Three Bedrooms in Manhattan by Georges Simenon

he got from Greenwich Village? He entered the building, took an elevator to the twelfth floor, and walked down the familiar hallway. At the end was a large, well-lit space with dozens of men and women sitting at work. In a cubicle he found the director of dramatic programming, a redheaded man with a face scarred by smallpox.
    This was Hourvitch. Combe was struck by the fact that Hourvitch was Hungarian. He was struck by anything that reminded him of Kay.
    â€œI was expecting a call from you yesterday, but it doesn’t matter. Have a seat. You’re on for Wednesday. By the way, your friend Laugier will be here in a few minutes. We’ll probably be putting his new play on the air soon.”
    Barely half an hour had passed since Kay had picked out his suit and practically dressed him, choosing his tie. At the time he had thought that it was one those unforgettable moments that bind people together forever, and now it seemed far away and unreal.
    The director answered his telephone, and Combe let his gaze wander around the vast white room until it fastened on a big clock rimmed in black. He was trying to summon up the image of Kay’s face, but couldn’t.
    It was her fault. He could almost see what she looked like when she was outside, in the street. He could almost see her again the way she’d been that first night, with her little black hat perched over her eyes, the lipstick staining her cigarette, her fur hanging down from her shoulders, but he was annoyed—no, worried—not to be able to picture her in any other way.
    His impatience and nervousness must have shown, because the Hungarian asked, ear to the receiver, “You in a hurry? You’re not going to wait for Laugier?”
    Yes, he was going to wait. But something had snapped inside, and his calm had left him—he didn’t know when—taking with it his self-confidence and the happiness that was so new he hesitated to show it in public.
    He looked guilty. When Hourvitch finally hung up the phone, Combe said with forced nonchalance, “You’re Hungarian—you must know Count Larski.”
    â€œThe ambassador?”
    â€œI suppose. Yes, he must be an ambassador by now.”
    â€œIf he’s the one I’m thinking of, he’s impressive. Right now he’s the Hungarian ambassador to Mexico. He’d been the first secretary at the embassy in Paris for a long time when I knew him. I guess you know I worked with Gaumont in Paris for eight years. Larski’s wife, if I remember correctly, ran off with a gigolo …”
    He had expected it. He felt ashamed. He had asked for it—those were the very words he had been waiting to hear—but now he wanted it to stop.
    â€œThat’s all I need to know.”
    But Hourvitch went on. “I don’t know what happened to her later. I ran into her once in Cannes when I was down there working on a film. I think I saw her in New York once.” He smiled and added, “You know, in New York, you run into everybody these days, high, low. I think she must have been on the low side … Anyway, about your broadcast, what I wanted to tell you was …”
    Was Combe still listening? He was sorry he’d come, sorry he’d ever opened his mouth. He felt like he’d dirtied something, but it was Kay he blamed.
    He didn’t know for what. Maybe, deep down, it was because she hadn’t lied about everything.
    Had he really believed she’d been the wife of a first secretary at an embassy? He didn’t know now, but he was filled with anger. He thought bitterly, When I get home, she’ll be gone. Isn’t leaving what she always does?
    The idea of the emptiness waiting to greet him was so intolerable that it caused him physical pain, a sharp pain in his chest. He wanted to leap in a taxi and go straight to Greenwich Village.
    But, almost at the same time, he thought, No. Of course she’ll be there. Didn’t she say