Free Girl Watcher's Funeral by Hugh Pentecost Page B

understand.”
    â€œShe’s dead,” Chambrun said.
    â€œWe scraped her up off the sidewalk,” Jerry Dodd said in his cold, flat voice.
    A hand went up to Monica’s lips. “Oh, my God!” she whispered.
    â€œThe last we know about her was that she was headed back up here to the party,” Chambrun said. “Half an hour or so later she fell—or something—to the street.”
    â€œHow perfectly ghastly!”
    â€œWe need to know where and how it happened,” Jerry said.
    â€œSurely not here,” Monica said. “You see how crowded it is. There’d be no chance—I mean, with all these kooks!”
    The two-man musical horror was shouting at the top of its lungs. Monica turned toward them as though she intended to stop all the noise.
    â€œLet things go on,” Chambrun said. “I don’t want this news spread until the police get here. There’ll be questions. We can’t have people leaving.”
    â€œWhy? Why did she do it?” Monica asked. “Things were so right for her just now. All the things she’d wanted for herself—her career—were just around the corner.”
    I was looking around for Jan’s sex king. He didn’t seem to be there to watch his wife cavort.
    â€œBoth of them on the same day!” Monica said. “Both so alive, so keen about everything.”
    Chambrun faced her. “Who didn’t like Miss Lewis?” he asked.
    The gray-green eyes narrowed. “Are you saying she didn’t—it wasn’t suicide, Mr. Chambrun?”
    â€œIt could very well not have been,” he said. “I’d swear the thought hadn’t crossed her mind half an hour before it happened. I could be wrong. Some people act out a kind of gaiety till the very last moment.”
    â€œThere’s been a lot of crazy talk here all afternoon about Nikos,” Monica said. “That he was poisoned. I laughed it off. You know how people are. But my God, could they both—is it possible they were both —helped along?”
    â€œIt’s possible, Miss Strong.” He shuddered as the drummer beat out something on his bongos. “Our problem here is to talk to someone who’s stayed reasonably sober. You may be elected by default. How do they stand that noise?”
    â€œEach generation to its own thing,” Monica said. “My mother was frowned on for doing the Charleston.”
    I saw Tim Gallivan emerge from the bedroom. He had on the blue chino slacks and the turtle-neck sweater, but he’d left his brown loafers behind. He was barefoot. He looked a little flushed and annoyed, but when he saw Chambrun, a kind of toothpaste smile moved his Irish face.
    â€œYou changed your mind,” he said. “I’m afraid the evening has gone by the point when there’d be any sense in trying to introduce you to these fun-lovers.”
    â€œIt’s not a social visit,” Chambrun said. “Where can we talk quietly? Your room?”
    Gallivan’s smile turned mischievous. “I regret to say I can’t offer you my personal hospitality at the moment.” He put a hand on Chambrun’s sleeve. “If it’s something important, can’t it wait till morning? I’m neither in the mood nor the right shape for seriousness, Dad. To be honest with you, I’m royally stoned.”
    â€œYou can use my room if it will help,” Monica said.
    â€œOh, goody!” Gallivan said. “I’ve been trying to get into a whole series of rooms belonging to you, Monica, for the last ten years. At last I’m going to make it!”
    â€œIt’s nineteen hundred twenty-one,” Monica said. “Right next to—to Rosey’s.”
    Gallivan’s grin slowly faded. “It is something serious,” he said.
    â€œYou mind walking down the hall in your bare feet?” Chambrun asked.
    Gallivan’s grin re-formed as he looked down at