The Seventh Sinner - Elizabeth Peters [41]
“You are all right,” he said. “You’re not dead.”
“I told you she was all right.” Jacqueline glided up behind him and came into the room, carrying a glass. “Why don’t you go home and go to bed? You can’t squat in the shrubbery all night; the portiere may understand, but the other tenants won’t.”
“All right, I’ll go home,” Michael said meekly. “I just wanted to make sure she was all right.”
“I think we’ve established that fact.”
“Hey, Jean. What happened?”
“Why ask me? I seem to have missed all the fun.”
“Something hit you on the head?”
“So they tell me.”
“You really don’t remember anything?”
“For God’s sake!” Jean yelled, and then clutched her head. “Get out of here,” she mumbled. “That’s all I need, you hanging around asking stupid questions.”
“She really doesn’t remember a thing, Michael,” Jacqueline said.
“Amnesia?”
Standing straight and slim by the bed, Jacqueline looked him up and down with dispassionate interest. He was a pathetic sight, unkempt and haggard; apparently Jacqueline’s description of his whereabouts had been literal, for he was covered with twigs and dried leaves and dust.
“No,” Jacqueline said, after a moment. “This is not a case of temporary amnesia, Michael. Something came down out of the dark and knocked her cold. That’s all that happened, and that’s all she’ll ever remember.”
“Uh-huh,” Michael said. “I get it. You both ought to go to bed, get some sleep,” he added, looking at them disapprovingly.
“As soon as you get out of here,” Jean began, her voice rising dangerously.
Jacqueline took Michael by the arm and led him out.
The elevator door had barely closed before the phone rang. There was an extension in the bedroom. Jacqueline took the call there, with a muttered exclamation in good gutter Italian.
“Pronto!” she yelled into the mouthpiece, and then her frown smoothed out. “Oh, Andy. Yes, yes, she’s fine. No. Really; she’s awake now. Want to talk to her?”
She handed Jean the phone.
“Hello,” Jean croaked. “Andy, I don’t want to talk, my throat hurts.”
“I know, honey, and I’m sorry to call at this ungodly hour; but Ann’s staggering around here like Medea—or do I mean Medusa?—accusing herself of failing you in the breach and chickening out, and various other crimes. If I could tell her you’ll live—”
“You can’t get rid of me that easily.”
“I didn’t realize your head was so hard,” Andy said. Then his voice changed. The next words were so soft she could barely hear them, but they made a shiver go down her back. “I’m going to kill that cretinous portiere.”
“It wasn’t his fault.”
“He’s supposed to keep the place in repair. It was criminal negligence, to say the least.”
“Was that really what it was, a piece of the coping? I didn’t see a thing.”
“Michael found the chunk on the bottom of the pool.”
“Oh. Well, all’s well that ends well,” Jean said inanely.
“Right. I won’t talk anymore. Good night, darling.”
He hung up, leaving Jean staring at the telephone.
“Darling?” she repeated.
“Your near-demise has brought out all sorts of tender feelings,” Jacqueline said. She took the telephone and put it back on the stand, but she kept her hand on it. “I wonder how long…”As Jean stared, she began to count. “Forty-one, forty-two…Not bad.”
The phone rang.
“Hello,” Jacqueline said. “Oh, yes, Sam, is it really you? It was good of Andy to call you; naturally you were concerned. Oh? Oh, she is…Of course she’s upset. I do think it’s terribly sweet of you to be so kind to her…. Well, you just tell the poor little thing that Jean is fine, and that I am going to blow Giorgio up, personally, tomorrow morning…. Yes, evidently that was what did the damage. Jean didn’t see a thing, just felt the blow…. All right, Sam. Yes, you too.”
She hung up and turned to face Jean, who was having trouble stifling her rising laughter.
“Talk about women being catty,” she chuckled. “Dana wouldn’t care if I were dead and buried. The professor just wanted you to know they had spent the night together.”
“You think so?”
Jacqueline wasn’t laughing. Absently she reached for another cigarette, lit it,