Breathe No More My Lady

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“Writing is like prostitution... first you do it for the love of it, then you do it for a few friends, and finally you do it for money.” —Moliere

PART I

Norm Connor

I RUSHED into my office at Longson Publishing at five to eleven. I was twenty-five minutes late and sweating a little, but it was neither my being late or the humid morning that made me sweat. As I nodded at Miss Park, she told me, “Mr. Long wants to see you at once. And Frank Kuha asked you to phone him before noon. I was able to pick up some Turkish coffee last sight and can't wait to try it iced. Mr. Long called twice.”

“Oh, hell, what day is this? Sales conference on?”

Miss Park screwed up her face—as she always did when anything was out of whack. “Why Mr. Connor, the conference was on Monday, as usual. You know, if we try the Turkish iced, I think we should get some heavy cream, or even a can of whipped cream.”

I nodded and walked into my office. I tossed the folded morning paper I'd been carrying under my arm on the desk, lit my pipe, and sat down and drummed on an ash tray with my fingers. I called the apartment. There wasn't any answer as I half expected. Drying my face with a tissue, I finally phoned the air terminal and had them check the Paris flights. The crisp, impersonal voice at the other end of the wire told me Michele had actually taken off at 6:15 a.m. I asked, “Are you positive? Mrs. Michele Connor? C-O-N-N-O-R. Are you positive?”

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