Authors: Frederic Lindsay
Quickly,
Murray
worked
out
that
the
room
must
face
out
to
the
front.
'Forget
Jimmy.
Believe
your
own
eyes.
Go
and
look
out
of
the
window.
You
know
your
wife's
car?
It's
parked
across
the
street.'
It
was
back
then
to
waiting.
Even
if
he
saw
his
wife
standing
by
the
car,
Beddowes
might
still
decide
it
was
all
a
trap.
Her
concern
for
him,
the
adulterer
and
thief,
was
a
woman's
miracle.
With
a
tinny
rattle,
the
lock
released
and,
under
nothing
more than
the
impetus
of
its
own
weight,
the
door
eased
back.
Murray
stepped
inside
and
pushed
it
shut
again
with
a
hand
behind
him.
A
pale
man
in
pyjamas
slumped
on
the
near
side
of
the
bed.
His
head
was
bowed
and
he
peered
up
without
raising
it,
giving
him
the
look
of
a
turtle
trying
to
retract
into
its
shell.
Thick
black
hair
covered
his
forearms
and
showed
between
the
unbuttoned
jacket.
'Go
and
tell
her
to
come
up.'
'I
can
ask
her.
But
you'll
have
to
answer
some
questions
first.'
'I
want
to
see
Myra.'
'What
about
Mrs
Foley?
Where
is
she?'
'In
hell.' The
hair
on
Murray's
neck
bristled.
'In
hell,
for
all
I
care.'
'She
didn't
come
here
with
you
yesterday?'
'She
was
never
with
me.
I
have
to
speak
to
Myra.
I
don't
want
to
be
on
my
own
.
'
The
tone
of
self-pity
set
Murray's
teeth
on
edge.
'Before
you
came
here
–
where
were
you
staying?
In
another
hotel?
Is
Mrs
Foley
still
there?'
'I
don't
know
where
she
is.'
He
pulled
the
halves
of
the
pyjama
jacket
together
and
held
them
shut.
'When
I
woke
up,
she'd
gone.'
'With
the
money?'
'Money?'
He
looked
bemused.
'The
money
that
belongs
to
Jimmy
Foley.
Jimmy
has
the
funny
idea
he
needs
it
to
pay
the
creditors
–
otherwise
he
goes
bankrupt.'
'Myra
didn't
talk
to
you
about
money,'
Beddowes
said
with
an
absolute
conviction.
'You're
working
for
Jimmy
.
'
He
didn't
move,
but
the
cords
on
his
neck
came
out
again
and
this
time
it
looked
as
if
he
might
get
his
head
to
disappear.
'All
right,'
Murray
said.
'Let's
talk
about
your
wife's
share
of the
money.
Did
it
go
with
Mrs
Foley
when
she
went?'
Beddowes
slid
along
the
edge
of
the
bed
and
fished
up
his
jacket
from
a
tangle
of
trousers,
shirt
and
soiled
underpants.
He
held
out
his
wallet.
At
the
invitation,
Murray
moved
away
from
his
position
by
the
door
and
took
it
from
him
with
no
more
than
the
caution
he
kept
as
a
habit
from
so
many
confrontations.
There
was
a
ten-pound
note
and
a
five
folded
in
half
and
in
another
compartment
four
singles.
'She
left
me
my
credit
cards,'
Beddowes
said.
'So
I
won't starve.'
Murray
flicked
the
wallet
so
that
it
fell
on
the
bed.
At
the
movement,
Beddowes
ducking
as
if
expecting
a
blow.
'There
are
a
few people
I'd
feel
sorry
for
before
I
got
round
to you.'
Behind
him,
there
came
a
light
insistent
tapping.
A
woman's
voice
called
from
the
corridor.
'It's
Myra,'
Beddowes
said.
His
face
sweetened
with
relief;
the
cavalry
had
come
over
the
hill
.
Looking
at
him,
Murray
shook
his
head
in
disbelief.
'I
saw
him
at
the
window,'
Mrs
Beddowes
said.
'Let
me
talk
to him.'
He
closed
the
door
on
the
happy
couple
and
walked
slowly
back
along
the
corridor.
As
he
went,
he
thought
about
what
he
would
say
to
Irene,
but
when
he
crossed
the
street
her
car,
which
was
parked
behind
Mrs
Beddowes',
was
empty.
He
could
not
understand
it;
almost
at
a
run
he
went
to
the
corner
and
then
walked
back,
looking
into
the
shops
as
he
passed.
The
hall
of
the
hotel
was
still
deserted.
He
circled
impatiently
until
he
found
a
public
phone
tucked
in
the
darkest
corner
under
the
stair.
'Mr
Bittern's
still
at
dinner.
We
have
guests.'
It
was
a
querulous female
version
of
the
lawyer's
voice;
there
was
even
the
familiar
bleat
on
the
vowels–
'gu-ests'.
'He
doesn't
take
business
calls
in
the
evening.'