6
June 5th, 10.15 a.m.
THE SUN came through the windows of Mendetta’s apartment and made patterns on the white carpet.
Remains of breakfast on a silver tray stood on a little table by the settee. An ash−tray gave out a thin grey smoke of a dying cigarette.
Jean, still in a bed−wrap, lay on the settee, her eyes closed and her thoughts far away. She was trying to imagine her life without Mendetta. It was difficult to imagine. It would be difficult also to replace this luxury.
But she knew that she couldn’t live with Mendetta much longer.
The telephone rang shrilly. It startled her. She reached out and took the receiver off. “Who is it?” she said.
Her voice was deep, almost man−like.
Grantham said, “Where’s Mendetta?” He sounded very excited.
Jean looked up at the ceiling. She hadn’t much use for Grantham. “He’s out,” she said briefly. “What’s wrong?”