Chapter 11

It was after four when Kintyre entered Margery’s apartment. She had neglected its housekeeping, and the air was acrid with smoke.

Slacks and sweater emphasized her figure. He had almost forgotten how good it was. When she sprang from the couch and into his arms he found himself kissing her without really having intended to.

“Oh, God, Bob,” she whispered. “You came. Hold me close, kiss me again, I need it.”

Her nails dug into his flesh, painfully, and her lips were tense against his. And yet it was but little a sexual passion, he realized; she was altogether forlorn.

“Rough?” he asked. He freed one arm and rumpled the short coppery hair.

“Reporters,” she said. “Waiting at the door when I came home today. Like flies around a corpse.”

The phone rang. She left it alone; the bell had been turned down. “Most likely someone else panting to pry,” she said.

“How—oh, yes,” said Kintyre. “The burglary would put them on to it. Or just asking around. You didn’t really think your connection with Bruce would escape discovery forever?”

“It’ll be smeared over every newsstand in the area. Big black mouth-licking headlines.” She raised reddened eyes. “I was at the service this morning. It was all so calm and—I don’t know—so right. Even for him.” She pulled herself away, picked up a handkerchief and blew her nose. “Excuse me. I can’t help it. That was the only sane part of the day. His parents were there, of course, that decent old couple. I didn’t have the nerve to talk to them. And now they’ll see! They’ll know that every moron in town knows their son they were so proud of was, was, with me!”

She fell into a chair, coughing. The phone stopped its petulance.

Kintyre said: “After all, pony, it’s no crime in this state. Nor is it a very black sin in the Church. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the Lombardis got in touch with you in the friendliest way. If you loved Bruce too—”

“Did I?” She didn’t look at him. “I liked him, yes, but love? Not in the usual sense of the word.”

“Which is a pretty neurotic sense anyway, if you’re past adolescence,” said Kintyre in his driest voice.

She had regained her balance. She reached for a compact and began repairing her makeup. “Bob,” she said, “for an intelligent man you can make some of the stupidest remarks on record.”

Kintyre smiled. “At least I riled you out of a tailspin.” He wandered across the room to the coffee table. An empty cup and an ashtray overflowing with lipsticked butts rested by the long cardboard boxes where Bruce had kept his letters. They were open, and one of the sheets lay out.

Margery came over and took his arm. “I was going through it,” she said, suddenly anxious for the everyday. “Mostly it was business correspondence, official papers, that sort of thing. But there’s one file in Italian. Maybe you can tell me what it means.” The phone buzzed. “Shut up, God damn it!”

Kintyre sat down, taking out a cigarette for himself. He did not quite like reading a dead man’s mail. But doubtless it had to be done. “I’ll make some more coffee,” said Margery. She went out to the kitchen; his eyes shifted in her direction and he felt the animal pleasure of watching her walk. It was possible—once more, after a decent interval?

Then he realized that the lilt within him was because he would be seeing Corinna.

He bent his attention to the file. Sloppy in many other respects, Bruce had been meticulous here. If it was likely to have any future value at all, he typed his own letter, making a carbon for himself, and kept the reply, folded. The section indexed Luigi Lombardi held at least a year’s worth of mail.

Luigi. Oh, yes, the uncle in the secret service, amateur scholar—hoy, there! L. L., of course. Kintyre felt chagrined. So much for that mystery. Bruce had only been noting those sections where he would be making an acknowledgment of his uncle’s help.

Kintyre began leafing through. No point in reading every word about Aunt Sofia’s arthritis or Cousin Giovanni’s marriage. But there were pages, where Luigi described exactly what he had looked into for Bruce, that had not yet been transcribed. Those should be preserved, they were essential to the completion of the thesis.