Part 15 (1/2)

”Yes,” I said. ”I want one of those home-permanent outfits. And there was something else my wife told me to get but I can't remember the name of it, some kind of goo she uses to lighten the color of her hair.”

”A rinse?”

”I don't know what you call it. Anyway, her hair', dark brown to begin with, and with this stuff she gets a little past midfield into blonde territory a sort of coppery color.”

She named three or four.

”That's it,” I said on the third one. ”I remember now it was Something-Tint. Give me a slip on it, though, just in case I'm wrong and have to bring it back.”

I took it back to the car, along with the permanent-wave outfit, and read the instructions. We had to have some cotton pads to put it on with and shampoo to get rid of it after it had been on long enough. I hunted up still another drugstore for these, and while I was there I bought the sungla.s.ses, suntan lotion, and scissors.

That was everything except the whisky and cigarettes. When I stopped for these I saw a delicatessen next to the liquor store and picked up a roast chicken and a bottle of milk, and bought a shopping bag that would hold all of it.

It was one-thirty when I got back to the apartment. The Venetian blind was raised and she was lying on the rug with her face and arms in the sun. She had taken off the robe and rolled the sleeves of Her pajamas up to her shoulders. Maybe she had decided to take some interest in the proceedings at last.

”Here.” I dug around in the shopping bag and found the suntan lotion. ”Smear some of this on.”

She sat up and made a face. ”I hate being tanned.”

”Cheer up,” I said. ”It's better than prison pallor.”

”Yes. Isn't it.” She opened the bottle and rubbed some on her face and arms. ”Did you get the whisky?”

”Yeah,” I said. ”Go ahead with your tan. I'll bring a drink.”

”Thank you.” She lay down again and closed her eyes. The rug was gray, and the long hair was very dark against it.

I unpacked the shopping bag and opened one of the bottles, hiding the other in the back of the broom closet. Since she seemed to be able to handle it without getting noisy, I poured her a heavy one, half a water tumbler with only a little water in it. After all, she was buying it.

I went back into the living room. ”How long have you been in the sun now?”

”About fifteen minutes.”

”You'd better knock off, then. If you blister and peel, you'll just have to start over.”

”Yes.” She sat up. I handed her the gla.s.s and lowered the Venetian blind.

She took a sip of the drink, still sitting on the floor, and looked at me and smiled. ”Hmmm,” she said. ”You're an excellent bartender. Where's yours?”

”I didn't want any,” I said.

”Don't you drink at all?”

”Very little.”

She held up the gla.s.s. ”Well, here's to the admirable Mr. Scarborough. His strength is as the strength of ten, because his heart is pure.”

”You seem to feel better.”

”I do,” she said. ”Lots better.” She slid over a little so she could lean back against the chair. ”I've been thinking about your brilliant idea ever since you left and the more I think about it, the better I like it. It can't fail. How can they catch Madelon Butler if she has changed completely into someone else?”

”Remember, it's not easy.”

”I know. But we can do it. When do we begin?”

”Right now,” I said. ”Unless you want to finish your drink first.”

”I can work on it while you're hacking up my hair.” She laughed. ”It'll give me courage.”

”You'll probably need it,” I said.

I spread a bunch of newspapers on the floor and set one of the dining-room chairs in the middle of them. ”Sit here,” I said. She sat down, looking quite pleased and happy.

The radio was turned on, playing music. ”Was there any news while I was gone?” I asked.

She glanced up at me. ”Oh, yes. Wasn't it in the papers?”

”What?” I demanded. ”For G.o.d's sake, what?”

”That deputy sheriff's condition is improving, and they say he'll probably recover.”

I sat down weakly and lit a cigarette, the haircutting forgotten. I hadn't realized how bad the pressure had really been until now that it was gone. I hadn't killed any cop. The heat was off me. Even if they caught us, they could only get me for rapping him on the head. Of course, there was still the matter of Diana James, but that was different, somehow. I hadn't actually done that. She had. And Diana James wasn't a cop.

”Has he recovered consciousness yet?” I asked.

”No, but they expect him to any time.”

”There's one thing, though,” I said. ”He recognized you, remember?”

”Yes,” she said carelessly. ”I know.”

”That part won't help,” I said, wondering why she was so unconcerned about it.

”Oh, well, they seem to be certain enough that I was there anyway,” she said. ”His identification won't change anything.”

I should have begun to catch on then, but I fumbled it. The roof had to fall in on me before I realized why the news about that deputy sheriff made her so happy.

”Well, Pygmalion,” she said, ”shall we commence? I'm quite eager to begin life as Susie Mumble.”

I was digging through the pile of women's magazines. ”There's more to it than a haircut,” I said. ”You have to learn to talk like Susie.”

”I know. Just don't rush me, honey.”

I jerked my face around and stared at her. She was smiling.

”You catch on fast,” I said.

”Thanks, honey. I'm tryin' all the time.” She had even dropped her voice down a little, into a kind of throaty contralto purr. I was conscious of thinking that her husband and Diana James and even the police force had been outnumbered from the first in trying to outguess her.

I found the magazine I was looking for, the one that had several pages of pictures of hair styles. Some of them were short-cropped and careless, and they looked easy. I had a hunch, though, that they weren't that easy.