of hers. She lay with eyes closed, quiescent and waiting, only the gradual increase in the tempo of her breathing betraying the inner excitement gripping her.
Wayne kissed each eyelid gently. He moved his mouth down a tear-wet cheek to the slightly parted lips and across them. She began to shudder again and her hands reached for him.
Wayne drew himself back from her seeking hands. He said huskily, “Where is Hake?”
“He doesn’t matter,” Priscilla murmured, still with closed eyes. “Kiss me, Morgan Wayne.”
“He does matter.” Wayne’s voice was guttural with desire and with the driving determination that was in him. “Suppose he comes back . . . to get his shirt?”
Her fingertips caressed his cheeks gently. “He would kill us both.” Her voice was still a murmur. Without inflection. Uncaring and unafraid. “Are you afraid of death? They say you’re not. They say . . .”
“What do they say about me?” Wayne demanded roughly as her voice trailed off.
“Many things. And I believe them now. I’ve lived in fear so long, my dear. You can’t know. Hake Derr isn’t human. He loves death . . . for the sake of killing. Ugly and lingering death. He tells me at night. Gloats over it.”
“That,” said Wayne harshly, “is what I thought. Do you want to die, Priscilla?”
“I don’t think I care. Take me in your arms.” Her voice was dreamy now, languid and peaceful as the sea after a violent storm has abated.
Morgan Wayne sat up angrily. He made his voice even more harsh. “Come out of it, Priscilla. I might be willing to trade my life for half an hour in bed with you, but by God, I want to be assured of that half hour. Where is Derr at this moment?”
“Where it would take him more than half an hour to get here. Do you have to waste time with questions?”
“Yes,” he said savagely. “Until I know.” He reached forward and lifted the French telephone from a low stand beside the bed and held it close to her face. “Here.”
“What’s that?” She opened her eyes and looked dazedly at the phone as though she had never seen one before.
“A telephone,” he said patiently.
“What for?”
“To check on Hake Derr. If he’s where you think—if we have got that half hour—then we’ll have it.”
She sat up slowly, as though emerging from a hypnotic trance. “Suppose Hake isn’t there?”
“Then we get the hell out of here—fast.”
She sighed and took the telephone. She suddenly seemed to come alive to full awareness of the situation again, and gave him a nervous smile that was almost a hoyden’s grin.
“I guess that does make sense. What’ll I say?”
“Anything. Just to make sure he’s there.”
“I’ll have to say something about your being here. Willie will tell him.”
Wayne shrugged and reached for a cigarette. “Play it straight. Tell him I was here and frightened you.”
Priscilla Endicott drew in a deep breath and dialed a number. Wayne was lighting his cigarette and appeared uninterested, but he watched her finger with concentration and etched the numbers in his mind.
She said, “Hello,” into the mouthpiece, her voice unconsciously becoming hushed and guarded. “That you, Al? Priscilla. Let me talk to Hake.”
She listened a moment, then said forcibly, “I know all that, but this is important. Put Hake on.”
She cradled the mouthpiece hard against the valley between her breasts and told Wayne in a low voice, “He’s there, all right. I’ll tell him you’ve already gone and—”
There was a rasping sound from the earpiece and she lifted it swiftly. Morgan Wayne drew deeply on his cigarette and attempted to look at her dispassionately. How much of all this had been an act? How much of it honest emotion? Before God, he didn’t know. Was she aware that when you pressed the mouthpiece of a telephone against your diaphragm and spoke even in a low voice, the words were transmitted over the wire by vibration just as clearly as though you spoke into the mouthpiece?
If she was aware of that, then she might as well have shouted to a jealous man that there was someone else in her bedroom with her and he’d better get there fast.
If she didn’t know about that vibration thing, of course . . .
Her voice was dulcet in the mouthpiece: “Hake, honey. Listen. A man named Morgan Wayne was here looking for you . . . I know, honey, I’ve heard you mention him. I suckered him upstairs here thinking I might hold him till you came, but he got cagey and beat it. Thought I’d better call you right away . . . Sure, honey. See you tonight.” She cradled the phone and turned exultantly. “He won’t be here for hours, so let’s—”
She broke off with a swift intake of breath as Morgan Wayne swung to his feet. He had what he needed now, and his face was grim. Whether Priscilla knew it or not, Hake Derr knew there was someone in her bedroom with her while she phoned. Besides that, every moment was precious now. Letty was just a youngster. Anything might be happening to her, and he had a telephone number.
He stood looking down at her and Priscilla shrank from what she saw in his face.
“Believe it or not, my sweet, I just remembered a date with my secretary. It can’t wait, so we’ll have to.”
He swung on his heel and strode away fast, carrying with him the memory of the stricken look on the most beautiful face he had ever seen.
He didn’t look back at Priscilla. He knew he might turn back to her if he did.
He heard her swearing at him as he went through the living room. He slammed the door behind him and went down the stairs two at a time, slowed as he reached the bottom, and moved casually out into the club, which was beginning to fill up now and hum with evening activity.
He didn’t see Willie Sutra, and passed by the bartender swiftly with face averted. The hat-check girl leaned forward expectantly when she saw him, but Wayne waggled two fingers at her and kept going.
His convertible was still at the curb and without a parking ticket. The doorman was busy helping a tipsy party of four from a cab, and Wayne went behind his back and pushed out into the traffic.
He drove expertly and swiftly to the first empty space at the curb in front of a blue telephone sign. He sprinted in and used a dime to dial a certain number. When a gruff voice answered, he said:
“Morgan Wayne, John. Get me an address to match this telephone number fast.” He repeated the number Priscilla Endicott had dialed and said impatiently, “It’s goddamned important. Of course I’ll hang on.”
He waited with the receiver to his ear, blue eyes hooded and hard as they stared out of the booth, seeing Priscilla’s face floating before him, hearing her voice again in his ears.
Then
