Odor of Violets, Baynard Kendrick [best short novels .txt] 📗

a few seconds looking down at the girl before he settled himself in another chair.

“You’re the jealous type, Hilda, my dear.” He took a cigarette from a jar on the table beside him and rolled it between his palms. Small yellow specks of tobacco fell to the floor.

The girl swished the remains of a highball around in the bottom of her glass and finished it. “Do I know her?”

“No,” said Cameron. “Neither do I. I’m trying to figure out what the hell she telephoned me for.”

“When you get mysterious,” said Hilda, “you’re an awful bore.”

She held the glass out toward him. “Make another one, will you, darling? I’m dry.”

“You’re saturated,” said Cameron, “and I think you’d better go.”

Hilda’s soft, full lips curled in a smile. “Afraid of me?”

“Yes.” He got up quickly, bent over her, and kissed her on the mouth. When he straightened up again, his strong hands slipped under her elbows and lifted her to her feet.

“Do I really have to go?”

“Yes,” he said. “I have some work to do.”

“Something to do with the call?”

He opened the mirrored door and took her heavy plaid ulster from the closet, holding it out before him to help her put it on. She thrust her arms angrily into the sleeves, snatched her small stylish hat from the shelf of the closet, and arranged it on her head with trembling fingers.

“This is the last time you’ll ever put me out of here!”

“I’m sorry, Hilda, really.” His gray eyes were expressionless. “After all, I’ve only done it once before.”

“Twice is too much. I’m afraid I like men who aren’t always subject to the interruption of mysterious phone calls.” She stopped with her hand on the door. “I went down to your office the other day.”

“You did?” he inquired politely. “It’s too bad I missed you.”

“You’d have missed anybody who came,” said Hilda. “The door was locked and there wasn’t anyone there at all.”

She set her chin firmly and faced him challengingly. “Just what do you import, Arnold? I’d like to know.”

“Eggs,” he said soberly. “From Australia. The business has been badly affected by the war.”

He kissed her again before she could answer and adroitly eased her out through the door. He watched her down the single flight of stairs and called, “I hope you’ll change your mind and come back again. I’m really fond of you, and sorry if I’ve been a bore.”

He was answered by the slam of the front door.

Back again in the apartment, he picked up the phone and dialed a number. “Jack,” he said when the answer came, “is it true that there’s no way of tracing a dial call?”

“None,” a voice replied from the other end. “It’s a washout when the call’s once through. What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing particularly,” Cameron replied a bit testily. “I’m tired of having my evenings spoiled, that’s all.”

He hung up and went back to look at himself in the mirror again, brushing more imaginary dust from his shoulder. After staring at himself irresolutely for a few seconds, he turned with the quick decisiveness of a man who has made up his mind, crossed the room swiftly, and took a heavy Luger automatic pistol from the table drawer. He half opened the breech with an expert hand and glanced at the loading.

The gun was sagging in his side coat pocket when he stepped out into the hall, closed the apartment door behind him, and went down into the vestibule to ring Paul Gerente’s bell.

He waited for a short interval, staring out at the driving sleet and snow, but no answer came. He let himself back in with a latchkey and climbed the five flights of stairs to the top floor, where he knocked lightly on Paul Gerente’s door.

Not a sound came from inside. Cameron took a leather-bound key container from his pocket and selected a key. It fitted the lock perfectly. With the assured confidence of a man entering his own home, he stepped in. The door clicked shut behind him.

The lights were on, and in the fireplace embers burned low. Seconds ticked away on the busy pendulum of the cuckoo clock before he knelt beside the dead man in the cherry-colored dressing gown. A shadow which might have been pity touched his face, and faded into a mirthless smile.

He picked the blood-marked poker up, holding it in the center with a folded handkerchief. A couple of minutes later he was back downstairs in his apartment on the second floor.

Shut in, he went to work with precision. Concealed from casual view behind the many suits in the spacious closet, a small safe stood on the floor. Cameron shoved the impeding clothes to one side and opened the safe door. He took out a small metal box and a tiny camel’s-hair brush.

Back in the living room he placed the brass poker on a newspaper spread out on the table. He was humming tunelessly when he opened the metal box, dipped the tiny brush into the contents of light aluminum powder, and brushed the shining poker handle daintily.

The dust adhered in a light unbroken film.

Cameron took a lens from the table drawer and frowningly studied his work. “Damn waste of time!” he muttered, and went into the kitchen to mix himself a highball.

He came back carrying a glass in one hand and a square of paper towel torn from a roll in the other. He took an appreciative drink, set the glass on the table, and using the paper towel wiped the handle of the poker clean.

For the space of two cigarettes he sat in a chair sipping his drink and staring at the poker reflectively. When his highball was finished he picked up the poker again and took it back upstairs.

The fire was almost out.

Cameron replaced the weapon on the floor beside the dead man and began to search the room. He went over it skillfully and swiftly, making sure that he left no signs of disorder. Fifteen minutes satisfied him, and he transferred his