The room was quite dark, it was always dark. He couldn't see the bed, the soft wide bed with the plum satin headpiece that was studded with cushioned buttons, and the triangle of chiffon that was draped elegantly from the ceiling. The venetian blinds were shut tight, the summer heat was stifling, it was like an impenetrable wall.
But he could hear and smell. He could hear Lisa breathing softly. He could scent the madness of her perfume. He couldn't remember how he came here, now in the night's darkest corner.
Why doesn't Lisa ever open her window? Such a hot summer's night.
Lisa. Warm, cosy little Lisa. Like a tawny kitten curled up by the fire. She could never stand a single breath of cold air. Maybe that was why. Maybe some of his words were breaths of cold air. In the beginning everything had been so warm and cosy. Then—coolness, coldness. Why weren't you here when I telephoned today? You're always so careful to answer the telephone. Why not me? Who was the man that called you on the telephone while you were out? Not your hairdresser! Not again!
Then Lisa went away.
John Reeve curved a smile into the darkness and walked to the bed and strangled Lisa.
Then the long silence before the telephone rang. It was so hot. His forehead was sticky. So frightfully hot here, without a single open window.
Brrrrr.
Answer it. Answer it, darling!
Why was Lisa so anxious, perched there on his earlobe? Why? Only because she'd always been fanatical about answering telephones while she was alive and that now, dead, she clung to her fetish. Or—was it to tantalize him into making his presence here in her apartment at the time of her death known, so that the police—