Free Girl Watcher's Funeral by Hugh Pentecost Page A

shook my head. “I—I left her at the elevator on your floor,” I said. “She said—she said she was a big girl. I—”
    â€œI don’t think she ever came here,” Chambrun said. “There’s no ledge outside the windows on this floor. You can’t stand outside the windows and close them.”
    â€œShe never in God’s world jumped!” I said.
    â€œI’m inclined to agree. I don’t think anything at all happened in this room. Wherever she went out, it wasn’t here.”
    I turned to Jerry. “You—you had no problem identifying her?” I wanted him to tell me she hadn’t been totally destroyed, I think.
    â€œRoom key in her handbag,” Jerry said.
    â€œThen can you be absolutely sure—?”
    â€œPull yourself together, Mark,” Chambrun said. “It was Miss Lewis.”
    â€œShe was going back to the party,” I said.
    Chambrun nodded and turned to Joe Cameron. “You wait here, Joe, for the homicide people,” he said. “You two come with me.” He headed briskly for the corridor with Jerry and me at his heels.
    Nobody answered our doorbell ring at 19A. Chambrun tried the door and found it on the latch. He opened it and we were blasted by sound. The drummer and guitar player were ear-splitting. Half a dozen people were dancing the frug or what have you in the center, surrounded by a score of others who were stomping and clapping to the rhythm. One of the dancers was Dodo Faraday, in her snowflake decorated brocade. She seemed to have come very much alive. Zach Chambers, the beaded camp agent, was her partner. I saw Max Lazar by the fireplace. I don’t think he’d moved since I’d first come to the party. I wondered if he took his elbows off the mantel if he wouldn’t fall flat on his face. Standing in the center of a stretcher table against the far wall was Morrie Stein, snapping pictures of the dancers. He must have used eight miles of film since I’d seen him last. The red-haired girl with the stay-put lipstick was bearing down on Chambrun. I had an idea she might be in for a surprise.
    And then Monica Strong was with us, intercepting the redhead with an impatient gesture.
    â€œGood evening, Mr. Chambrun,” she said in her low, throaty voice. “I’m afraid you’ll never catch up with this mob. Can I start you trying? Martini? Scotch?”
    â€œThis isn’t a social call, Miss Strong,” Chambrun said. His narrowed black eyes darted around the room. “Do you know where I can find Timothy Gallivan?”
    â€œBy this time I should imagine in his room—with company,” she said dryly.
    â€œWould you have someone get him for me?”
    She nodded and turned to the red-haired tootsie. “Will you tell Tim he’s wanted? Urgent, I imagine.”
    The redhead giggled. “He won’t like my barging in.”
    â€œSo barge, darling,” Monica said. She turned back to Chambrun. “I understood these rooms were soundproofed.”
    â€œThey are.”
    â€œThen you’re not here to complain about the noise?”
    â€œI’m not,” Chambrun said. “Have you seen Rosemary Lewis anywhere about?”
    â€œRosey?” Not a thing about the lovely face suggested any concern. “The last I remember was seeing her leave the party with Mr. Haskell,” she said.
    â€œSince then?”
    â€œI don’t recall. The traffic’s pretty heavy here. She could have come back and gone again. I didn’t notice. She doesn’t seem to be here now. Unless—”
    â€œUnless what, Miss Strong?”
    â€œShe might be with Tim,” she said.
    â€œIt’s like that?”
    â€œIt’s like anyone might be with Tim,” she said dryly.
    â€œShe’s not with Gallivan,” Chambrun said. “She’s dead.”
    The gray-green eyes widened. “I don’t think I