"I see," she breathed. "I see. So that's it!"

"I don't call up people just to pass the time of day, not people like you. You could have figured that out, if you'd got off your high horse for a moment. I was trying to do you a favor. You threatened me with cops. You didn't even do it yourself; you had your maid do it. That wasn't smart. That wasn't smart at all."

It was a funny interview. It's hard for a man to be menacing with his pants hanging wet and baggy down his legs, but it's equally hard for a woman to be regal with her dress dripping water into her shoes. We were on even terms, except that she didn't know what I was after, and I did. At least I hoped I did.

I went on, "That little mistake cost you a cocktail outfit and a trip to the beauty parlor, lady. Well, you can afford it. But the next time you get on that arrogant kick, it could cost you something you can't afford to lose, no matter how rich and pretty you are."

Her eyes widened. "My God! That's what it's all about! I hurt his damn little feelings!"

"Yeah," I said. "You hurt my feelings, Mrs. Rosten." I took out the wad of bills I'd collected from her husband and Teddy and slapped it against my hand. "Right here, you hurt my feelings. In the money department."

She lost some of her confidence. "I-I don't understand."

"Have you any idea where I got all this money, five grand?" She looked at me questioningly. "Hell, where are your brains, lady? What do you think we're doing here? This is a down payment. I get the rest when I kill you."

There was a little silence. She was really shocked; this explanation hadn't occurred to her.

"Kill me? But who-"

"Who hired me?" I laughed. "I'm not likely to tell you that. I've got principles; besides, it would be bad for my reputation if certain people heard I'd given a client's name away. But I'm a businessman, Mrs. Rosten. I said to myself, somebody's willing to pay to have this dame killed, okay. But maybe she'll up the ante, Petroni. Maybe she's willing to pay more not to be killed. So I called you, to give you a chance for your life, and you gave me cops. Through the maid, yet! You're damn lucky to be alive, that's all I can say!"

She drew a long breath. "I-all right, what's your proposition?"

I said, "Go home and wring yourself out. I don't like talking to dames who look like they'd been drowned a week. Then get on the phone and call me at the Calvert Hotel, Room 311. I'll be waiting. For a while. Don't make me wait too long, Mrs. Rosten. And I hope I don't have to tell you to keep your trap shut or the deal's off." I looked at her bleakly. "You'll ask me to your home for a sociable drink, in private. And you'll say please."

She said quickly, "If you think for one moment that even to save my life I'd-" She stopped.

I grinned in what I hoped was a sinister fashion. "Did you ever see a floater, Mrs. Rosten?"

"A floater?"

"You were well on the way to being one tonight," I said. "A floater's a stiff that's been fished Out of the drink. They generally come up after a while, no matter how they're weighted. They build up gas or something and swell up and break loose and come to the top, what the fishes and crabs have left of them. Then the doc does the autopsy with a gas mask on, and the cops take strips of skin off the fingers and try to restore the prints because nobody's going to recognize the bloated thing on the table except maybe from its jewelry or the f ~w stinking rags wrapped around it." I looked her up and down, as if measuring her for the part. "You call me. Ask me over. Nicely, remember. No maids with any more crummy messages. No maids at all. No servants. No husbands. And don't think it over too damn long. If you do, lady, you're dead."

I turned and walked away, past the stranded Cadillac. She was no hothouse flower; she'd get it out in time, but it would take some bare-handed digging and several trips into the thorn-and-honyesuckle jungle for brush to put under the rear wheels. By the time she got through, I figured, her appearance and disposition would really be something to witness.

Well, there would be witnesses when she got home, if Teddy and Rosten had followed instructions.

FIFTEEN

I PICKED UP my car in the woods nearby, where I'd hidden it earlier, waiting for Rosten. She was already trying to get the Cadillac loose; I could hear her spinning the wheels as I drove away. Back in my hotel room, I shed my wet clothes in the middle of the rug, and got into the flashy pair of silk pajamas that went with my hoodlum act.

There was no point in sitting by the phone like a teenaged maiden waiting for a date. If it rang, I'd hear it. I got into bed and fell asleep at once, and dreamed of a dark goddess rising from the sea with a shining spear. I knew the spear was meant for me, and I watched her approach while the great cat stalked majestically by her side, ready to spring if I should move a muscle… The phone rang. I sat up, made a face at my subconscious, and looked at my watch. I'd slept an hour and a half, if you could call it sleeping.

The phone rang again. I picked it up and said, "Yeah?"

"Petroni?" It wasn't at all the voice I'd expected to hear. "Jim?"

"Yeah," I said.

"Jim, this is Teddy. Teddy Michaelis."

"Yeah," I said.

"I-I'm down in the lobby. Can I come up?"

"You can try," I said. "If you make it, the door will be unlocked. Turn the knob and you might even be able to fight your way into the room. I'll be plugging for you all the way."

I hung up, rose, fixed the lock, and heaved my discarded clothes into the bathroom. I combed my hair and put on slippers and a dressing gown that a Chicago tart might have found irresistible if she were drunk and not wearing her contact lenses. Mac had really gone all out to costume me for the part. It shouldn't have bothered me. After all, I'd worn a Nazi uniform a couple of times in the line of duty, and sung the Horst Wessel in guttural German, and said nasty things about Jews. Being a Grade B gangster was a breeze.

I heard the rapping of high heels outside and turned to face the door. Teddy slipped into the room, eased the door closed, and leaned against it, breathless, clutching a small blue satin purse to her bosom. I noticed the purse first. It seemed to contain something considerably bulkier than it had been designed for.

"Well," I said, "what's this all about?" Then I looked at her more sharply. "What the hell happened to you?"

It was a bad night for fashion. The long white gloves were gone, and the shiny blue dress had got a drink spilled down the front. The extravagant bubble skirt was crushed as if she'd been sleeping in it, making love in it, or at least lying down in it very carelessly, perhaps crying. Her small face seemed to bear out the last hypothesis. It had the unbecoming blotched look that follows an emotional crisis accompanied by tears.

"What's the pitch, bitch?" I demanded. "Who broke your doll?"

She looked at me for a moment, and made a sniffing noise. "Here," she said, shoving the purse at me. "Here, take it!"

I glanced at her, took the purse, and opened it cautiously. It was stuffed full of money.

"Go on!" she gasped. "T-take it. It's all there, the rest of your d-dirty five thousand dollars. Take it and go. Go away. Go far, far away. I-I'd tell you to go to hell, but I wouldn't wish you on anybody, not even the d-devil himself!"

She sniffed again, loudly. The phone rang. I picked it up. A deeper voice than the kid's, but still female and familiar, started to speak in my ear.

I said, "I'm busy. Call back in half an hour."

"But-"

"You heard me. Call back."

"Well, really! I must say!"

I hung up on my dark goddess with her well-reallys and her I-must-says. It would do the haughty Mrs. Rosten good, from Lash Petroni's viewpoint, and maybe even from Matt Helm's, to stew a little longer. The fact that she'd called at all meant that I'd won something, although I still wasn't quite sure what. I turned back to the kid, took a clean handkerchief from my pocket and placed it in her hand.