The Hour of the Cat by Peter Quinn Read Free Book Online Page A

not really lived in. In the corner, next to a table with a lavish arrangement of rose and lavender centaurea, was a small bar. “Drink?”
    â€œLittle early, don’t you think?”
    â€œIt’s evening in Rome.”
    â€œWhen in Rome, I guess. Scotch, a jerk of soda.”
    She filled two glasses with ice, poured Scotch in one, and squirted soda from a blue syphon in both.
    The image he’d had of her was from the photos Sniffles Ott had taken. A part-time snap shooter for the Brooklyn Eagle , Sniffles sat alone in his car waiting for Babcock. The way Sniffles liked it: A three-hundred-pound man nursing his eternal cold, nobody to complain about the incessant wheezing and snorting, rasp of phlegm being dragged up his throat. Charged twenty bucks for the job. Additional offer of snaps featuring women in black silk stockings and nothing else.
    Special price for you, Fin.
    Sorry, Sniff, no sale . A peek. Not bad. Only what I asked for.
    Along with the pictures of Babcock were three that Sniff had taken from a distance of the lovebird herself: Miss Roberta Dee. The thing to keep in mind about cameras, Dunne reminded himself, was how often they lied, how they can make an average face seem exquisite or turn extraordinary beauty into the humdrum.
    In Sniffles’ photos, Roberta Dee appeared fashionably attractive, the way half-a-hundred women on the street did; in the flesh, she was striking. Her face was older than Miss Corado’s, and there was nothing virginal or innocent about it. But her slate-blue eyes were bright, clear, wide. She had soft waves running through her auburn hair which, though perhaps tinted or dyed, was thick and lustrous. Hers was a hard beauty, polished, like marble or jade.
    She handed him the glass with Scotch in it. He took a sip and stepped over to the window. A perfect view of Grand Army Plaza. The arch. The new library. The park. A perfect view also of the bench from which he’d watched Babcock’s comings and goings.
    â€œHave a seat.” She gestured to a large plush chair. The cushion was so soft and yielding Dunne felt for a moment as if his bottom might hit the floor. He planted his elbows on the armrests and jacked himself up. She sat on the couch across from him.
    â€œYou’re lucky you’re alive, Miss Dee.”
    â€œAren’t we all?” She folded her shapely legs and stretched her arms across the back of the couch, glass in her right hand, bodice of her knit dress tight against the firm curve of her breasts.
    â€œSuppose you heard?”
    â€œWho hasn’t?”
    â€œDidn’t think you’d be this broken up.”
    She sipped the soda. “If you want to watch a woman have a good cry, try Garbo in Camille . It’s still playing at the Kings Theater in Flatbush.”
    â€œDon’t suppose the police have been here.”
    â€œI don’t suppose you’ll send them.”
    â€œI wasn’t the only one saw Babcock come in and out.”
    â€œYou, Morello the doorman, and Jimmy the elevator boy were the only ones who noticed. They’re taken care of. Besides, last thing they want is to lose a couple of days work sitting around waiting to testify about a dead man’s doings.”
    â€œMrs. Babcock followed him here , you might be singing a different song.”
    â€œI always sang the same song with Clem. I made him take the train to Court Street and take a cab from there.”
    â€œDoesn’t mean he couldn’t be followed.”
    â€œBy you? Yes. By his wife? She’s not the type to travel all the way to Brooklyn. Look, in case you haven’t figured it out, Clem and I had a business deal, pure and simple. I took care of certain of his needs. He did the same for me.”
    â€œTell you he was off to The Commodore Hotel?”
    â€œWhat he did when he wasn’t with me was his own affair, and vice versa. I’m sorry about what happened to him and wish he’d been more