She sipped her coffee, stretched a little in the chair, crossed one leg over the other. She had very nice legs.
We both lit cigarettes. She blew out a cloud of smoke and looked at me through it, her blue eyes narrowing. “Ed,” she said, “how long do you think it’ll be before he’s cleared?”
“It’s impossible to say, Miss Farwell.”
“Lynn.”
“Lynn. It could take a day or a month.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “He has to be cleared as quickly as possible. That’s the most important thing. There can’t be any scandal, Ed. Oh, a little dirt is bearable. But nothing serious, nothing permanent.”
Something didn’t sound right. She didn’t care who he slept with, but no scandal could touch them—this was vitally important to her. She sounded like anything but a loving bride-to-be.
She read my mind. “I don’t sound madly in love, do I?”
“Not particularly.”
She smiled kittenishly. “I’d like more coffee, Ed…”
I got more for both of us.
Then she said, “Mark and I don’t love each other, Ed.”
I grunted noncommittally.
“We like each other, though. I’m fond of Mark, and he’s fond of me. That’s all that matters, really.”
“Is it?”
She nodded positively. Finishing schools and high-toned colleges produce girls with the courage of their convictions. “It’s enough,” she said. “Love’s a poor foundation for marriage in the long run. People who love are too…too vulnerable. Mark and I are perfect for each other. We’ll both be getting something out of this marriage.”
“What will Mark get?”
“A rich wife. A proper connection with an important family. That’s what he wants.”
“And you?”
“A respectable marriage to a promising young man.”
“If that’s all you want—”
“It’s all I want,” she said. “Mark is good company. He’s bright, socially acceptable, ambitious enough to be stimulating. He’ll make a good husband and a good father. I’m happy.”
She yawned again and her body uncoiled in the chair. The movement drew her breasts into sharp relief against the front of her sweater. This was supposed to be accidental. I knew better.
“Besides,” she said, her voice just slightly husky, “he’s not at all bad in bed.”
I wanted to slap her well-bred face. The lips were slightly parted now, her eyes a little less than half lidded. The operative term, I think, is provocative. She knew damned well what she was doing with the coy posing and the sex talk and all the rest. She had the equipment to carry it off, too. But it was a horrible hour on a horrible Sunday morning, and her fiancé was also my client, and he was sitting in a cell, booked on suspicion of homicide.
So I neither took her to bed nor slapped her face. I let the remark die in the stuffy air and finished my second cup of coffee. There was a rack of pipes on the table next to my chair. I selected a sandblast Barling and stuffed some tobacco into it. I lit it and smoked.
“Ed?”
I looked at her.
“I didn’t mean to sound cheap.”
“Forget it.”
“All right.” A pause. “Ed, you’ll find a way to clear Mark, won’t you?”
“I’ll try.”
“If there’s any way I can help—”
“I’ll let you know.”
She gave me her phone number and address. She was living with her parents.
Then she paused at the door and turned enough to let me look at her lovely young body in profile. “If there’s anything you want,” she said softly, “be sure to let me know.”
It was an ordinary enough line. But I had the feeling that it covered a lot of ground.
At 11:30 I picked up my car at the garage around the corner from my apartment.
The car is a Chevy convertible, an old one that dates from the pre-fin era. I left the top up. The air had an edge to it. I took the East Side Drive downtown and pulled up across the street from Headquarters at noon.
They let me see Mark Donahue. He was wearing the same expensive suit but it didn’t hang right now. It looked as though it had been slept in, which figured. He needed a shave and his eyes had red rims. I didn’t ask him how he had slept. I could tell.
“Hello,” he said.
“Getting along all right?”
“I suppose so.” He swallowed. “They asked me questions most of the night. No rubber hose, though. That’s something.”