Part 33 (2/2)
”She died,” I said, ”and no one gives a s.h.i.+t.”
”Oh, but you do, huh? You're a real great guy that way, right?” Running his fingers along her wrist now.
”I'm trying.”
”This woman-she small and blond and f.u.c.ked up on quaaludes and Midori from seven in the morning on?”
”She was small and blond. The rest I wouldn't know about.”
”C'mere, honey.” He tugged Holly gently onto his lap and then stroked strands of hair off her neck. Holly chewed her lower lip and looked into his eyes and the underside of her chin quivered.
Warren turned his head so that Holly's chest was pressed against his ear and looked directly at me for the first time. Seeing his face full on, I was surprised by how young he looked. Late twenties, maybe, a child's blue eyes, cheeks as smooth as a debutante's, a surfer boy's sun-washed purity.
”You ever read what Denby wrote about The Third Man The Third Man?” Warren asked me.
Denby was David Denby, I a.s.sumed, long the film critic for New York New York magazine. Hardly someone I expected to hear referenced by Warren, particularly after his wife had claimed to not even know what movie I'd been talking about. magazine. Hardly someone I expected to hear referenced by Warren, particularly after his wife had claimed to not even know what movie I'd been talking about.
”Can't say I have.”
”He said no adult in the postwar world had the right to be as innocent as Holly Martens was.”
His wife said, ”Hey!”
He touched her nose with his fingertip. ”The movie character, honey, not you.”
”Oh. Okay, then.”
He looked back at me. ”You agree, Mr. Detective?”
I nodded. ”I always thought Calloway was the only hero in that movie.”
He snapped his fingers. ”Trevor Howard. Me, too.” He looked up at his wife, and she buried her face in his hair, smelled it. ”This woman's effects-you wouldn't be looking for anything of value in it, would you?”
”You mean like jewelry?”
”Jewelry, cameras, any s.h.i.+t you could p.a.w.n.”
”No,” I said. ”I'm looking for reasons why she died.”
”The woman you're looking for,” he said, ”stayed in Fifteen B. Small, blond, called herself Karen Wetterau.”
”That'd be her.”
”Come on.” He waved me through the small wooden gate beside the desk. ”We'll take a look together.”
I reached his wheelchair, and Holly turned her cheek on his head and looked up at me with sleepy eyes.
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