“Not this morning, you so-and-so; yesterday morning.”
“Yesterday morning? But that’s not possible. Don’t you remember? I was at home yesterday morning.”
“Of course I remember, and I saw you leave. Maybe you didn’t know that.” He was not being very logical; the other events of the previous morning had convinced him that Hoag knew that they were shadowing him-but he was in no state of mind to be logical.
“But you couldn’t have seen me. Yesterday morning was the only morning, aside from my usual Wednesdays, on which I can be sure where I was. I was at home, in my apartment. I didn’t leave it until nearly one o’clock when I went to my club.”
“Why, that’s a-”
“Wait a minute, Mr. Randall, please! I’m just as confused and upset about this as you are, but you’ve got to listen to me. You broke my routine-remember? And my other personality did not assert itself. After you left I remained my . . . my proper self. That’s why I had had hopes that I was free at last.”
“The hell you did. What makes you think you did?”
“I know my own testimony doesn’t count for much,” Hoag said meekly, “but I wasn’t alone. The cleaning woman arrived just after you left and was here all morning.”
“Damned funny I didn’t see her go up.”
“She works in the building,” Hoag explained. “She’s the wife of the janitor-her name is Mrs. Jenkins. Would you like to talk with her? I can probably locate her and get her on the line.”
“But-” Randall was getting more and more confused and was beginning to realize that he was at a disadvantage. He should never have discussed matters with Hoag at all; he should have simply saved him up until there was opportunity to take a crack at him. Potbury was right; Hoag was a slick and insidious character. Alibi indeed!
Furthermore he was becoming increasingly nervous and fretful over having stayed away from the bedroom as long as he had. Hoag must have had him on the phone at least ten minutes; it was not possible to see into the bedroom from where he sat at the breakfast table. “No, I don’t want to talk to her,” he said roughly. “You lie in circles!” He slammed the phone back into its cradle and hurried into the bedroom.
Cynthia was just as he had left her, looking merely asleep and heartbreakingly lovely. She was breathing, he quickly determined; her respiration was light but regular. His homemade stethoscope rewarded him with the sweet sound of her heartbeat.
He sat and watched her for a while, letting the misery of his situation soak into him like a warm and bitter wine. He did not want to forget his pain; he hugged it to him, learning what countless others had learned before him, that even the deepest pain concerning a beloved one is preferable to any surcease.
Later he stirred himself, realizing that he was indulging himself in a fashion that might work to her detriment. It was necessary to have food in the house for one thing, and to manage to eat some and keep it down. Tomorrow, he told himself, he would have to get busy on the telephone and see what he could do about keeping the business intact while he was away from it. The Night Watch Agency might do as a place to farm out any business that could not be put off; they were fairly reliable and he had done favors for them-but that could wait until tomorrow.
Just now-He called up the delicatessen on the street below and did some very desultory telephone shopping. He authorized the proprietor to throw in anything else that looked good and that would serve to keep a man going for a day or two. He then instructed him to find someone who would like to earn four bits by delivering the stuff to his apartment.
That done, he betook himself to the bathroom and shaved carefully, having a keen appreciation of the connection between a neat toilet and morale. He left the door open and kept one eye on the bed. He then took a rag, dampened it, and wiped up the stain under the radiator. The bloody pajama jacket he stuffed into the dirty-clothes hamper in the closet.