Chase: Roman

as he had worked on Michael Karnes, had locked up and gone away, sure that his identity and intent would be plainly understood. The car, Judge somehow seemed to realize, was an extension of the man, the modern voodoo doll.
        Chase stepped away from the Mustang and looked quickly around to see if he was being watched. It had occurred to him that Judge might be lingering somewhere on the block, interested in the effect of his latest threat. The street, lined with richly leafed elms, closely packed houses and parked cars, afforded an almost infinite number of hiding places, especially in the lengthening shadows of early evening. As carefully as he looked, however, he could not see anyone nearby nor get a glimpse of the red Volkswagen parked along the kerb, and he decided that he was really alone.
        It also seemed reasonable to assume that someone had seen Judge force his way into the locked car. When he looked from porch to porch, however, he discovered that no one was out watching the traffic, as was usually the case. Everyone, it appeared, was still inside finishing supper and washing dishes.
        He went into the house again, without encountering Mrs Fiedling, got a blanket from his room and threw that over the ruined upholstery.
        When he sat down, the seat was lumpy beneath him, and he could not help but be reminded of the soft, lumpy look of Michael Karnes's corpse as it had lain on the grass in Kanackaway Park. Trying unsuccessfully to shake off that image, he drove off to keep his date.
        
        Glenda Kleaver lived in a modestly expensive apartment on St John's Circle, on the third and highest floor. There was a peephole in her door, and she took the time to use it before answering his knock. She was wearing white shorts and a dark blue blouse, and she was in her bare feet, a casual note that served to make her shorter than him.
        ‘You're very punctual,’ she said. ‘Come in.’
        He stepped past her as she closed the door, and said, ‘You live in a very nice neighbourhood here.’
        She shrugged prettily. ‘I'm one of those people who doesn't bother saving a dime. The way I figure it, I might die next week and not have gotten any fun out of a fat savings account - or, if I don't drop off, all my hard-earned nest egg will have been whittled away by the inflation. Those are my rationalizations, anyway.’ She took his arm and led him to the couch, where she sat beside him. ‘What could I get you to drink?’
        ‘Scotch?’
        ‘On the rocks?’
        ‘Fine,’ he said.
        ‘Be right back.’
        He watched her as she rose and crossed the room, disappeared down a short corridor that evidently led to the dining room and kitchen. In those shorts, her legs were phenomenal, so unbelievably long that he thought they looked as if they ought to twist and bend like rubber. If Louise Allenby had remained in his thoughts at all, Glenda drove the girl out. There was clearly no chance of competition between them.
        While she was gone, he looked over the large living room, which was decorated with ultra-modern furniture and fixtures. A crushed-velvet couch and two matching chairs, all the colour of cocoa. A stack of light-boxes against the far wall, not turned on at the moment. One light: a fifty-pound block of marble from which a twelve-foot steel pole curved out and ended in a silvery hood that could be twisted from one area of the room to another. A coffee table. A few bright paintings, a statue of a nude girl and boy embracing, a potted rubber plant that had grown almost to the ceiling. Nothing more. The tasteful combination of ultramodern and spare decoration was a feeling that he could agree with, and he felt comfortable here.
        She came back with two glasses of Scotch and handed him one. This time, when she sat down, she took the chair directly across from the couch. That was actually better, he decided, than having her sit beside him, because he could appreciate those lovely legs more easily this way.
        She said, ‘Do you like fondue suppers?’
        ‘I've never had one,’ he said.
        ‘Well, I'm sure you'll like it,’ she said. ‘If you don't like it, no more Scotch for you.’
        He laughed and settled back, at ease for the first time since he had come in.
        Conversation was easy with her, and the subjects ranged from food to mixed drinks to furniture and design. She talked about the best places to