All The Way by Charles Williams Read Free Book Online

room and lay down on the bed. It was raining now; I could see it falling into the airwell. I picked up the phone and asked for Long Distance.
    ”Miami Beach,” I said. “The Golden Horn Motel. Personal call to Mrs. Marian Forsyth.” At least I could talk to her.
    “Hold the line, please.”
    I waited. I could hear the operator.
    “Golden Horn,” a girl’s voice said. “Who? Mrs. Forsyth? Just a moment, please . . . I’m sorry; she’s left.”
    I dropped the phone back on the cradle. Well, it wasn’t everybody who was smart enough to turn down a seventy-five-thousand-dollar proposition before he’d even heard it. And I’d never see her again. I lit a cigarette and watched the rain, and thought of some of the places we could have gone together—Acapulco, and Bimini, and Nassau. . . .
    Thirty minutes later the phone rang. It was Miami Beach. Her voice was exactly as cool, urbane, and pleasant as ever. “I finally decided you were never going to call, so—“
    I suppose I could ask, I thought. But why bother? There was something inevitable about her; if I’d been holed up in a Lamasery in Tibet it wouldn’t have made the slightest difference.
    “You win,” I said. “I’ll be there some time tonight.”
    “That’s wonderful, Jerry.”
    “Where?” I asked.
    “You’re sweet. Then you did try to call me?”
    “You know damn well I did. Where?”
    “Two hundred and six Dover Way,” she replied. “It’s a wonderful place to work.”
    I caught a flight out of Idlewild at five forty-five. The rain had stopped, but it was colder. As I was going up the loading ramp of the DC-7, a colored boy from the catering department was coming down. I dropped the overcoat on his arm. “Have a good Christmas,” I said.
    When we were airborne and the NO SMOKING sign went off, I lit a cigarette. How she’d learned where I was in New York was routine, actually. She’d known all the time. All her detectives had to do was notify their New York office what flight I’d taken out of Miami, and have me picked up at Idlewild again and tailed to the hotel. The rest of it, however, was considerably more subtle—waiting me out till I called first and learned she’d left the motel without a forwarding address. And then giving me a long half-hour to think about what I’d thrown away for ever, like an old man remembering some girl who’d done everything but draw him a diagram when he was fifteen. That was a nice touch.
    We were down at Miami shortly after nine. I waited impatiently out front for my bag and took a cab. It seemed to take for ever, through the downtown traffic and across the MacArthur Causeway. Dover Way was on the Biscayne side, not far from the bay, a quiet side street only three or four blocks long. 206 was half of a side-by-side duplex set back off the street with a hedge in front and shadowy, bougainvillea-covered walls on both sides. I paid off the cab and went up the walk. Lights were on beside the door, but the adjoining apartment appeared to be dark. I pressed the button.
    She was wearing a dark skirt and severe white blouse. I kicked the door shut, dropped the bag, and took her in my arms. She submitted to being kissed in that same cool way—quite gracious about it but not particularly eager that it become a trend. She smiled. “How do you like our place?”
    It was small, well-furnished, air-conditioned, and very quiet. The living room, which seemed to be more than half of it, was carpeted in gray, and the floor-length curtains at the window in front and the larger one on the left were dark green. The sofa and three chairs were Danish modern, and there was a long coffee table that appeared to be teak and was protected with plate glass. There were three hassocks covered with corduroy in explosive colors. Straight opposite, an open doorway led into the bedroom. Just to the right of it another opened into a small dining area and kitchen. To the left of the bedroom doorway were some built-in bookshelves