Free A Kiss Before Dying by Ira Levin Page A

lawns. ‘Just think,’ she marvelled, ‘When we come back this afternoon, we’ll be married.’
    The tramcar clattered up and groaned to a halt. They got on.
    They sat towards the back of the car, saying little, each enfolded in thoughts. The casual observer would have been uncertain as to whether or not they travelled together.
       
    The lower eight floors of the Blue River Municipal Building were given over to the offices of the city and of Rockwell County, of which Blue River was the county seat. The remaining six floors were rented to private tenants, most of whom were lawyers, doctors, and dentists. The building itself was a mixture of modern and classical architecture, a compromise between the functional trend of the thirties and resolute Iowa conservatism. Professors teaching the introductory architecture courses at Stoddard’s College of Fine Arts referred to it as an architectural abortion, causing freshmen to laugh self-consciously.
    Viewed from above, the building was a hollow square, an airshaft plunging down through the core of it. From the side, setbacks at the eighth and twelfth storeys gave it the appearance of three blocks of decreasing size piled one atop the other. Its lines were graceless and stark, its window lintels were traced with factitious Grecian designs, and its three bronze and glass revolving doors were squeezed between giant pillars whose capitals were carved into stylized ears of corn. It was a monstrosity, but on alighting from the tramcar Dorothy turned, paused, and gazed up at it as though it were the cathedral at Chartres.
       
    It was twelve-thirty when they crossed the street, mounted the steps, and pushed through the central revolving door. The marble-floored lobby was filled with people going to and from lunch, people hurrying to appointments, people standing and waiting. The sound of voices and the surf of shoes on marble hung susurrant under the vaulted ceiling.
    He dropped a pace behind Dorothy, letting her lead the way to the directory board at the side of the lobby. ‘Would it be under R for Rockwell County or M for Marriage?’ she asked, her eyes intent on the board as he came up beside her. He looked at the board as though oblivious of her presence. ‘There it is,’ she said triumphantly. ‘Marriage Licence Bureau – six-oh-four.’ He turned towards the elevators, which were opposite the revolving doors. Dorothy hurried along beside him. She reached for his hand but the valise was in it. He apparently did not notice her gesture, for he made no move to change hands.
    One of the four elevators stood open, half filled with waiting passengers. As they approached it, he stepped back a bit, allowing Dorothy to enter first. Then an elderly woman came up and he waited until she too had gone in before entering. The woman smiled at him, pleased by his air of gallantry, doubly unexpected from a young man in a busy office building. She seemed a bit disappointed when he failed to remove his hat. Dorothy smiled at him also, over the head of the woman, who had somehow got between them. He returned the smile with an almost invisible curving of his lips.
    They left the car at the sixth floor, along with two men with briefcases who turned to the right and walked briskly down the corridor. ‘Hey, wait for me!’ Dorothy protested in an amused whisper as the elevator door clanged shut behind her. She had been the last to leave the car, and he the first. He had turned to the left and walked some fifteen feet, for all the world as though he were alone. He turned, appearing flustered, as she caught up with him and gaily took his arm. Over her head he watched the men with the briefcases reach the other end of the corridor, turn to the right, and vanish down the side of the square. ‘Where you running?’ Dorothy teased.
    ‘Sorry,’ he smiled. ‘Nervous bridegroom.’ They walked along arm in arm, following the left turn the corridor made. Dorothy recited the numbers painted on the