Free Evil That Men Do by Hugh Pentecost Page A

courtesy of a knock or a bell ring?” she demanded.
    She was wearing a dark-green wool street dress. She’d evidently prepared herself to be whisked away on Hardy’s whim.
    “Watchdog opened the door,” I said. “I didn’t want to discuss protocol with him in case he changed his mind about letting me in. I hope martinis are your dish.”
    She relaxed a little and I saw the dark shadows of exhaustion under her eyes.
    “I’m really very grateful,” she said.
    I put down the tray, poured her a drink, and handed her the glass.
    “Please join me,” she said.
    I poured one for myself.
    “I really couldn’t eat any dinner,” she said, nodding toward the large menu.
    “Camouflage,” I said. “I had to have a reason for coming in.” I offered her a cigarette and she let me light it for her.
    “I know Chambrun’s trying to make things as easy for me as he can,” she said. “You know that I’m a prisoner, though I haven’t been arrested?”
    “Yes. That’s why the drink and the menu. You’re not denied hotel service. But my real reason for being here is that I have a message for you. Gary Craig is in my quarters on the fourth floor. He wants you to know that he’s here and ready to do anything on earth he can to help you.”
    I thought she was going to drop the martini glass. Then she reached out with her free hand to steady herself on the table.
    “Is the story out—in the papers and on radio and television?” she asked.
    “Not yet.”
    “Then how did he know?”
    “He’s been waiting here every day for you to show up,” I said. “Ever since you called him two weeks ago.”
    She stared at me as though I’d said something in Arabic. “I called him?” she asked. It was almost a whisper.
    “The twenty-eighth of February,” I said.
    She turned away from me and took an unsteady step toward a chair. She sat down. I could see her shoulders trembling. If it was an act, it was superb.
    “You don’t remember calling him?” I asked.
    She shook her bright-red head without speaking.
    “You asked him to be here the next day—March first—for breakfast. You told him you were in trouble.”
    “Oh, God!” she said, softly.
    “You honestly don’t remember?”
    She turned, abruptly, her gray-green eyes bright with tears that wouldn’t flow. “Can you remotely imagine what it’s like not to remember, Haskell?”
    It was hard to imagine.
    “What do you want me to tell Craig?” I asked her.
    She drew a deep, shuddering breath. “Does he know that—that I can’t remember the last three weeks?”
    “He knows.”
    “Then tell him that I don’t remember calling him,” she said. “That I don’t remember what the trouble was I said I was in then. That he can’t help me now and that all I want him to do is go away and forget about me.”
    “Unless I’m very much mistaken, he won’t,” I said.
    “He must!”
    “It’s none of my business, but why?” I asked. “He’s your friend—or isn’t he?”
    “He—must—not—involve—himself—in—this!” she said, hammering out each word with a beat of her fist on the arm of the chair. “Tell him, Haskell! Tell him to go!”
    “He won’t,” I said. I took a sip of my martini and waited.
    “What has he told you about me?” she asked.
    “That he intends to marry you,” I said, making it sound casual.
    She looked at me, and despite the lacquer of sophistication—the Marinelli dress, the skillful coiffeur, the eye makeup, the bright-scarlet mouth, the platinum and diamond clip at the V-line of her dress that probably cost more than my annual salary—she was a wistful little child for a moment. Then her face hardened.
    “Tell him for me that he’s an idiot,” she said.
    “He mentioned the need to amputate you from your friends,” I said. “By the way, has anyone told you that they, too, are rallying round?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Table for five in the Blue Lagoon tonight at eleven—in the name of Teague,” I said.
    “But