[11]
It was after four when Kintyre entered Margery's apartment. She had neglected its housekeeping, and the air was acrid with smoke.
Slacks and sweater emphasized her figure. He had almost forgotten how good it was. When she sprang from the couch and into his arms he found himself kissing her without really having intended to.
"Oh, God, Bob," she whispered. "You came. Hold me close, kiss me again, I need it."
Her nails dug into his flesh, painfully, and her lips were tense against his. And yet it was but little a sexual passion, he realized; she was altogether forlorn.
"Rough?" he asked. He freed one arm and rumpled the short coppery hair.
"Reporters," she said. "Waiting at the door when I came home today. Like flies around a corpse."
The phone rang. She left it alone; the bell had been turned down. "Most likely someone else panting to pry," she said.
"How—oh, yes," said Kintyre. "The burglary would put them on to it. Or just asking around. You didn't really think your connection with Bruce would escape discovery forever?"
"It'll be smeared over every newsstand in the area. Big black mouth-licking headlines." She raised reddened eyes. "I was at the service this morning. It was all so calm and—I don't know—so right. Even for him." She pulled herself away, picked up a handkerchief and blew her nose. "Excuse me. I can't help it. That was the only sane part of the day. His parents were there, of course, that decent old couple. I didn't have the nerve to talk to them. And now they'll see! They'll know that every moron in town knows their son they were so proud of was, was, with me!"