He groaned again and sat up, running fingers through his tousled dark hair, squeezing his temples between the heels of his palms. His lips were dry and brownly encrusted. He ran his tongue over them and made a distasteful face. Then he rose, coughing a little, took off his gloves and overcoat, dropped them on the sofa, and went into the bathroom.
When he came out he went to the day-bed and looked down at Fedink. She was sleeping heavily, face down, one blue-sleeved arm crooked above her head. The telephone-bell had stopped ringing. He pulled his tie straight and returned to the living-room.
Three Murad cigarettes were in an open box on the table between two chairs. He picked up one of the cigarettes, muttered, “Nonchalant,” without humor, found a paper of matches, lit the cigarette, and went into the kitchen. He squeezed the juice of four oranges into a tall glass and drank it. He made and drank two cups of coffee.
As he came out of the kitchen Fedink asked in a woefully flat voice: “Where’s Ted?” Her one visible eye was partially open.
Ned Beaumont went over to her. “Who’s Ted?” he asked.
“That fellow I was with.”
“Were you with somebody? How do I know?”
She opened her mouth and made an unpleasant clucking sound shutting it. “What time is it?”
“I don’t know that either. Somewhere around daylight.”
She rubbed her face into the chintz cushion under it and said: “A swell guy I turned out to be, promising to marry him yesterday and then leaving him to take the first tramp I run into home with me.” She opened and shut the hand that was above her head. “Or am I home?”
“You had a key to the place, anyway,” Ned Beaumont told her. “Want some orange-juice and coffee?”
“I don’t want a damned thing except to die. Will you go away, Ned, and not ever come back?”
“It’s going to be hard on me,” he said ill-naturedly, “but I’ll try.”
He put on his overcoat and gloves, took a dark wrinkled cap from one overcoat-pocket, put the cap on, and left the house.
5
Half an hour later Ned Beaumont was knocking on the door of room 734 at his hotel. Presently Jack’s voice, drowsy, can-me through the door: “Who’s that?”
“Beaumont.”
“Oh,” without enthusiasm, “all right.”
Jack opened the door and turned on the lights. He was in green-spotted pajamas. His feet were bare. His eyes were dull, his face flushed, with sleepiness. He yawned, nodded, and went back to bed, where he stretched himself out on his back and stared at the ceiling. Then he asked, with not much interest: “How are you this morning?”
Ned Beaumont had shut the door. He stood between door and bed looking sullenly at the man in the bed. He asked: “What happened after I left?”
“Nothing happened.” Jack yawned again. “Or do you mean what did I do?” He did not wait for a reply. “I went out and took a plant across the street till they came out. Despain and the girl and the guy that slugged you came out. They went to the Buckman, Forty-eighth Street. That’s where Despain’s holing up–apartment 938–name of Barton Dewey. I hung around there till after three and then knocked off. They were all still in there unless they were fooling me.” He jerked his head slightly in the direction of a corner of the room. “Your hat’s on the chair there. I thought I might as well save it for you.”
Ned Beaumont went over to the chair and picked up the hat that did not quite fit him. He stuffed the wrinkled dark cap in his overcoat pocket and put the hat on his head.
Jack said: “There’s some gin on the table if you want a shot.”
Ned Beaumont said: “No, thanks. Have you got a gun?”
Jack stopped staring at the ceiling. He sat up in bed, stretched his arms out wide, yawned for the third time, and asked: “What are you figuring on doing?” His voice held nothing beyond polite curiosity.
“I’m going to see Despain.”
Jack had drawn his knees up, had clasped his hands around them, and was sitting hunched forward a little staring at the foot of the bed. He said slowly: “I don’t think you ought to, not right now.”