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"You look healthy to me," she said.
"It's the hectic flush of fever."
He was out of the office before she could chide him further. He flagged a cab, then changed his mind. The cops were forever questioning cabdrivers. He took the long, slow subway ride to Queens.
On the flight to Albuquerque he wondered what he should do about renting a car. He'd paid cash for his ticket so that he could use an assumed name, but he'd need a driver's license and credit card to rent a car. When the man next to him got up to use the bathroom Clay went through his breastpocket. They didn't look anything alike, but no one ever inspected those photos. And fortunately the man's home was in New Mexico. He wouldn't miss his license until after Clay mailed it back to him, with cash for the price of the rental, of course.
It turned out to be easy. Pathetically easy. He called Dr. Reindorf and told him the truth, that he was Roxa
Clay made the red-eye back to New York with an hour to spare. The next morning Amy stuck her head around his door. She started to ask him something, but decided he really did have the flu, his eyes were so puffy. It wasn't until later in the day that Roxa
"She somehow ended up going to the morgue to look at the body, don't ask me why," Amy told Clay's secretary, since Clay had gone home sick again. "It had been run over by a car several times before being thrown from the mesa. The cops hauled her ex-gardener in for questioning but they don't seem to have any suspects."
"The news should revive Clay," his secretary said.
Ancilla's hands fluttered at her sides like captive birds. "You don't understand, Karl. Papa is dead. His work-I never valued it properly, but I must try to carry it on."
"But, darling girl, it's too heavy a burden for you. It's just not a suitable job for a woman."
"Ah, if you knew what I felt, when I saw him-had to identify his body after the jackals had been at it-no burden could be too big for me now."
Karl felt pride stir within him. He had loved Ancilla when she had been a beautiful, willful girl, the toast of Vie
"I love it," Clay said. "I'm ecstatic. And you're calling it Life's Work? You got her to change it from An Unsuitable Job for a Woman? Good going. It's been only seventeen weeks since that shrink died and she's already cured. We ought to be able to print a million, a million two, easy. I'll fax Brussels. We'll go out to celebrate."
"I'd rather celebrate right here." Amy shut his office door. "We have a chance to sign a really brilliant new writer. Her name is Lisa Ferguson and she's written an extraordinary novel about life in western Kansas during the sixties. She's going to be the next Eudora Welty."
"No, Amy. Hispanic experience is good. African is possible. But rural Kansas is of no interest to anyone these days except you. I'm certainly not going to pitch it to Brussels."
Amy leaned over the desk. "Clay, Lila Trumbull called me seventeen weeks ago. The day after you went home sick with the flu."
"She's always calling. How can you know what day it was?"
"Because that was when Roxa
Clay shifted in his chair. When he spoke his voice came out in a croak.
"I-she-she should have asked at the rental counter. They could've told her no one rented a car in my name that day. Anyway, I couldn't have been there. I was home with the flu."
"That's what I told her, Clay. You were home sick-she must have been mistaken. And that's what I'll tell anyone else who asks… I'll call Lisa Ferguson's agent and tell her thirty, okay?"
Clay stared at her glassily, like a stuffed owl. "Sure, Amy. You do that."
Amy stood up. "Oh-and, Clay, in case you're thinking how good I'd look at the bottom of a mesa-or under the IRT -I hope you remember Roxa
Clay's secretary came down to Amy's office a few minutes later. "Can you talk to old Mr. Jambon in Brussels? Clay's gone home sick again. I hope there isn't anything serious wrong with him."
Amy smiled. "He's fine. He just got a little overexcited this morning about Roxa
The Blackmailer by ANNE PERRY
The butler closed the withdrawing room door behind him. "Excuse me, sir. There is a young gentleman called to see you." He held out the silver tray, offering Henry Rathbone the card on it.
Henry picked it up and read. The name James Darcy was only slightly familiar. It was half past nine on a January evening, and bitterly cold. The gas lamps in the street were haloed in fog, and the hansom cabs' wheels hissed in the damp, their horses' hooves muffled by the clinging darkness.
"He seems very agitated, sir," the butler said, watching Henry's face. "He begged me to ask if you would see him, as he is in some kind of difficulty, although of course he did not impart its nature to me."
"Then I suppose you had better show him in," Henry conceded. "I ca
The man who followed the butler into the room was of average height, fair coloring, and regular features. He was very well dressed. His cravat was tied to perfection, his boots gleamed, and in spite of his obvious anxiety, he bore himself with confidence.
"It is very good of you to receive me, sir," he said, extending his hand. "Most particularly since I have called at such an uncivil hour. To tell you the truth, I have been arguing with myself all afternoon as to what I should do, and whether or not I should approach you." He met Henry's eyes with disarming candor, and Henry saw the fear sharp and bright in them.
"Please sit down, Mr. Darcy," he invited. "A glass of brandy? You must be cold."
"Indeed I am. That is most kind of you." Darcy moved closer to the fire and stood for a moment. Then, as if his legs had collapsed, he sank into the chair, letting out his breath in a shaking sigh. "I am in a most terrible situation, Mr. Rathbone, and I ca