Free Davidian Report by Dorothy B. Hughes Page B

something, aren’t you?”
    Steve shook his head. “Just a job. Run of the mill.”
    “It’s tied up with Haig Armour.”
    “Believe me, kid, I never saw him before last night. Purely accidental.”
    “He said you’d gone to meet a girl.”
    “Wise guy.” Stripped, he lay on the bed, finishing his nightcap cigarette.
    “She got more on the ball than Feather?”
    “Wouldn’t take much for that.”
    “Feather’s a funny girl. She acts scared.” Rube cut the lamp but the neon glow from the cocktail bar across the street gave low-key visibility. He’d forgotten to pull the lank curtains across the windows. It was just as well, maybe the sun would wake them. If there was sun in the morning.
    “Scared of men. Except for Uncle Haig. The protective type.” Steve wondered out loud, “What did you do after I left?”
    “We danced. But she had to get home early. She had a lesson or something in the morning, she said.”
    “Who took her home?”
    “Well, I did. In Haig’s car.”
    “And Haig’s chauffeur.” Steve added, “Who subsequently delivered you here.”
    “Right. He doesn’t act much like a chauffeur.” Rube creaked to an elbow. “Haig’s kind of a curious guy.”
    “About what?”
    “You and me. Shacking up here. He kept trying to make out we’d known each other in Berlin. And this girl you two had been talking about.”
    Steve asked it. “You didn’t run into this Janni Zerbec over there?”
    “If I did, she didn’t tell me her right name. The ones I met were all named Greta.”
    Steve wasn’t going to be a curious guy. Any more than Rube was, not one word about the gun. He’d just go on wondering where Reuben fit or if he fit. At least he had the kid at hand, or vice versa as the case might be.
    The room wasn’t much brighter when he woke than when he’d slept. Another fog-bound morning. Winter in California. When he emerged from the shower, Reuben was stirring. “What time?”
    Steve pushed his last clean shirt into his belt. “Almost eleven. I’ve got some business to attend to. Think you can keep out of trouble?”
    Rube grinned. “I kind of thought I’d go down to the broadcasting studios today. Maybe I’ll win us a washing machine.”
    Steve knotted his tie. “If you don’t we better find us a laundry.” He slipped into his jacket, took another look at the sky and grabbed his hat and coat. “See you later.” He rode downstairs, picked up the morning papers at the corner newsstand, and made for the nearest lunch room. While he waited for his ham and eggs, he drank coffee and searched for mention of Albion. There wasn’t any. Albie had moved out of the news as unassumingly as out of existence. No one was interested in him now but the F.B.I.
    Steve left the papers with his tip and continued up the boulevard. The sun was beginning to clear away the overcast, pushing small tatters of blue through the dirty gray. He didn’t need his topcoat after all. The giant green tin Christmas trees were picking up a glint, the shiny silver ornaments swinging above were turning to silver.
    He was on Mr. Oriole’s porch exactly at noon, pushing the bell while the hands on his watch met at the top of the dial. Mr. Oriole didn’t open the door; it might have been his wife, might have been his mother. She was heavy-hipped with worn hands and shoulders. Her tongue said brokenly, “Come in.” She pointed to the parlor. “In here.”
    No one was in the parlor. Steve didn’t sit down. He looked out the side window at a straggle of pale little flowers against the neighboring fence.
    Mr. Oriole had slept in the same clothes. He came in complaining feebly, “You’re right on time.” A thin sheaf of papers drooped from his pudgy fingers.
    “I planned it that way.” Steve held out his hand. “You have the information?”
    “I have done the best I could. You did not give me much time.”
    “I don’t have much time.” Steve kept the hand extended. The sharp bell was a rasp across nerve