All The Way Read Free Page B

couldn’t win ’em all. The phone rang.
    “I’m just stirring some Martinis,” she said warmly. “Why don’t you come over, Mr. Hamilton, and have one with me to celebrate your sailfish?”
    You never know, I thought; maybe that’s why they’re so fascinating. “Love to,” I said. I dropped the phone back in the cradle and was out the door in two strides.
    I knocked on No. 17, and stepped inside. She’d changed into a pleated black skirt and white blouse, and was very smart and very, very attractive from the sling pumps to the sleek dark head. There was a bucket of ice on the glass top of the dresser, and she was stirring Martinis in a pitcher.
    She turned and smiled. “Do sit down, Mr. Forbes.”

Two
    The way she said it told me there was no point in trying to bluff. I stepped inside and closed the door. Her room was exactly the same as mine, furnished with a brown carpet and curtains, twin beds with yellow spreads, a dresser, and a glass-covered desk at the right of the door. The telephone was located on the desk, and beside it— almost under my hand—were two sheets of motel stationery covered with the slashes and pot-hooks of shorthand. Two names were spelled out in the message; one of them was Murray, and the other Forbes.
    I glanced up at her. “You just got this?”
    She nodded coolly, and poured the Martinis. “Just a few minutes ago.”
    “But you knew who I was all the time? You practically told me there in the bar.”
    She smiled. “I couldn’t resist it; you were so insufferably smug. And I wanted to see how you’d react.”
    “Are you from the police?”
    “Of course not,” she said. She handed me the Martini, and picked up her own. “Here’s to your sailfish. Or should we drink to Mr. Murray’s durability, or the high cost of extradition?”
    “What about Murray?” I demanded.
    “Haven’t you heard?”
    “How could I? I was afraid to call anybody on the Coast. And there was no mention of it in the papers I could get.”
    “Then you were still afraid you’d killed him?”
    I took a sip of the drink; I needed it. “No. I assumed he was tougher than that. But felonious assault is pretty damn serious itself. What do you know about it?”
    “Would you hand me those notes, please?”
    I took them off the desk and passed them to her, so completely at sea now I didn’t feel anything at all. She walked around between the beds and sat down on the farther one with a leg doubled under her and the pleated skirt spread carefully over her knees. Taking a sip of the Martini, she said, “Hmmm,” as she studied the shorthand. Then she put her drink down on the night table and groped for a cigarette. I held the lighter for her. She smiled, and nodded to the armchair near the end of the bed. “Please sit down.”
    “What about Murray?” I said impatiently.
    “Broken jaw,” she said, consulting her notes. “Mild concussion. Something or other to the something sinus— ethmoid, I think. Scalp lacerations. Various minor injuries. A hundred and fifty dollars’ damages to his camera and possibly two hundred to the furnishings of a motel room. He’s recovering satisfactorily, and the woman’s husband appears to have used a little influence to smooth it over and keep it hushed up. You might go to jail for any one of half a dozen misdemeanors if they could get their hands on you, but there’s no felony charge. Nothing they would extradite you for.”
    I sighed with relief.
    “You apparently don’t care much for private detectives.”
    “I can contain my enthusiasm for them,” I said. “Snoopy bastards. I had to have that film, anyway; and since I didn’t know how to get into a Speed Graphic, I opened it on his head.”
    “You were lucky it was no worse.”
    I lit a cigarette. “Would you mind telling me who you are, and just what this is all about?”
    “I’ve already told you who I am,” she replied, taking a sip of her drink. “Mrs. Marian Forsyth.”
    “And you’re a private