A Matter Of Taste, Fred Saberhagen [love story books to read TXT] 📗

      Despite the hour the celebrity publicist appeared cheerful, clean-shaven, and wide awake, swinging his arms a little, shifting his weight restlessly as he waited. As she watched, Kaiser extended his arm and pressed the chime again.

      John was looking at her now, and she turned slowly away from the viewer, trying to think of how to explain to him who Kaiser was. “I think I—” Angie began, and then was distracted by Liz.

      The waitress had already retrieved her coat from the front closet and put it on. In the act of adjusting a scarf she paused, dabbed with her hand at her shapely neck, then looked at her fingers. “Oh, my God, I’m bleeding too,” she murmured. Eyeing her companions she giggled once more, and Angie wondered suddenly if Liz might be drunk or high on some other drug.

      “Angie,” John was asking, an edge in his voice, “do you know who this guy is out in the hall?”

      Elizabeth, with coat and scarf now firmly on, was holding her right hand stiffly out in front of her. For the moment, as she regarded the fingers marked with pinhead red spots from her throat, she looked completely sober. “I don’t want to meet him,” she muttered. “Is there a back door?” she asked distractedly. “A service door? I’m going to just slip out that way, if…”

      “Wait,” said John sharply. He looked from one to the other with a hard gaze that puzzled Angie, then concentrated on her: “Were you going to say you know him?”

      “I recognize him,” she admitted in annoyance. If he would only give her the time to explain properly…

      “You do? Who is he, then?”

      “Tell you in a minute.” Angie, her anger suddenly flaming because of being barked at, stepped quickly to the door and started to open the locks while keeping the security fasteners in place. Two of these, designed to allow the door to open no more than about six inches, guarded the front portal of Uncle Matthew’s residence. Both were made of thicker steel, were more elaborate in design, and looked much stronger than the usual door chains that served as household protectors in the city.

      John at first moved as if he would prevent her from opening the door, but then stepped back. “All right,” he muttered. “I want to get a look at him directly.”

      In another moment, confronting Valentine Kaiser face-to-face through a six-inch gap, Angie tried to summon up her best skill at vituperation, but found that any talent she might ordinarily possess along that line had deserted her. “What in the world do you want?” was the nearest thing to scathing words that she could think of. “At this hour?” She did her best to make her tone compensate for the deficiency.

      Seen directly, Kaiser looked worried, or at least concerned, rather than jaunty. Not that he was lacking confidence. Sounding almost cheerful, he answered her question with one of his own. “How’s Mr. Maule doing?”

      “What do you want?”

      Their visitor looked grave. “I had an impression that he might be ill. One gets these feelings sometimes, you know, when one has known someone for a very long time. May I talk to him, please?”

      “No. Go away.” Angie paused. “You say you know him?”

      “For a very long time, as I say.” As if in afterthought he pointed behind him with a thumb. “Forgive me, this is my associate, Mr. Stewart.” The trench-coated figure nodded. Kaiser gave Angie a reassuring smile. “Now, may we come in?”

      “No!” This from John, standing close behind her. Angie, who had been able to feel herself wavering, felt grateful for the support.

      Kaiser did not look grateful at the refusal. “So? Then he is ill I was afraid of that. Sorry to disturb you now but it can’t be helped.” His tone was not exactly repentant. “Believe me, it can’t. Let us in and we’ll talk about it.” He made a little movement forward, stopping just short of the doorway.

      Valentine Kaiser … who was he? A young man, yes, but still definitely one you could turn to with a problem. Almost, Angie found herself willing, hoping, to be convinced that he might after all have some good reason…

      “You’re not coming in,” said John firmly, from just behind her.

      That stiffened her backbone. “Who are you, really?” she demanded. “What was all that story about publicity?”

      Kaiser shook his head. Then somewhat plaintively, making an awkward gesture with both arms, he appealed: “Do we have to talk out in the corridor?”

      Angie turned to look at John, but he was not softening. “Who are these people, Angie? We’re not letting anyone in.”

      Kaiser ignored him. He craned his neck, trying to look in past both of them, as if trying to spot someone else. The waitress had retreated around an angle of wall, but that didn’t let her escape. Kaiser raised his voice slightly. “I see another young lady in the background. How about you, miss? You think we ought to come in?”

      Elizabeth Wiswell, looking dazed and not exactly young, took a few steps forward, as if unwillingly. She moved until she could peer through the doorway at the young man in the hall, and then she stared at him as if in the grip of some terrible fascination. The blood spots showed dark upon her pale throat. Her mouth opened, but what she might have said was never heard.

      John suddenly let out an inarticulate cry and hurled himself against the door, slamming it shut. One of the men outside—Angie had a blurred impression that it was Stewart—reacted, lunging forward and trying to hold the door open, but that effort came too late. The heavy, dull slam the barrier made in closing suggested to Angie the thickness of the wood.

      In the next instant Liz screamed loudly and put her hands up over her face.

      At the same moment Angie shouted: “John!” She had recoiled against the wall; startled by the violence of what she perceived as John’s overreaction, she stared at