if no one minds.” Her explanation was lost in a renewed spate of earnest conversation on the phone. She slithered into the teachers’ lounge, hoping to find a familiar face. The head of the science department waved to her from a corner where she was sitting, clutching a mug of tea and a black and green cookie. Eleanor breathed a sigh of relief as she headed for the large comfortable chair beside her.

“What in hell is going on, Cassandra?” whispered Eleanor as she sat down. “What are all those police cars doing here?”

“Omigod—you don’t know. It’s the most exciting thing that’s happened since someone rang the fire alarm during the Christmas dance ten years ago. Actually, I shouldn’t be talking about it so flippantly. It really is awful. One of our teachers—poor kid—was attacked by that guy down in the ravine.”

“Attacked? Is she all right?”

“Hardly. He killed her.” Cassandra shrugged as she delivered the line. “I’m sorry. This is awful, but it’s been a terrible day. And she was just a supply—that’s not a nice way to put it, is it?—I mean, no one really knew her very well. And she was kind of a nuisance when she was here, too. Very difficult to get along with and not very reliable. Still, that’s no reason for someone to get killed.” Cassandra looked a little more somber as she attacked another mint Oreo. “I really don’t like this combination of flavours,” she said. “But between teaching and all this hysteria I am absolutely starved.”

“Was this the person who was filling in for Vicky?”

“Hmmm,” said Cassandra, with her mouth full. “So she was my baby, so to speak. Roz is in there talking to a terribly cute policeman. I’m just sitting here waiting for my turn. I wonder why it is that the prospect of talking to the cops always makes you feel guilty? And as soon as I finish talking to him I have to interview her replacement. That’s one nice thing—Roz was going to fire Jane today if this new one was available, and now she doesn’t have to bother.”

“You do have a gruesome turn of mind, Cassandra,” said Eleanor, shivering. The staff-room door opened to interrupt her rebuke, however, and Annabel’s beckoning finger drew them out of their chairs.

“There we go,” said Cassandra cheerfully. “My turn to be grilled.” She followed Eleanor toward the door.

She gave it a healthy tug, caught sight of the principal, and started to make her excuses. “Look, Roz, I’ll come back some other—” She stopped dead. Standing directly in front of her as the door opened wider was a tall, slightly mournful-looking man who had obviously been in mid-sentence with Roz Johnson. There was a moment of grim silence as they stared at each other, first self-conscious, then embarrassed. Eleanor recovered first, however, and automatically extended her hand to him. “John, how pleasant to . . . I mean, this is a surprise. I didn’t expect to see you here.” He just as automatically took her hand and shook it. Damn! That was exactly what she had done the first time she had met him, just as if he were a potential client with a large house he wanted to sell. She dropped his hand like a hot potato.

“What are you doing here?” he asked brusquely. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to put it that way.” He took her by the elbow and steered her away from Cassandra and Roz, who were looking on with considerable interest. “Look, I have to talk to the head of the science department and then get some photos of the dead woman. But then I’d like to talk to you. I mean, alone somewhere. Not about this. For God’s sake, Eleanor, you know what I mean. Say something!” His voice was low, but tense with exasperation.

“I’ll be in the parking lot after I talk to Roz. Same old Rabbit, over in the corner there. Don’t be too long.” She smiled uncertainly and walked back to the other two.

Twenty minutes later, and not much wiser, John Sanders walked out of the spare, utilitarian vice-principal’s office which had been turned over to him for interviews. He bumped into Dubinsky, who was coming in search of him out of the small seminar room where he had been talking to a motley assortment of hastily assembled staff members. “Braston called while you were locked up in there,” he said, nodding across the hall. “She has the preliminary findings.”

“Come back in here, then, and let’s hear them,” said Sanders. “Anything interesting?”

“Well, maybe,” said Dubinsky, opening his notebook and flipping back a couple of pages. “See what you think. The cause of death was cerebral hemorrhage, probably occasioned by one or more heavy blows on the temple with a broad, flat instrument.”

“A rock?”

“Not necessarily, apparently, although it could have been a broad, flat rock. She had been dead about ten to sixteen hours before she got to the morgue, which places her time of death at between 4:00 p.m. and 10:00 p.m. yesterday. Which fits in with her having been teaching until 3:30, at least.” Sanders opened his mouth to comment but stopped himself as Dubinsky carried on. “There were traces of recent intercourse (blood type O positive), bruising on right knee, and what boils down to nasty scrapes on the left knee and left hip, containing a great deal of imbedded gravel, like the stuff found on the path close to where the body was found. Also on both elbows and forearms—scrapes, that is, and gravel. No bruising anywhere else.”

“None?” said Sanders. “Thighs, belly, neck?”

“Nope. She was healthy, well-muscled, in good condition. Nothing remarkable about her except that she was ten to twelve weeks pregnant.”

“Pregnant? Any knife marks anywhere on the body that we didn’t notice?”

“None. Braston pointed out that she could well have simply stumbled and fallen, except that she obviously landed on her left side, and it was the right side of her face that was injured. And that when people in good shape fall face forward and to the side, and land on their arms, they don’t usually bash themselves in the head fatally. In her opinion. But she isn’t entirely ruling out accidental death.”

“That’s interesting,” said Sanders, scribbling down bits and pieces from the account onto the paper in front of him. “It doesn’t really sound much like the others, does it? Of course, the Parsons woman didn’t fit the pattern precisely either. Maybe he was interrupted again. Did Melissa think she had been raped?”

“She didn’t have any opinion on the matter. She got a bit ratty about it when I tried to push her. Intercourse she is willing to testify to, which might or might not be forcible rape.”

“Maybe she wasn’t. If he did rape her, he’s leaving more and more clothes on them. This one seemed to be mussed up but was probably still wearing everything she came out in.”

“Yeah,” said Dubinsky, “but look at what she was wearing. He didn’t have to take much off, did he? She’s practically inviting him, dressed like that.”

“Have you checked whether the gravel on the body comes from that section of the footpath?” Sanders suddenly looked at his watch. It was getting late, and there was a limit to the amount of time that Eleanor would be willing to wait. Dubinsky shook his head. “Then get on to that, and I’ll go over what we have from here, and talk to that building superintendent. No need for you to hang around any longer.”

“Sure,” said Dubinsky, picking up his raincoat and heading for the door. “Have fun with the super.”

Sanders scooped up the papers lying on the desk and strode quickly out toward the main door. As he passed the principal’s office, Annabel popped out with two glossy eight-by-ten black and white prints. “These were taken for the yearbook, and they’re the only pictures we have with her in them, but Miss Johnson said that you’re welcome to them. We really don’t need them back.”

He took the prints with a vague smile and headed rapidly out to the parking lot. Eleanor was sitting in her car, flipping aimlessly through a copy of Vogue when he opened the door and slid in beside her. She jumped. “Oof! You scared me. I wasn’t expecting you to show up so soon. I must be getting a bit edgy.” She smiled tentatively at him. “You’re looking pretty good, John.” She paused a minute. “Well, actually, you don’t, now that I look at you. Ghastly is more like it. Have you been sick?”

“No, I’m fine,” he said abruptly. “Look, I can’t talk to you in a school parking lot. The last time I tried that I must have been sixteen. Let’s get out of here.”

“Sure.” Eleanor extracted her keys from her purse and started the car. “Where do you want to go?”

The answer to that one leapt into his mind with ferocious speed. He knew exactly where he wanted to go, and also knew that it would be impossible. They were so close to Eleanor’s huge, uncluttered apartment, with its low, sloping ceiling and its glass doors that led out onto a deck that overlooked garden and ravine. But that would not be a good idea right now. “Let’s get a drink somewhere quiet. Some place close, since I have to interview an apartment super over on MacNiece.”

“Why don’t you see him first, then, since it’s just around the corner from my place? Then we can walk over to Yonge and Bloor. Would you like a ride to MacNiece? It’s on my way. What did you do with your car?” She had looked around for an understated Toronto unmarked police car and had seen only the usual varied collection of teachers’ and shinier parents’ cars.

“I came with Dubinsky and sent him away again with it. Subconsciously I must have assumed that you would offer me a ride.” He grinned and put the pictures in his hand down on his knee as he twisted to do up the seat belt.

“What are these?” asked Eleanor, picking them up. “Not pictures of the girl who was killed, are they?” She looked more closely at the one on top. “You know, I think I’ve met one in this group—in a funny kind of way. She lifts weights over at the health club I’ve joined. Snarky as hell. That one, with the longish hair.” Eleanor pointed to the picture of Jane Conway standing with the rest of the science department in a huddle on the front steps.

“That one?” said Sanders. “Are you sure?” He took the pictures and pulled the second shot out to show her. “Do you recognize her in this group?”

“Sure. That one—same longish hair, same face, but you can see the snarky expression even better.” She paused a second. “I guess she’s the one, isn’t she?”

He brushed aside the question. “She lifted weights? Recently? When did you see her there last? And what in hell were you doing in a health club where women lift weights?”

Eleanor put the car in gear and quietly left the parking lot. “Which question do you want me to answer first? Anyway, it had to be recently, because I just started two weeks ago, and that was when I saw her. I asked her a simple question, and she bit my head off. I was terribly embarrassed. And I was there because I’ve taken up health and fitness—for self-protection and the general fun of it.” By this time the Rabbit had accomplished the very brief journey over to MacNiece Avenue. “Which house do you want?”

“Number thirty-seven. It’s the apartment building,” he said. “Right over there.”

“If you give me a call—upstairs, my phone—I’ll meet you in front of the house. Do you want the number?”

“I have it,” he said, a little too emphatically, as he clambered out of the car. “And I won’t be long, unless she knows a great deal more than I think she does.”

“I take it that the lady wasn’t very well informed,” Eleanor said lightly after the waitress had put their beers down and left.

“Not very well at all,” said Sanders. “Lots of insinuations about the general level of morals among her younger female tenants, and absolutely no information about Conway at all. It seems to take an explosion to pry her away from her TV set. She probably doesn’t even recognize half the tenants.” He opened his mouth to carry on in the same vein, then stopped abruptly. “I’ve missed you, you know. Painfully. It seems like a very long time since I’ve seen you.”

“It has been,” said Eleanor. “Since last summer, I believe.” She looked at him steadily, then dropped her eyes back down to her glass. “I’m really not as hard to find as you are. I did consider dialing 911 to see what would happen, but I was afraid that someone else might take the call.”

Her attempt at humour had the paradoxical effect of tightening the already tense atmosphere. Sanders stared into his glass. “Someone else would have.” He tried to smile in turn. “It’s not a very efficient way to reach me. I’ve left Marie, you know.”

“Oh,” said Eleanor. “No, I didn’t know. When?”

“Last weekend, actually. And I don’t see why you would know. No one does, I suppose, but Dubinsky and the switchboard, who have my new telephone number. It’s funny, though. The first thing that happens is that I run into you again. You don’t know how many times I’ve almost called you, but didn’t.”