When she arrived back at her apartment she stopped for a moment outside the door. She heard two voices coming from inside and it took her a minute to decide that it was Gypsy again, in one of her drunken moods, warning Frankie and begging him to go away with her.
She put the key in the lock and tried to open the door noiselessly, but Frankie heard her and came to the door.
"Hello darling," he said, kissing her warmly. "As you can see, we have company."
"Yes. Hello Gypsy. Back to your old tricks again. Don't you ever give up!"
"You're just being stupid not listening to me. The agents are after Frankie and I got another tip today that they are going to raid you. You'd better get out of here."
"Go to hell, will you," Frankie chimed in. "I don't care to listen to any more of your wild stories. You're beginning to sound like a broken record. I think that I have your speech memorized by now."
"I don't want to hear it anymore either, Gypsy, so why don't you just leave." Cynthia ordered.
"I'm not leaving until Frankie hears me out. I just got here and I haven't finished."
"Well, I just got here and I am leaving until you decide to let us alone."
She turned to Frankie and told him that she would take a walk to the store and get some things for supper and be back in a little bit. She didn't know where she got her courage to leave them alone, but he was finally going to settle this thing with Gypsy once and for all, and she didn't want to be around. Just the very sight of Gypsy made her sick.
She buttoned up her coat and went down the hall to the self-service elevator and waited impatiently for it to appear. As the floors clicked away she had the strange feeling that maybe she had done the wrong thing, that maybe she should be back there with Frankie, but it was too late now.
The elevator stopped and she walked into the empty foyer, pausing again, debating whether or not to go back, but pushed the heavy door open and braced herself against the chill, strong wind. The streets were deserted, everyone was probably in their apartments eating dinner or in the restaurants. Not a soul was in sight.
The streetlights shed a dim, blurred light on the street as she walked trying to keep her mind off Frankie and what might be happening back in their apartment. She began to count the streetlights, saying the numbers out loud to herself, and when she reached fifty she started back again, hoping by this time Gypsy would be gone.
Her feet were cold and numb from walking so she decided to take a shortcut back to their apartment, praying that that would be the end of Gypsy and her alcoholic rages. It didn't take her very long and within fifteen minutes she found herself standing outside their apartment building.
She went back up in the elevator, feeling relieved and happy that it would all be over with Gypsy and walked eagerly down the hall, thinking only of Frankie's warm arms and passionate lips. Outside the door, she stopped and put her ear to the panel. There was no sound from within. Gypsy must really have left. She turned the key, opened the door and closed it behind her, calling out, "Frankie, I'm back!"
But instead of his cheerful voice, only an eerie silence greeted her. She paused, a cold, sickening stone of alarm and fear in her stomach and then ran toward the living room. As she entered, the acid scent of gunpowder stung her nostrils. Looking about the room, her eyes riveted with horror and unbelief; her legs became weak, she felt as though she were going to faint and she leaned feebly against the door-jam, clutching it for support.
With open eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling, Frankie was crumpled on the floor. From a dark bole in his chest blood had seeped over his bathrobe, staining it a dark red, and spread out around him on the rug.
She choked out his name in a strangled voice, tottered over and knelt beside him. But he was already dead. Too numb with shock to cry or to realize that he was really dead, she looked beyond him to where Gypsy was lying on the floor, her chest slowly rising and falling in shallow breaths, the gun a foot away from her hand. She was either in a dead faint or in some kind of a coma.
Trembling, tense, her mind a blank, Cynthia started to get up, reeled dizzily and fainted. When she came to a few minutes later, she was panic-stricken, not knowing whether to call a doctor, to go for help or to call the police. The police! Vividly she remembered Gypsy's swearing the apartment would be raided that night. Perhaps Gypsy had been telling the truth. She had an overwhelming impulse to flee, blinded by the fear that she would be arrested, for she had met no one on her solitary walk, no one to prove she hadn't been here all the time and partaken in Frankie's murder. As she remembered the glare of hatred in Gypsy's eyes, she was suddenly sure that Gypsy would try to implicate her.
Stumbling as she ran, she made for the front door. Narcotic agents! A picture of the stock of drugs Frankie had hidden in the closet flashed across her mind. Knowing that it was a crazy idea, for what good would it do Frankie now not to have the heroin found in his possession, she nevertheless turned and ran into the bedroom. She quickly dumped the capsules in her purse and started back. A snapshot of Frankie propped up on the dresser arrested her flight. She paused before it, a cry of bitter despair and agony on her lips, swept it off the dresser into her purse and ran headlong out of the apartment as though she were being chased by demons.
Still struck with a nameless terror, instead of stepping into the elevator, she clattered down the six flights of stairs and rushed out into the cold night. She ran blindly down the street, not thinking where she was going. In front of her the glare of headlights swept around the corner and raked the opposite buildings. Instinctively she dodged into a doorway and pressed herself against the wall in the dark shadows as the car passed. It was a police car! Her heart thumping wildly, she peered out and saw it stop in front of their apartment building. Three men got out. When they had disappeared into the entrance she stepped out from the doorway. Hugging the shadows next to the building, she sidled cautiously to the corner and around it. She was reluctant to hail one of the few taxis which passed her for fear the driver would remember her and connect her with the murder, so she kept on walking, her heart a black, bottomless pit of sorrow.
She had already decided to go to Paul's. When she came to a street which was still brightly lit by bars and nightclubs and where enough people were on the street for her to be thought of as just another all-night reveler, she got into a cab and gave the driver the address of a building a block down the street from Paul's.
By the time she finally stood before his door she barely had enough energy left to ring the buzzer. After awhile she heard his step and then his sleepy voice calling through the door.
"Who is it?" he asked.
"Cynthia," she answered weakly.
He quickly threw the door open. She had time only to see the look of surprise on his face before she fainted into his arms.
When she woke up she was lying on the couch. Paul was anxiously hovering over her.
"My God, Cynthia, what's happened?" he said.
She tried to speak, but her tongue couldn't seem to move in her dry mouth.
"Here, have some brandy." Cradling her head, he raised her up so she could take a sip. She coughed and sank back on the cushions.
"How do you feel? Better?"
She nodded.
"Tell me what's happened, darling!"
She looked up at him. As the memory of Frankie lying crumpled on the floor came back to her, her eyes filled with tears, she blurted out "Frankie's dead" and then broke into a wild sobbing, crying for the first time since she had walked into their apartment a lifetime ago.
Paul pressed her head against his shoulder and waited patiently until she had quieted down, then carried her into the bedroom, undressed her and put her to bed.
"If you don't feel like it, don't try to tell me about it tonight," he said. He made her take some sleeping pills and she fell into a deep, troubled sleep.
When she woke up it was early the next afternoon. At first she didn't know where she was, but then she remembered the horrible events of the night before and she called out weakly for Paul.
He hurried into the bedroom, telling her not to stir, that he would bring her breakfast, but she was too upset to eat. As he sat on the edge of the bed and held her hand, she told him what had happened and they discussed what to do next.
He scratched his head, sighed and said, "I think it might have been better, Cynthia, if you'd called the police right away. After all, you had been out while it happened and it was obvious that it was Gypsy who killed him. Running away like that might make you seem more suspicious to the police, that is, not to me, darling."
"I suppose so, Paul, but it's too late now. Really, I was too panic-stricken to know what I was doing. My only thought was to get out of there. I was so sure that Gypsy would try to drag me into it."
"Yeah. Perhaps she would have, if she's as nuts as she sounds. But I don't quite see how she could implicate you. After all…"
They sat in silence, looking worriedly at each other.
"Anything in the papers about it?" she asked.
"Not in the morning editions. Probably discovered it too late for that. Maybe in the afternoon ones."
"So now what'll we do?"
"Well, for the time being, you stay right here and don't show your nose out of doors. I'll go out and buy some papers."
He got up and started to leave. She called after him.
"Paul! I've got an ideal."
He stuck his head in the door. "What?"
"Hand me my purse a second."
She rummaged around in its depths, noted that the capsules had disappeared and found her address book. She thumbed through it. "Here, call this guy and ask him to come over."
"Who is it?" he said, as he took the book.
"Friend named Al. He used to be a newspaper reporter and still has lots of friends there. Maybe he could inquire around and find out what's going on – I mean stuff the police haven't officially let out yet."
"Good idea," Paul said. "I'll call him up right away."
He left the apartment on the run. Cynthia burrowed down under the blankets and began quietly weeping.
In less than an hour Paul returned with Al. Cynthia heard them talking in the hall in low voices before they came into the bedroom. She told Al the story, begged him to find out all he could and he left, promising to do his best.
After he left, Paul sat across the room from her, sympathy in his eyes, hoping that Al would come back with good news.
"You want to tell me the whole story now, Cindy," he asked softly.
"Yes, I guess it doesn't make any difference anymore… you'll find out all the sordid details in the paper shortly."
Tearfully she went back to the first time she had met Frankie, telling him how full of hope she had been, so sure that she could conquer the big city all by herself, and how it just hadn't worked out that way.
It hurt her to remember all the good, sweet, tender times she had had with Frankie and she broke into sobs several times before she could get the whole story out.
"He introduced me to many people, some kooks, some influential, but every one of them was involved in the rackets somehow."
"Sounds like you have had quite a time, but everything will be all right now. Don't worry, I'll stick by you."
"Dear, sweet Paul. I don't know what I would have done if I couldn't have come to you."
She told him about her involvement with Harris, the threat of exposure, his lining her up with Johnson, the parties, the dope, everything, not holding back any detail she could think of.
He listened in silence, not really in a state of shock, but with a realization that these things really do happen. She looked so lost, so helpless, that he wanted to go to her, put his arms around her and hold her, but he knew that the timing was bad.
It was early evening before Al returned.
He dropped wearily into a chair by the bed while Paul and Cynthia waited anxiously for what he had to say.
"Thank God I quit the newspaper racket," he said. "My feet are killing me!"
"For God's sakes, tell us what you found out," Paul interrupted.
"Well," he said, looking seriously at Cynthia, "I'm afraid it's not very pleasant."
They looked at him in silence.
"The papers say hardly anything about it, as I guess you know," he went on, "only that Frankie was murdered and they're holding Gypsy." He paused. "But I found out from some pals on the police beat that the cops have a dragnet out for you." He stopped to light a cigarette and took a deep drag.
"But why?" Cynthia said, "I wasn't even there when it happened."
"Yeah, I know. But Gypsy seems to have a beaut of a story. She may be nuts but she sure can think fast. Anyway, her story is that you were there all the time, that Frankie had just told you he was going to leave you and go off with her."
"What?" exclaimed Cynthia, "but…"
"Now wait a minute! Let me finish with the gruesome details… that he was going to go back to Gypsy and you then got so insanely jealous and furious that you attacked Gypsy and during the scrap you gave her a black eye – and they say she's really got a beauty. Then, Gypsy says, she drew out her gun in self-defense against you as you were so hysterical she was afraid you were going to kill her. Frankie battled you apart, but you broke loose and attacked Gypsy again. She still had the gun in her hand, with no intentions of using it, naturally, but in the scuffle you knocked her about so hard that the gun went off and accidentally killed Frankie. So, although she was technically holding the gun when it went off, it was purely accidental on her part and she's innocent of blame! It was really you who was responsible for his death – having started the fight and knocked her around so much it went off."
"But… but… but that's ridiculous!" Cynthia stammered.
"Yeah, I know. But you got anything to prove it? It's her word against yours."
She looked at him blankly and then said, horrified, "No. Absolutely nothing. I didn't see anyone while I was out."
"Of course, there's another thing that might back up her story," Al said. "I mean the part about Frankie leaving you to go back to Gypsy."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, it's been common talk around the club that you and Frankie had split up, you know – or didn't you? Some were saying that you left Frankie, others that Frankie had left you. Unfortunately, Frankie never said anything about it, so who's to really know?"
"My God," Paul said.
"But Al!" Cynthia said. "Frankie and I made up weeks ago." She swallowed hard and then went on in a small, broken voice, "He even said he wanted to marry me."
"Yeah," Al said, "fat chance the cops will believe that, on top of everything else, when you tell them you'd just been off spending a week with Paul." They sat in silence, looking at one another.
"Well, God knows what we can do," Al said. "But you'd better hole up here for awhile, it's as safe as anyplace, because no one knows you know Paul. In the meantime, I'll snoop around some more and see what else I can pick up."
He grabbed his hat and left.
Cynthia felt as though she had aged ten years in the last twenty-four hours. Even Paul, his face white and drawn, looked years older. Following so soon after Frankie's death, this new, apparently unsolvable problem made her alternately burst into uncontrollable tears and then into hysterical laughter.
In a moment of comparative calm she said to Paul, "I swear to God if I ever get out of this mess, I'll never go back to that kind of life – never as long as I live! I'll never make love for money, never smoke a joint, never shoot horse!" She smiled at him wanly. "And if I do, you can strangle me yourself – that is, if you haven't already given me up for lost."
It was Paul who, late that evening, thought of Conrad Harris.
"Say, what about that Harris guy? Isn't he a big cheese around here? Maybe he could help you."
"Conrad! Of course!" she said excitedly. "Oh, Paul, get him to come over. Right away! He'll know what to do."
"Maybe I'd better go over to his place, instead of calling. He doesn't know me from Adam."
"Good idea. Here, I'll write him a note, saying I've got to see him."
Paul dashed off and Cynthia waited impatiently. She slipped on Paul's dressing gown and paced up and down the living room.
Conrad arrived, but without Paul, explaining that he wanted to see her alone. Although he had read in the papers that Frankie had been killed and Paul had filled in the details, she told him the story all over again.
"And so I thought of you, Conrad," she concluded. "Can't you think of anything to get me out of this mess? You do believe that I really wasn't there, don't you?"
"Of course, I do, Cynthia," he said. "But I must say you're in one sweet pickle. Nothing we can't get you out of, though." He pulled her down on his lap. "Sit here. I can think better." He played idly with the tassel of her robe while he stared into space, thinking deeply.
After some minutes he said slowly and thoughtfully, "Well, Cynthia, I know a way out of this. But it might not work and it means sticking my own neck out." He looked at her seriously. "Are you sure you didn't see anyone while you were out walking, or anyone who'd remember you on your way over here?"
"Positive."
"Good. Frankly, I wouldn't do this even for you – except that you gave me that tip about that expose. That guy had gone pretty far, too far for comfort, and if I'd found out only a few days later, it would have been the fireworks. So…"
"So?" she said hopefully.
"It so happens that I was alone, completely alone, last night, even the maid was away. Now, we'll have to work out a story that mutually checks, get the hours straight and everything." He paused. "I'll swear that you spent the night with me."
"Oh, Conrad!" She collapsed with relief against him and kissed him.
He patted her on the shoulder. He said, "This Gypsy babe will probably break down and confess completely when they put the pressure on after I swear you were with me, as, of course they'll believe me, and not her."
"But in any case," he added, "you'd better leave Chicago for a while. Got any money?"
She shook her head.
"I'll give you a thousand bucks, which should keep you out of sight for awhile until this blows over."
They talked for a while, rehearsing their stories and then he said he had to leave. She walked with him to the door. In the hall she flung herself against his chest and kissed him, murmuring her thanks for what he was doing.
"Forget it, baby," he said. He kissed her on the mouth.
"I guess I won't be seeing you for a while, Cynthia. How about one for the road?"
He slipped her robe aside and ran his hands over her naked, golden body. She closed her eyes, her heart a tight knot of sorrow as his warm hands, passing so lightly and caressingly over her tender flesh, reminded her of her last night with Frankie, in reality such a short time ago, but already as though it had happened in another life. Standing face to face, he pressed her against the wall and took out his erect penis. As he gently kissed her he quietly nudged his member up between her parted thighs and she held him by the shoulders and submitted passively, keeping her eyes closed all the while, for the last time in her life she imagined it was Frankie making love to her; that it was he who was so lovingly kissing her, he who was so warmly sliding his hot, thick member up the center of her being and making her rich female juices flow, he who was so tenderly kissing away the tears which flowed silently between her closed lids and ran down her face. After they had both come, he kissed her lightly on the mouth, ran a hand over her thick, blonde hair and walked out without saying a word.
True to his word, Conrad went to the police, said he had heard they were looking for Cynthia and swore she had been with him the night of the murder. Because he was a well-known and influential man, they believed him without question. As he had predicted, Gypsy, confronted with Conrad's statement, broke down and confessed that she, herself, had killed Frankie, although she maintained until the end that Cynthia had been there earlier, but the police only laughed at her. Shortly after her confession she went completely insane.
Cynthia was not even called down to the police station. Conrad had slipped the officer in charge of the case a sealed envelope, bulky with ten dollar bills, and with a wink and hint about a Captaincy in the police department which was unfilled, but which he implied the officer would be handsomely suited for, had requested that Cynthia's name be left entirely out of the affair. So even in the newspapers she was only anonymously referred to as "the woman Frank Mahoney had been living with".
Cynthia stayed with Paul until the case was closed, spending the days wandering dejectedly about the apartment or for hours staring silently out the window, her chin in her hand. Steadily she lost weight until she looked like a thin, pale ghost.
Paul was always there in the background, a quiet, sympathetic Paul who waited patiently for her to get over her sadness.
One day she smiled at him and said, "Well, I guess I'd better get off your neck, Paul. You've put up with me long enough!"
"I'd like to have you on my neck for the rest of my life, Cindy," he said quietly.
He went to her and took her tenderly into his arms and told her all the things that he had never been able to say before.
"I want you to marry me, sweetheart," he told her, kissing her lightly.
"I know you're not ready to give me a definite answer yet, but why don't you come home with me, stay with your parents for awhile, and take it easy until you know what you want to do?"
He told her that his parents wanted him to take over the family farm so that they could retire and that he wanted to make his life with her.
She thought for a while and said with a slow, sweet smile, "All right, Paul. I think I will go back home with you. It sounds so wonderfully peaceful."