12 Chinks and A Woman

     Fenner went over to the floor lamp, put it on, and turned off the ceiling lamp. The light was softer, but it lit up the floor brightly. He saw two little red marks on his carpet which hadn't been there before. He looked at the red marks and then he looked at Glorie's shoes. He moved further into the room. There were red marks on the shoes, as if Glorie had stepped in something. Without picking the shoes up, Fenner couldn't be sure. He knew pretty well the marks were bloodstains, but he didn't want her to know he'd seen them just yet.

     She giggled suddenly. “I'm really in a risky position, aren't I? I mean you could . . .

     Fenner pulled up a chair near the bed and sat down. He put his feet on the bed and tilted the chair back. “What makes you think I'd want to?” he said casually.

     She giggled again. “Everybody wants to,” she said. She said it as if she meant it.

     “All right, all right. Let's suppose that's true,” Fenner said. “But why have you come here?”

     “It's you. You said Haworth. You said you wanted to talk. I came here and waited. I got tired of waiting, so I got into bed. I thought you wouldn't come back tonight.”

     “When did you come here?”

     “What do you mean—when?” Her slaty eyes went a little cold.

     “What time?”

     “Nine o'clock. I waited until eleven and then I went to bed.”

     “Anyone see you come in?”

     She shook her head. Fenner thought she had gone a little white. She moved restlessly in the bed. He could see the long outline of her legs under the thin sheet. A lot of the bravado had gone out of her. She said, “You sound like a big policeman askin' nasty questions.”

     Fenner smiled bleakly. “Just rehearsing you, baby,” he said. “You haven't much of an alibi, have you?”

     Glorie sat up in bed. She said, “What—what are you saying?”

     Fenner shook his head. “Get under cover. You're too big a girl for this sort of thing now.”

     She pulled the sheet up over her, but she didn't lie down. “What do you mean—alibi?”

     He reached over and picked up one of her shoes. He examined it carefully. The sole was covered with dry blood. He tossed the shoe in her lap. She gave a husky little scream and threw it from her. Then she lay back, put her hands over her face and began to cry.

     Fenner went to a cupboard, took out a bottle of Scotch, and gave himself a drink.

     He lit a cigarette and took off his hat and coat. It was very hot and close in the room. He walked over to the open window and looked into the deserted street. “You'd better tell me,” he said.

     She said, “I don't know anything about it.”

     He wandered back to the bed and sat down. “Then the quicker you get out of this room the better pleased I'll be. I don't want to be dragged into a murder rap.”

     She said, between choking sobs: “I found him. He was lying on the floor. Someone had shot him.”

     Fenner ran his fingers through his hair. “Who?” he said gently.

     “Harry—Thayler, the man I was with.”

     Fenner brooded. “Where is he?” he said at last.

     Glorie took her hands away. Fenner experienced a little shock. She certainly wasn't crying. She was play-acting. She said, “On his boat.”

     “When did you find him?”

     “Just before I came to you.”

     Fenner rubbed his eyes. He got up and put his coat and hat on again. “Wait here,” he said. “I'm goin' down to have a look at him.”

     She said, “I'll come with you.”

     Fenner shook his head. “You keep out of this. Stay here. When I get back I want to talk to you.”

     Then he went out of the room and down to the waterfront.

     He found Nancy W and climbed on board. He went down into the main cabin. It was dark and he couldn't find the light switch. He used his torch, but he couldn't find Thayler. He searched the whole boat, but he couldn't find anything. The small sleeping cabin aft made him pause. He found a bundle of whips and a lot of other things he didn't like the look of. He found a pair of very high-heeled boots with pliant rubber heels. He turned on the light in the cabin after closing the porthole. From the clothes lying about, he thought this must be where Thayler had slept.

     He went through the chest of drawers carefully.

     The only thing he found which really astonished him was a small photo of Curly Robbins taken, as far as he could judge, several years ago. He took the photo and put it in his wallet. Then he shut the drawer and snapped off the light.

     He went back to the main cabin again and examined the carpet. It was only when he looked very closely that he could see that the carpet had been recently washed in one small patch. He stood up, scratching his head. He was quite certain now that Thayler was not on board.

     Was Thayler dead? Could he rely on what Glorie had said? If he'd been killed, who had got rid of his body and washed up the carpet? Had Glorie killed him? The last time he'd seen those two together they weren't exactly acting friendly.