“I like rocks,” I say.
“—and then traveled with your sister to Rome, where your brother worked in the consular services department of the US embassy.”
“Congratulations on your fine detective work, Mr. Fox. Those are all nice facts.”
“Signore Orlovsky,” says Fox, in perfect Italian, and without looking away, “may I beg you for a moment of privacy with Miss Macallister?”
“Yes, of course.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Orlovsky bow—briefly—and walk out of the studio.
“Your Italian’s a lot better than mine,” I tell Fox.
“Language is a hobby of mine. May I continue?”
I don’t especially want him to continue. I have a bad feeling about his continuing. Still, I shrug back as if I don’t care. As if I’m curious to discover what he knows about me.
“During the course of your winter in Rome, you began a relationship with a Russian émigré and fashion designer by the name of Valeri Valierovich Orlovsky. The affair broke off around the third week of March, just before your sister’s accident brought you both into contact with Mr. Digby.”
“If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Fox. I don’t know where the hell you’ve been getting your facts, but I don’t see that my private life is any of your business—”
He shakes his head. “I’m not interested in prurient details, and I don’t care how you conduct your personal affairs. We are all different. We are all locked in struggle with our own demons. But I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t make some effort to understand the psychology of everyone connected to this case, Miss Macallister. You asked me how I knew I could trust you, and I’m telling you.”
“Jesus Christ.”
He sends me a hard look. I presume that whatever tolerance he extends to my sexual history, he doesn’t enjoy hearing the name of his Lord taken in vain. “At the beginning of May, you made plans to leave Rome. You booked a second-class cabin in the steamship Antigone for you and Mrs. Digby—then, of course, still Miss Macallister—but at the last minute, she elected to stay in Rome with Mr. Digby. You traveled home to New York, sharing your cabin with a Mrs. Slocombe, who recalled that you were subdued and—I quote her—under the weight of some great sorrow.”
“That’s only because Mrs. Slocombe wouldn’t stop talking.”
“Two years after your return, you found a job as Mr. Hudson’s secretary, taking over more of his duties following his stroke in the summer of 1944. The agency enjoyed great success under your administration. During the war, you organized your more celebrated clients to sell government bonds, and for propaganda efforts under the direction of the War Department. Just about everyone who’s worked with you—clients, government officials, advertising executives, magazine editors, even business rivals—describes you as fiercely intelligent, honorable, tough but fair, and not above using your personal charisma to achieve advantage on behalf of the models you represent.”
Sometime during the course of this disquisition, I find a seat on the wide, deep couch. I cross my legs and light a cigarette from my pocketbook, and my God, I have never needed one more badly.
“Throughout your adult life,” he continues, watching my face, “you have conducted your private affairs with remarkable discretion. You donate significant sums of money to several worthy charities, but you choose to keep your contributions anonymous. Your social activities are chiefly undertaken with some business angle, such as fund raisers and publicity outings—your evening visit to the Palmetto Club last weekend, for example. You’ve taken pains to project an image of sexual sophistication, but in fact, since returning to New York, you appear to have had intimate relationships with only a handful of men. In rotation, like a baseball lineup.”
“Now, there’s a fascinating analogy. And what do you make of all this?”
“As a psychological evaluation? I’d say you’re a person who, having suffered profound loss as a child, has erected various defenses to protect herself. The events in Rome only hardened your determination to separate heart from head, to speak in layman’s terms. As a person of great natural loyalty, you fear betrayal most of all. Your trust is hard-won. You have, as a result, no close friends, and you don’t wish for any.”
I blow out a long stream of smoke and clap one hand against the other, holding the cigarette. “Well done, Doctor. Excellent investigative work. Must have taken years. All that without even having spoken to the patient and asked her opinion about herself.”