Over My Dead Body Read online

  He raced to the far end of the room and through a door. I went in the opposite direction, to the foyer, and got my hat and coat and put them on. Then I opened the closet door, thinking to help, but stood bewildered at the array of fur-bearing animals hanging there. I thought what’s the difference, and reached for one, but felt my elbow seized from behind and heard Belinda’s voice:

  “Hey, no you don’t. That’s my mink! Get out of the way!”

  She pushed past me, her open negligée doing practically nothing to conceal distractions, and emerged with a mink coat that looked all the same to me. I took it and trotted back in. Zorka, shod, was on her feet, and Barrett was tying the girdle of the red gown. She swayed a little while we got the coat on her and buttoned it up to her chin, but navigated well enough when I hooked on to her arm and escorted her to the foyer. Miss Reade was standing there holding the outer door open. As we passed through Barrett told her, “I’ll have to take them down. If the phone rings, don’t answer it. I’ll be right back.”

  She stumbled on the stairs, but I had a good hold and we got her into the elevator without mishap. Barrett pushed the button and we descended. At the ground floor he preceded us along the corridor and opened the street door.

  “Do you want me to help—?”

  “No, thanks. If they trace that call, my advice—”

  “Go to hell!”

  The door shut and I was alone on the sidewalk with my booty. She was clinging to my arm and at intervals was saying something that sounded like “Oops.” I squeezed her hand reassuringly and started to convey her gently in the direction of Grand Central, but had negotiated less than half a block when a taxi appeared and I flagged it. Getting her in was more a matter of strength than strategy. She was floppy on the cushion, and I held her against me as we bounced along and around a corner towards Lexington Avenue. She was now murmuring something like “Urpees.”

  The roadster was still there, like a faithful dog waiting for its master. The taxi-driver was sympathetic and helpful, and with his assistance it was an easy matter to make the transfer. As we were boosting her in she started to kick, but with a firm tone and a firm hand I got her on to the seat and the door closed. The driver nodded his thanks for the moderate tip I gave him and offered advice: “Taking her out, if she gets nasty, work from behind. That way she can’t reach your face and she’s not so apt to bite.”

  “Okay. Much obliged.”

  I climbed in and started the engine and rolled. As I rounded the corner to head downtown she said, “Gribblezook.” I replied, “Hvala Bogu.” Apparently it was satisfactory, for she relaxed into the corner and shut up. A couple of times en route I opened my mouth to inform her where we were bound for and what she had to look forward to, but a glance at her made me decide I’d be wasting my breath. The traffic was at home in bed where it belonged, and I made good time down to 35th and then cross-town.

  I stopped at the kerb in front of the house, grabbed her shoulder and straightened her up, and called her name. No response and her eyes were shut. I shook her. I turned her loose and she flopped in the corner as runny as mush. I pinched her thigh, a good one, and she didn’t flinch. I pulled her up straight and shook her again, and her head bounced on to my shoulder and stayed there, and then rolled off. “Hell! I muttered. “It’s only ten yards to a touchdown.”