Charles Williams-All The Way 1958(7)

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After two weeks other sensations began to crowd it off the
front page, but it didn’t die entirely. Several things kept it
alive. One was the continuing search for the man who had
looted the car, and for Chapman’s body. Then there was the
concrete flamingo; that had caught the morbid public fancy.
But everybody had accepted it now, and we were safe. She’d
write, or call, and let me know where she was.
She didn’t. Another week went by. I was growing to hate the
apartment. Being away from her was bad enough but being
reminded of her every minute I was in the place made it
unbearable. And he was in it. I had the rug shampooed, and
all the time the men were working on it I wondered if I were
going as mad as Lady Macbeth.

Charles Williams-All The Way 1958(6)

The next morning I stopped at the office on the way out.
She was talking to the colored maid. When the maid left, I
asked quietly, after a glance behind me at the door, “Is there a
All The Way — 115
woman registered here who has real blue-black hair, worn in
a chignon ? A slender woman, in her thirties?”
“Why, no,” she said, puzzled. “Why?”
“I just wanted to be sure,” I said. “If she checks in, don’t tell
her I asked, but let me know right away.”
“Yes, of course,” she said uncertainly. “Could you give me
her name?”
“Oh, she won’t be using her right name,” I said. “She’s too
clever for that.”

Charles Williams-All The Way 1958(5)

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There was no enjoyment in it. I kept thinking of his body
lying down there somewhere crushed under the tons of water.
We didn’t catch anything to speak of, which was good. I
wouldn’t have to fight off the photographers. I explained we’d
have to cut the first day short because I had an important
business call to make, and we were back at the dock at three.
That was two p.m., New Orleans time. I called from the
motel.
“Chris? Chapman. How are you making out with that
Warwick?”
“Oh, hello, Mr. Chapman,” he replied. “The fishing all
right?”

Charles Williams-All The Way 1958(4)

All The Way — 71
and then one more. The phone made a crashing noise, as if it
had struck the edge of the table, and I heard him fall.
Oh, you press the middle valve down. . . .
Something else fell. And then there was nothing but the
music, and a rhythmic tapping sound, as if the telephone
receiver was swinging gently back and forth, bumping the leg
of the table.
Bump . . . bump . . .
. . . and the music goes round and round . . . yoo-oo-ohoo. . .
.
* * *
I made it in a little over ten minutes. As soon as I’d got out in
the fresh air I was all right. She’d probably fainted, but she’d
come around. I parked a block away. The front door was
unlocked. I slipped inside and closed it.
One bridge lamp was burning in a corner, and the lights
were on in the kitchen. She wasn’t in here. I sighed with
relief. The phonograph had been shut off, and the phone was
back on its cradle. The apartment was completely silent
except for the humming of the air-conditioner. He was lying
face down beside the table which held the telephone. I
hurried through to the bedroom. She was in the bathroom,
standing with her hands braced on the sides of the wash
basin, looking at her face in the mirror. Apparently she’d
started to brush her teeth, for some reason, for the
toothbrush was lying in the basin where she’d dropped it. She
was very pale. I took her arm. She turned, stared at me
blankly, and then rubbed a hand across her face.
Comprehension returned to her eyes. “I’m all right,” she said.
There was no tremor in her voice.
I led her out and sat her on the bed, and knelt beside her.
“Just hold on for a few minutes, and we’ll be out of here. You
sit right there. Would you like a drink?”
“No,” she said. “I’d rather not.” She spoke precisely without
raising her voice. I had an impression it was nothing but iron
self-control, and that she was walking very carefully along the
edge of screaming. That part of it, however, I couldn’t help
her with.