Free The Longest Second by Bill S. Ballinger Page A

this reasoning, at least to a degree. “Not a mob, not a syndicate exactly,” he said slowly. “But the job looks pretty well organized. It doesn’t look like some guy did it all by himself. The knock-off and the details were handled pretty well.”

15
    “VIC,” Bianca repeated, “I’m frightened. Who was that man who called you?”
    I shrugged. I didn’t know. However, my calmness was returning.
    “Why don’t you sleep upstairs tonight in Rosemary’s room?” she asked. “She’s gone and I’d feel more safe.” With my pad I attempted to allay her fears although I agreed to change my quarters from the basement to the top floor. I had been waiting for an opportunity to inspect Rosemary’s room since the night she had left; however, I had not wanted to be surprised by Bianca, so I had done nothing.
    “I think I’ll go upstairs now and go to bed,” Bianca said. “When everything’s clear, I’ll call you.”
    I nodded, and sitting down at the table began to read the paper. Some fifteen minutes later Bianca called down to me. This was the first time I had been above the street level of the house. A narrow stair ran to the second floor and opened on one side into a very small hall. A second side had a bath; the two remaining walls of the hall, opposite each other, contained doors leading to bedrooms. Bianca’s door was closed.
    Switching on the light in Rosemary’s room, I looked around me. The room was small with two narrow windows overlooking the back of the house. It was attractively furnished with a four-poster bed, a marble-topped antique chiffonier, and several Victorian chairs. A long strip of mirror, with an elaborate gilded frame, stretched from the floor to the ceiling on one side of the room. Everywhere there was evidence of a woman’s former occupancy .. . cosmetic bottles and boxes on the chiffonier, a delicate odor of scent permeating the room, an ivory and silver hairbrush, comb, and hand mirror, a pair of slippers peeping neatly from behind the corner of a chair.
    Undressing quickly, I turned out the light and stretched out on the bed. At the sound of the giving of the springs, Bianca called, “Are you in bed, Vic?” I knocked loudly against the side of the bed with my fist. “Good night,” she said. Deliberately I made myself go to sleep for a while.
    I awakened from my regular nightmare with the dark room and the spot of light. The fine perspiration of fear bathed my body, but this was no different than usual. According to the small bedside clock, it was three in the morning. Cautiously I raised myself from the bed, moving my body very slowly, so the sound of my arising might not be announced by the springs. In my bare feet I crossed the hall, and through the door I could hear Bianca’s deep and regular breathing.
    Returning to Rosemary’s room, I closed the door completely, and turned on the light. Systematically I began to search her room. When I opened the top drawer of her chiffonier, a scent of sandalwood filled my nostrils. For a moment I had a feeling of nostalgia ... a lonesome memory of having smelled it before in some forgotten moment of delight. The fleeting impression disappeared as suddenly as it had come, and I was left alone. According to Nietzsche, blessed are the forgetful: for they get the better even of their blunders.
    One after another, I searched the drawers, finding nothing but stacks of scented lingerie, stockings, and clothing. In the first closet I searched the pockets of her dresses and suits, her coats and jackets; the toes of her shoes ... all standing in a neat, feminine line.
    This took some time as it was necessary to move quietly and carefully to avoid awakening Bianca across the hall. Unsuccessful, sitting on the side of the bed, I permitted my eyes to explore the room. Directly above the bed was an oil painting, an original with a large white frame. Arising, I removed the picture, turning it over to examine its back; there was nothing concealed