Murderers' Row Read Online Free

voice. “It’s not that, Jean. It’s just, well, I’m supposed to stick around and, well, help you through this phase.”
    â€œJust because some snoop saw me taking a little drinkie, I’ve got to have a guardian!” she complained. “What’s the matter, is somebody afraid I’m going to talk too much, or something? What I do to my liver is my own damn business!”
    â€œPlease, Jean. Not so loud. Here, let me—”
    â€œKeep your cotton-picking hands off me!” Her footsteps came across the room unsteadily. I heard the bottle rattle against the glass as she poured herself a drink. “Not so loud!” she mimicked. “You’re always telling me not so loud! Don’t drink so much, don’t talk so loud. Like a nice little boy saying please Mama don’t make another scene. How old are you, anyway, honey? I swear you make me feel like Mrs. Methuselah!”
    The young male voice was stiffly self-conscious. “I don’t really think my age is pertinent to the discussion.”
    â€œPertinent!” She laughed. “Well, I’ll talk as loud as I damn please, hear? And I’ll talk about what I please! I’ll even talk about—Do you know what folks in the know call that house in Washington we operate out of? They call it Murderers’ Row, that’s what they call it, and a damn good name, too! But we’re not supposed to talk about that, are we? Not even in whispers, heavens no! We’re not supposed to talk about the house, and if we go there, we can’t drive straight to the door even if it’s raining. Oh, no, we’ve got to get out blocks away and make sure nobody’s following—”
    â€œPlease, Jean! This room hasn’t been checked. It may be wired for all we know!”
    She paid him no attention. “—and we mustn’t ever, ever tell anybody what we really do, not on your life! And of course we mustn’t say a word about the horrible gray man who sits in that upstairs office in front of that bright window and sends us out to—no, I won’t shut up! If people only knew the dreadful things that are done in the name of peace and democracy! Horrible things!”
    I heard her gulp at her drink. The man said hastily, “All right, Jean. All right. We’ll talk about it when you’re not—when you’re feeling better. I’ll be going now, but I’ll be right next door as soon as I’ve had a cup of coffee. Call me if you need me. Remember, we’re all trying to help you. Just don’t make it too hard for us.”
    â€œIf thatsh a threat,” she said thickly, “if that’s a threat, to hell with you, honey! You don’t scare me a bit. You don’t scare me one little bitty bit, hear?”
    â€œI didn’t mean—good night, Jean.” He seemed to hesitate. “I—er, good night.”
    He moved away. The door opened and closed behind him. I glanced at my watch. It read ten-forty. His timing was good and he’d delivered his lines pretty well. But Mac had been right. This was, of course, the kid with the weak stomach—code name Alan—who’d refused to do the job; and I was ready to agree that he’d have botched it. It wasn’t a job for a sentimental kid; particularly not a sentimental kid who, by his voice, was desperately in love with the somewhat older agent he’d been assigned to watch.
    I now had twenty minutes while he drank his coffee, before witnesses. I pushed the bathroom door aside and went in there. She was standing by the big bed, swaying slightly. From the information I’d been given, the appearance of her room, and the sound of her voice, I’d expected a sodden female bum, but she looked surprisingly good, considering.
    She was wearing a simple, long-sleeved black dress with a lot of pearls at the throat—the kind of standard dress-up outfit in which they can look