Murder at Union Station - Margaret Truman [118]
A taxi arrived. Stripling slid lower in the seat, but not so low that he couldn’t see the attractive young woman in a short skirt and wearing large glasses get out of the cab, pay the fare, and go to the building’s front door.
A second cab came around the corner and pulled up to the curb a half block from the first. A short, stocky young man wearing a suit got out and leaned through the open front passenger window. Stripling couldn’t hear the words, but it was obvious the passenger wasn’t flattering the driver. He shoved his hand in the window and backed away; both cabs drove off.
The woman with glasses read names on the intercom panel, pressed a button, and spoke into the panel. There was the faint sound of a buzzer; she pushed open the door and disappeared inside.
Stripling returned his attention to the short, stocky guy standing on the sidewalk. He’d moved behind a tree, shielding him from view of the door through which the woman had entered.
Who’s he? he wondered. Who’s she? Must be Marienthal’s live-in girlfriend. Nice legs. She could do better than get involved with a writer. With so many more single women than single men in D.C., women must get desperate, he reasoned, more or less.
What’s the stocky guy going to do, just keep standing there behind the tree? Is he waiting for the writer, too, or has he got the hots for the leggy gal with the big glasses? Was he the writer’s buddy? That could complicate things.
Nothing to do but wait.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
It is so good to see you,” Marienthal said when Kathryn walked through the door to the apartment. They sustained their embrace and kissed until Marienthal stepped back, his hands on her shoulders, and smiled. “You look so sexy in those glasses.”
“Stop it,” she said. “I sure don’t feel sexy. But I am relieved to see you. We’re going to New York?”
“Not us. I’m going.”
She looked at him quizzically.
He led her into the small kitchen, where they sat at the table. He took her hands in his and said, “I owe you a big apology, Kate.”
“For what?”
“For being blind to reality. For being greedy. For forgetting who I really am.”
She wiped away a tear that had escaped her right eye and smiled. “You were all of those things, Rich, and maybe more. But that’s past tense.”
“You bet it is. Here’s what I want to do.”
It took him only five minutes to outline his plans for her. When he was finished, he asked, “Make sense?”
“I think so,” she said.
“Good. Let’s get going.”
He went to a small corkboard on which Winard had pinned up a typewritten list of useful phone numbers, dialed the one for a local cab company, and gave the dispatcher the address.
Five minutes later, he picked up his canvas shoulder bag from the floor, opened the front door, and locked it behind them, and they went up the narrow stairs to the front foyer. Marienthal looked through a small window. “The cab’s here,” he said.
They went directly to the taxi. Marienthal tapped on the front passenger window. The driver lowered it slightly, and Marienthal said in a loud voice, “Union Station.”
Stripling and Lowe watched the departure of Rich and Kathryn from their respective vantage points. Stripling started his engine and fell in behind the cab. Lowe left the tree and stood helplessly on the sidewalk. He’d heard Marienthal say, “Union Station,” but was without transportation.
Marienthal looked back before the cab turned the corner.
“Did you see that guy?” he asked Kathryn.
“What guy?”
“Up the block from the house. It looked like Geoff.”
She, too, looked back, but by then they were off 16th Street. “Are you sure?” she asked.
“No, but I think it was.”
Lowe walked south on 16th until finding a cab. “Union Station,” he said. “I’m in a rush.”
The driver laughed without mirth. “You guys slay me,” he said. “You got to catch a train? Leave earlier! I’m not getting a ticket because you don’t leave early enough.” He repeated: “Slays me.”
It just might, thought Lowe.