Crowned Heads by Thomas Tryon Page B

fact been doing just that, trying to get a mental purchase—not on a woman in my chair, but on the legend of all my years, the ‘perfect work of art.’
    “I said, ‘You just said you didn’t owe anybody in the world for anything….’
    “She lolled her head back, smoking and drinking her wine, hardly interested in what I was saying. ‘I don’t,’ she replied airily.
    “‘But you do, you see.’ I bent closer with what I considered my most winning manner. ‘You owe me for a pack of Camels.’
    “She made a little ruffle of derision with her lips. ‘I have smoked only two. They’re not Camels anyway.’
    “‘Not these; another pack.’ When I finally refreshed her memory about the day at the Louvre, she returned my look with faint amusement. ‘You expect one to remember a pack of cigarettes from—how long?—almost thirty years? You flatter yourself. One meets many people, but one does not remember them.’ I recalled what Willie Marsh had told me about her use of the third person, and the way she had employed it on our former meeting; at least that remained. She sat regarding me through a haze of smoke, one of her movie poses. I kept detecting currents of nervousness, irritation, antagonism, and I wondered why she’d come. She wanted something, but I couldn’t figure out what.
    “Then her stern look softened somewhat, up went the eyebrows at the center, down came the heavy lids, out came the catlike tongue tip, curling smoke like a lash. Fedora, the movie vamp. ‘I read the thing on your book jacket. It says you are famous; is that so?’ I started to reply and she said indifferently, ‘That’s all right, I know many famous people. We gad about together. Bir-r-rds of a feather. Well, I’m waiting.’
    “‘Waiting?’
    “‘I am Rapunzel, come to let down my hair. Ask me questions.’
    “‘I didn’t think you liked being asked questions.’
    “‘I don’t. I wouldn’t answer them anyway. I just want to see what you’ll ask. You newspaper people ask such silly things. “What is your favorite role?” “What do you have for breakfast?” “Are you in lo-o-ove?”’ Again the sarcastic slur in the thick guttural accent. ‘Foolish questions from foolish people for foolish readers. Why do you waste one’s time?’ She closed her eyes. The shadowed lids lowered, then raised, the long fringe fluttering slightly, and looking from her cigarette to me, she asked:
    “‘Have you another kind of cigarette?’
    “I didn’t get it at first. I thought she meant a different brand, but her tone insinuated more, and I finally caught on.
    “‘Sorry, I don’t. It’s not a good idea to bring grass through customs, is it? Greek jails can’t be very pleasant.’
    “She laughed again. ‘I have done it—but not always with the happiest consequences. Undoubtedly you have read.’ Then she actually pouted, the famous movie pout, which should have been followed by the ironic smile, but wasn’t.
    “‘You are not adven-n-turous,’ she drawled. ‘I like adven-n-turesome men. No hashish? No pills?’
    “I made a light, open-handed gesture. Sorry, no dope for madame. She dropped her cigarette, still burning, into the dish, put down her glass, and rose.
    “‘It is late. I must be going. Thank you.’ She started for the door. I could see how displeased she was, but if I thought that was all she had come for, I was wrong.
    “‘Look—’ I began, but her quick gesture silenced me as a light flashed through the window and we heard footsteps. She gave me a quick, worried look. ‘Say nothing,’ she ordered, flattening herself against the space between window and door. In a moment someone rapped.
    “‘They sent me—I was to ask you—’ The rap sounded again. She put her finger to her lips and nodded that I was to open the door. Mrs. Balfour stood there with a tight smile, and behind her, holding a flashlight, Kritos, with his lowering look.
    “‘Good evening,’ said Mrs. Balfour, oh so