"Oh, gee, I'm sorry," Roger said. "I didn't mean to-"
"You will be delighted to learn that we are neither of us suspects. In the considered opinion of the police, this was an outside job. As a matter of fact, they think the basement door was jimmied. The short one said so."
"Good night, Amelia," Tartaglia said from the door.
"Good night," she said.
"It was a pleasure meeting you," he said.
"Thank you. You, too."
"It was a pleasure," Tartaglia said again.
"Miss," Fook said, and he stopped in front of her and made a small bow. "You are with one of the sweetest people who ever walked the face of this earth, Roger Broome, a fine man even on short acquaintance."
"I know," Amelia said.
"Good. You are a fine woman."
"Thank you."
"Good," he said. He went to the door. "Be sweet to each other," he said. "You are very sweet people. Be sweet."
He made a short bow and then went out. Tartaglia went out behind him, closing the door.
"I think you had better lock it," Amelia said thickly.
"Why?"
"Mmm," she said, and grinned wickedly. "We have things to do, Roger. We have nice things to do." She rose unsteadily and walked to the closet door, opening it, and then pulling back in surprise and turning to him and covering her giggle with a cupped hand. "I thought it was the John," she said. "Where's the John?"
"Down the hall."
"Would you mind if I went to wash my face?" she asked.
"No, not at all," he said.
"I'll be right back," she said. She went to the door, opened it, turned, and then said - with great dignity -"I really have to pee," and went out.
Roger sat on the edge of the bed.
His hands were sweating.
He had hit Molly very suddenly.
He had not known he was going to hit her until his hand came out, not in an open-palmed slap, but the fist bunched instead into a tight hard ball. He had struck out and hit her in the eye, and then had pulled back his fist and hit her again, making her nose bleed. He saw her opening her mouth to scream, everything looked very peculiar all at once, the blood starting from her nose, he instinctively knew he could not allow any blood to stain the sheets, her mouth beginning to open in what he knew would be a piercing scream, he reached out quickly and grabbed her throat in both huge hands, squeezing. The scream died somewhere back in her throat, leaving only a small clicking gasp as his fingers closed on her neck. He lifted her off the bed at the same moment, bending her back so that the blood ran from her nose to the side of her face and over her jawbone and down her throat, over his hands - he almost released her when the blood touched his hands - and then down over her collarbone and her small naked breasts, but not touching the bed or the floor, he did not want bloodstains on anything. He wondered for a split instant - as her eyes bulged in her head, and she struck out at him with weakening hands, the hands fluttering aimlessly like broken butterflies - he wondered why he was doing this, he loved her, she was beautiful, why was he doing this, he hated her. Everything was bottled inside her head, everything was bulging into her head as he continued squeezing, blood was bursting from "her nose, her eyes were getting wider and wider, her mouth opened, a curious retching sound came from her, he thought she would vomit on his hands, he almost backed away from her and then everything seemed to stop. He realized she was no longer struggling. She hung limp at the ends of his hands. He lowered her slowly to the floor, taking care that he did not tilt her head, not wanting to get any blood on anything. He left her naked, lying on her back, and went into the bathroom to wash his hands.
He sat with her for perhaps a half hour trying to figure out what he should do.
He thought maybe he should call his mother and tell her he had killed a girl. But then he had the funniest feeling his mother would just say Come home as quick as you can, son, leave her there and come home. He didn't think that was the right thing to do.
He kept looking at the girl lying naked on the floor. She looked even uglier in death, and he wondered how he could have ever thought she was beautiful, and then for a reason he could not understand, he reached down and with his forefinger he gently and tenderly traced the outline of her profile. Then he closed her staring eyes.
I'll take her to the police, he thought.
