“His name’s Clark. Clark LeClaire.”
“How long?”
“Two years.”
“Since he died?”
She nodded.
“What happened?”
“A fire.”
I waited.
“They told me he’d been caught inside. There wasn’t…” She stopped. “They wouldn’t open the coffin.”
“So you didn’t see him.”
“No.”
“But you buried him.”
“Yes, Jerry. I buried him.”
I leaned back. Two years was a long time to spend talking about somebody in the past tense.
“It was just after Danny,” she said.
“Who’s Danny?”
“Daniel Price. He played piano. We worked together.”
She looked at the cup between her hands.
“He’d wait after closing to go over songs with me. Even when he had somewhere else to be.”
“What happened to him?”
“Somebody killed him. Then I lost Clark.”
She rubbed her thumb along the handle.
“For a while I kept forgetting which flowers were from which funeral.”
“Alright. Tell me about tonight.”
She looked at the newspaper between us. I folded it and put it aside.
“From the elevator,” I said.
“The doors opened. I could hear men arguing.”
“About what?”
“I couldn’t make it out. Not until I went inside.”
“And the room?”
“It was already like that. Drawers open. Things on the floor.”
“Who was there?”
“Arthur. And a man with his back to me.”
“Clark.”
“I didn’t know it yet.”
She put her hands around the cup.
“I said Arthur’s name. They both turned.”
For a moment she almost smiled.
“He’d changed his hair. It was shorter. And he looked thinner.”
“But you knew him.”
“Of course I knew him.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him he was dead.”
She looked embarrassed now.
“Stupid thing to say.”
“What’d he say?”
“He said my name.”
She waited, like that ought to explain it.
Maybe it did.
“He came towards me. Just a step. He said, ‘Evelyn. Listen to me.’”
“And Musgrove?”
“He was looking at Clark.”
“What did he say?”
“‘Fine. If you won’t tell her, I will.’”
“Those words?”
“Yes.”
“Tell you what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Clark?”
“He must have.”
She lifted the cup, remembered the tea, and put it down again.
“Then Arthur put his hand inside his jacket.”
“And?”
“Clark shot him.”
There it was.
I looked towards the kitchen door. Nobody came in.
“How many times?”
“Once.”
“Then what?”
“Arthur fell. I remember the sound.”
She swallowed.
“Clark came over to me. He put his arms around me.”
“Did you say anything?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What did he say?”
“That we had to leave.”
“Anything else?”
“He said Arthur would’ve killed us.”
I reached for my cigarettes, then left them alone.
“Did he tell you why he was there?”
“He said he’d come to settle something.”
“With Musgrove.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“He didn’t explain.”
“Did you ask?”
“There was a dead man on the floor, Jerry.”
“Yea.”
“And my husband was standing in front of me.”
I let her have that.
I’d spent plenty of nights imagining a knock at my door. I hadn’t thought much about what came after it.
“Take your time,” I said.
She looked at me, then down at her hands.
“I asked him where he’d been. Why he hadn’t come home.”
“What did he tell you?”
“That he couldn’t. That Arthur was the reason.”
“Musgrove kept him away?”
“That’s what he said.”
“How?”
“He said he’d explain everything once we were out.”
“Did he?”
“We didn’t have much time.”
I watched her rub one hand over the other.
“What happened before you left the room?”
“Clark went back to Arthur.”
“What for?”
She didn’t answer.
“The ring?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see him take it?”
“Yes.”
“Which hand?”
“His right.”
“Did he look through the others?”
“No.”
She said it quietly.
“He just took that one.”
“Did he tell you why?”
“No.”
“What did you think he was doing?”
“I thought it might be his.”
“Clark’s?”
“Yes.”
“Had you seen him wear it before?”
“No. But if Arthur had been keeping things from him…”
She stopped.
“Go on.”
“That’s all. I thought he was taking something back.”
I nodded.
“Anything else?”
“He put his hand inside Arthur’s coat.”
“What came out?”
“I couldn’t see.”
“Money?”
“I don’t know.”
“A gun?”
“I said I couldn’t see.”
“Alright.”
She moved her chair back a little.
“You think he robbed him.”
“I’m asking what you saw.”
“You keep asking it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’ve missed something.”
I looked at her for a moment.
“You’ve had a hell of a night, Evelyn.”
She turned towards the window.
I waited until she looked back.
“Then the stairs?”
“Yes. Clark took me down.”
“All thirty floors together?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone see you?”
“Not that I noticed.”
“And in the alley?”
“He told me we had to separate.”
“Why?”
“He said the police would be looking for me. The receptionist knew my name.”
“Did he tell you to come to me?”
“No.”
“So that was your idea.”
“I needed help.”
“Why not go to the police and tell them what happened?”
“Because they’d arrest him.”
“They might arrest you instead.”
“I know.”
She said it sharply enough to make me stop.
“I know that, Jerry. That’s why I’m here.”
“Where’s Clark?”
“He didn’t tell me.”
“How are you supposed to find him?”
“He said he’d find me. I know how that sounds, Jerry. But he was there. I held him. I couldn’t start asking for an address.”
“Does he know you’re here? Or that you hired me?”
“No. Coming to you was my idea.”
I sat back.
She’d come to me with a story she hoped would keep us both busy while her husband went wherever he pleased.
And she’d paid for it.
“I need you to help him,” she said.
“You hired me to help you.”
“It’s the same thing.”
I didn’t answer.
“Jerry.”
“I heard you.”
“He saved my life.”
I looked at the folded newspaper. Musgrove’s hand was tucked somewhere inside it.
“You saw Musgrove’s gun?”
“He reached for it.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She looked down.
“Clark said he had one.”