Nora leaned over her sandwich at me. Her eyes were very shiny and almost black. “Do you suppose she got it from her stepfather?”
“I do,” I said, but I said it too earnestly.
Nora said: “You’re a Greek louse. But maybe she did; you don’t know. And you don’t believe her story.”
“Listen, darling, tomorrow I’ll buy you a whole lot of detective stories, but don’t worry your pretty little head over mysteries tonight. All she was trying to tell you was that she was afraid Jorgensen was waiting to try to make her when she got home and she was afraid she was drunk enough to give in.”
“But her mother!”
“This family’s a family. You can–”
Dorothy Wynant, standing unsteadily in the doorway in a nightgown much too long for her, blinked at the light and said: “Please, can I come in for a little while? I’m afraid in there alone.”
“Sure.”
She came over and curled up beside me on the sofa while Nora went to get something to put around her.
6
The three of us were at breakfast early that afternoon when the Jorgensens arrived. Nora answered the telephone and came away from it trying to pretend she was not tickled. “It’s your mother,” she told Dorothy. “She’s downstairs. I told her to come up.”
Dorothy said: “Damn it. I wish I hadn’t phoned her.”
I said: “We might just as well be living in the lobby.”
Nora said: “He doesn’t mean that.” She patted Dorothy’s shoulder.
The doorbell rang. I went to the door.
Eight years had done no damage to Mimi’s looks. She was a little riper, showier, that was all. She was larger than her daughter, and her blandness was more vivid. She laughed and held her hands out to me. “Merry Christmas. It’s awfully good to see you after all these years. This is my husband. Mr. Charles. Chris.”
I said, “I’m glad to see you, Mimi,” and shook hands with Jorgensen. He was probably five years younger than his wife, a tall thin erect dark man, carefully dressed and sleek, with smooth hair and a waxed mustache.
He bowed from the waist. “How do you do, Mr. Charles?” His accent was heavy, Teutonic, his hand was lean and muscular.
We went inside.
Mimi, when the introductions were over, apologized to Nora for popping in on us. “But I did want to see your husband again, and then I know the only way to get this brat of mine anywhere on time is to carry her off bodily.” She turned her smile on Dorothy. “Better get dressed, honey.”
Honey grumbled through a mouthful of toast that she didn’t see why she had to waste an afternoon at Aunt Alice’s even if it was Christmas. “I bet Gilbert’s not going.”
Mimi said Asta was a lovely dog and asked me if I had any idea where that ex-husband of hers might be.
“No.”
She went on playing with the dog. “He’s crazy, absolutely crazy, to disappear at a time like this. No wonder the police at first thought he had something to do with it.”
“What do they think now?” I asked.
She looked up at me. “Haven’t you seen the papers?”
“No.”
“It’s a man named Morelli–a gangster. He killed her. He was her lover.”
“They caught him?”
“Not vet, but he did it. I wish I could find Clyde. Macaulay won’t help me at all. He says he doesn’t know where he is, but that’s ridiculous. He has powers of attorney from him and everything and I know very well he’s in touch with Clyde. Do you think Macaulay’s trustworthy?”
“He’s Wynant’s lawyer,” I said. “There’s no reason why you should trust him.”
“Just what I thought.” She moved over a little on the sofa. “Sit down. I’ve got millions of things to ask you.”
“How about a drink first?”
“Anything but egg-flog,” she said. “It makes me bilious.”
When I came out of the pantry, Nora and Jorgensen were trying their French on each other, Dorothy was still pretending to eat, and Mimi was playing with the dog again. I distributed the drinks and sat down beside Mimi.
She said: “Your wife’s lovely.”