The Quick Red Fox Read Free

woman. I work for her.”
    “Send her around.”
    “That’s impossible, Mr. McGee. I have to take you to her.”
    “Sorry. If she’s in enough trouble to need me, she’s in enough trouble to come ask me herself, Miss Holtzer.”
    “But you don’t understand. Really. She just
couldn’t
come here. She would have talked to you if I could have gotten you on the phone. I work for … Lysa Dean.”
    I knew what she meant. That face was too distinctive, even in the darkest sunglasses in town. She wouldn’t want to come on such a private mission with a police escort. And if she came alone, the boobs would recognize her at a hundred paces and come clotting around, pressing in as close as they could, standing and staring at her with that curious fixed, damp, silly smile, America’s accolade to the celebrity. Ten big movies, four fairly messy marriages, one television series fiasco, and a few high-paidguest spots had made her a household face. Liz Taylor, Kim Novak and Doris Day would take the same stomping among the star-dazed common folk. The public is an untrustworthy animal.
    “I can’t imagine Lysa Dean in a situation where she thinks she’d need me.”
    I thought I saw a little glimmer of distaste on the rather somber face of Miss Efficiency. “She’d like to talk to you about it.”
    “Let me see. Walter did a script for her once upon a time.”
    “They’ve been friends ever since.”
    “Would you say her problem fits into the way I operate?”
    She frowned. “I think so. I don’t know all the details.”
    “Aren’t you in her confidence?”
    “On most things. But as I said, I don’t know
all
the details of this. It’s been a personal kind of thing. But it is … something she wants to get back. And it’s valuable to her.”
    “I can’t promise anything. But I’ll listen to her. When?”
    “Now, if you could manage it, Mr. McGee.” The symphony ended. I got up and went and turned the set off. When I came back Miss Holtzer said, “We’d rather you didn’t mention this to anyone. Even her name.”
    “I was just going to run out and tell a few friends.”
    “I’m sorry. I’ve gotten so used to trying to protect her. She’s beginning a promo for
Winds of Chance
, starting Monday. The world premiere will be next Saturday night in eight Miami theaters. We came early hoping for a chance to see you. She’s staying at the house of a friend now. She’ll move over to the hotel penthouse on the beach tomorrow evening. She’ll have a full schedule, starting Monday.”
    “Have you worked for her very long?”
    “Two years. A little over two years. Why?”
    “I wondered what you call yourself.”
    “Personal secretary.”
    “She tote a big staff around?”
    “Not really. On the road like this there’s just me and her personal maid, her hairdresser, and the man from the agency. Really, I would rather you asked her the questions. Could you … get ready to go see her?”
    “In Miami?”
    “Yes. I have a car waiting, Mr. McGee. If … I could make a call?”
    I took her into the master stateroom. The phone extension is in a compartment in the headboard. She looked up the number in a black leather note book from her big purse. She dialed the operator and made it a credit-card call. “Mary Catherine?” she said. “Please tell her that our friend is coming back with me. No, that’s all. Pretty soon now. Thank you, dear.”
    She stood up and looked around the room. I could not tell if the huge bed repelled her or amused her. I was tempted to explain it. It startled me that I should want to tell her that it had been part of the furnishings when I had won the craft in a long poker siege in Palm Beach. The man wanted another advance to stay in the game, this last time putting up his Brazilian mistress as collateral, under the plausible assumption that she too went with the boat, but his friends saved me the delicate problem of refusal by leading him gently away from the game.
    Miss Holtzer