off him. He repeated the simple outlines of his cover: Italy, minor wounds;
they were letting him out to go back into an essential industry where he’d
do more good than carrying a rifle. He wasn’t sure how long he’d be in New
York. (He was honest about that, he thought to himselE He had no -idea how
long he’d be in town; he wished he did know.) He was glad to see her again.
The dinner was a prelude to bed. They both knew it; neither bothered to
conceal the excitement of reviving the most pleasant of experiences: young
sex that was taken in shadows, beyond the reprimands of elders. Enjoyed
more because it was prohibited, dangerous.
‘Your apartment?’he asked.
‘No, lamb. I share it with my aunt, mum’s younger sister. It’s very chic
these days to share an apartment; very patriotic.’
The reasoning escaped David. ‘Then my place,’ he said firmly.
‘DavidT Leslie squeezed his hand and paused before speaking. ‘Those old
family retainers who run the Montgomery, they know so many in our crowd.
For instance, the Allcotts have a suite there, so do the Dewhursts…. I
have a key to Peggy Webster’s place in the Village. Remember Peggy? You
were at their wedding. Jack Webster? You know Jack. He’s in the navy; she
went out to see him in San Diego. Let’s go to Peggy’s place.’
Spaulding watched the girl closely. He hadn’t forgotten her odd behavior on
the telephone, her lie about the old hotel and his parents. Yet it was
possible that his imagination was overworking – the years in Lisbon made
one cautious. There could be explanations, memory lapses on his part; but
now he was as curious as he was stimulated.
He was very curious. Very stimulated.
‘Peggy’s place,’he said.
If there was anything beyond the sexual objective, it escaped him.
Their coats off, Leshe made drinks in the kitchen while David
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bunched newspapers beneath the fireplace grill and watched the kindling
catch.
Leslie stood in the kitchen doorway looking down at him separating the
logs, creating an airflow. She held their drinks and smiled. ‘In two days
it’s New Year’s Eve. We’ll jump and call this ours. Our New Year’s. The
start of many, I hope.’
‘Of many,’ he replied, standing up and going to her. He took both glasses,
not the one extended. ‘I’ll put them over here.’ He carried them to the
coffee table in front of the small couch that faced the fireplace. He
turned rapidly, politely to watch her eyes. She wasn’t looking at the
glasses. Or his placement of them.
Instead, she approached the fire and removed her blouse. She dropped it on
the floor and turned around, her large breasts accentuated by a tight,
transparent brassiere that had webbed stitching at the tips.
‘Take off your shirt, David.’
He did so and came to her. She winced at his bandages and gently touched
them with her fingers. She pressed herself against him, her pelvis firm
against his thighs, moving laterally, expertly. He reached around her back
and undid the hasps of the brassiere; she hunched slightly as he pulled it
away; then she turned, arching her breasts upward into his flesh. He cupped
her left breast with his right hand; she reached down, stepping partially
away, and undid his trousers.
‘The drinks can wait, David. It’s New Year’s Eve. Ours, anyway.’
Still holding her breast, he put his lips to her eyes, her ears. She felt
him and moaned.
‘Here, David,’ she said. ‘Right here on the floor.’ She sank to her knees,
her skirt pulled up to her thighs, the tops of her stockings visible.
He lay down beside her and they kissed.
‘I remember,’ he whispered with a gentle laugh. ‘The first tirqe; the
cottage by the boathouse. The floor. I remember.’
‘I wondered if you would. I’ve never forgotten.’
It was only one forty-five in the morning when he took her home. They had
made love twice, drunk a great deal of Jack and Peggy Webster’s good
whiskey and spoken of the ‘old days’ mostly. Leslie had no inhibitions
regarding her marriage.
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Richard Hawkwood, ex-husband, was simply not a man who could sustain a
permanent relationship. He was a sexual glutton as long as the sex was
spread around; not much otherwise. He was also a failure – as much as his
family would allow – in the business world. Hawkwood was a man brought up to
enjoy fifty thousand a year with the ability to make, perhaps, six.
The war was created, she felt, for men like Richard. They would excel in
it, as her ex-husband had done. He should ‘go down in flames’ somewhere,
exiting brilliantly rather than returning to the frustrations of civilian
inadequacy. Spaulding thought that was harsh; she claimed she was being
considerate. And they laughed and made love.
Throughout the evening David kept alert, waiting for her to say something,
reveal something, ask something unusual. Anything to clarify – if nothing
else – the reasons behind her earlier lies about finding him. There was
nothing.
He asked her again, claiming incredulity that she would remember his
parents and the Montgomery. She stuck to her infallible memory, adding only
that ‘love makes any search more thorough.’
She was lying again; he knew that. What they had was not love.
She left him in the taxi; she didn’t want him to come up. Her aunt would be
asleep; it was better this way.
They’d meet again tomorrow. At the Websters’. Ten o’clock in the evening;
she had a dinner date she’d get rid of early. And she’d break her
engagement for the real New Year’s Eve. They’d have the whole day to
themselves.
As the doorman let her in and the taxi started up toward Fifth Avenue, he
thought for the first time that Fairfax had him beginning his assignment at
Meridian Aircraft the day after tomorrow. New Year’s Eve. He expected it
would be a half-day.
It was strange. New Year’s Eve. Christmas.
He hadn’t even thought about Christmas. He’d remembered to send his
parents’ gifts to Santiago, but he’d done that before his trip to the north
country. To Basque and Navarre.
Christmas had no meaning. The Santa Clauses ringing their clinking bells on
the New York streets, the decorations in the store windows – none had
meaning for him.
He was sad about that. He had always enjoyed the holidays.
David paid the driver, said hello to the Montgomery night
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clerk and took the elevator to his floor. He got off and approached his
door. Automatically, because his eyes were tired, he flipped his finger
above the Do Not Disturb sign beneath the lock.
Then he felt the wood and looked down, punching his cigarette lighter for
better vision.
The field thread was gone.
Second nature and the instructions from Fairfax to stay alert had caused
him to ‘thread’ his hotel room. Strands of invisible tan and black silk
placed in a half-dozen locations, that if missing or broken meant a
trespasser.
He carried no weapon and he could not know if anyone was stiff inside.
He returned to the elevator and pushed the button. He asked the operator if
he had a passkey; his door wouldn’t open. The man did not; he was taken to
the lobby.
The night clerk obliged, ordering the elevator operator to remain at the
desk while he went to the aid of Mr. Spaulding and his difficult lock.
As the two men walked out of the elevator and down the corridor, Spaulding
heard the distinct sound of a latch being turned, snapped shut quietly but
unmistakably. He rapidly turned his head in both directions, up and down
the corridor, trying to locate the origin of the sound.
Nothing but closed hotel doors.
The desk clerk had no trouble opening the door. He had more difficulty
understanding Mr. Spaulding’s arm around his shoulder ushering him into the
single room with him.
David looked around quickly. The bathroom and closet doors were open as he
had left them. There were no other places of concealment. He released the
desk clerk and tipped him with a five-dollar bill.
‘Thank you very much. I’m embarrassed; I’m afraid I had too much to drink.’
‘Not at all, sir. 77tank you, sir.’ The man’left, pulling the door shut
behind him.
David rapidly began his thread check. In the closet: his jacket bre”t
pocket, leafed out, centered.
No thread.
The bureau: the first and third drawers, inserted.
Both threads out of place. The first inside on top of a handkerchief; the
second, wedged between shirts.
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The bed: laterally placed along the spread in line with* the pattern.
Nowhere. Nothing.
He went to his suitcase, which lay on a luggage rack by the window. He
knelt down and inspected the right lock; the thread had been clamped inside
the metal hasp up under the tiny hinge. If the suitcase was opened, it had
to break.