Read Online Dark Tunnel by Ross MacDonald - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ross MacDonald
Ads: Link
society, she will be a most valuable instructor in the AST Program.”
“There’s no doubt of that,” I said. “But it seems to me that she owes you a very great deal.”
“Do you think so?” he said. There was a deep and tragic irony in his smile. He got up and turned his back on me to look out into the twilight that was rising from the ground like thin smoke into the pale sky. I stood up and looked out of the bay window over his shoulder. A few ragged clouds were scudding north and out of sight above the house. The curved window in which we stood was like the glassed-in prow of a boat, headed nowhere across a darkening sea.
Something moved in the garden and broke the illusion. I looked down towards the far end and saw a man get up out of a deck-chair on the last terrace by the cliff-edge. He stood for a moment with his back to the house, looking up into the moving sky. His body was slim and straight against the horizon and he stood with his legs apart like a young man, but in the evening greyness his hair looked snow white.
Dr. Schneider rapped on the window and the man in the garden turned around and saw us and started up the flagstone path to the house. He moved quickly and easily like a cat, his Angora hair blowing in the wind. When he came closer, I could see that he was a young man, hardly older than some of my students. His face and hair were very blonde, almost albino, and his eyes were as pale and empty as the sky.
Schneider turned to me and said, “My son Peter. I don’t believe you know him.”
“I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“I seldom see him myself. He’s a consulting engineer, you know, and his job takes him all over the country. He just got back from Canada and is taking a short holiday.”
“Really? Did he meet Ruth Esch?”
“No, I don’t believe so.”
“Of course not,” Peter Schneider said from the doorway. I turned and looked at him. If his pale eyes had not been incapable of expression, he would have been glaring at his father. “Canada is a large country, you know.”
His accent was surprisingly good, less evident than the old man’s, although Peter had only been in the country two years.
Dr. Schneider moved around me and said, “Of course, you were in Toronto, weren’t you? Peter, I’d like you to meet Dr. Branch. Dr. Branch, my son Peter.” There was no warmth and no fatherly condescension in his voice. The two spoke to each other as equals and their relation puzzled me.
“How-do-you-do,” Peter said and put out his hand. I answered him and stepped forward to shake it. It was soft and strong like his face, which was as rosy and smooth as a baby’s.
The strength of his face was in the bones. Under the light drift of hair the brow was wide, with bulbous ridges above the eyes. The nose was blunt and straight and the sharp, triangular chin looked determined, but the lower lip was thick and soft, like a woman’s or a sulky boy’s. His face, strong and petulant at once, was handsome enough, but two things made it strange. His eyelashes and eyebrows were so light that he seemed to have none, and his steady eyes were almost colorless and held no meaning. If the eyes are the windows of the soul, Peter Schneider’s soul had long ago pulled down the blinds and gone into another room.
“I know Toronto a bit,” I said.
“Really?”
I turned to Dr. Schneider. “Where was Ruth in Canada?”
He looked at his son and said nothing. Finally he spoke: “I don’t know.”
An elderly woman with drooping eyes and mouth and breasts came into the room and stood twisting her apron until Schneider said, “Ja?”
“Dinner is ready,” she said in German and stumped away on flat slippered feet.
I looked at Schneider and he said, “My housekeeper. I brought her with me from Germany and she has refused to learn English. Mrs. Shantz is an ignorant peasant, but she is a good cook.”
When the dinner had reached the coffee and cigarettes stage, I was ready to agree with
“There’s no doubt of that,” I said. “But it seems to me that she owes you a very great deal.”
“Do you think so?” he said. There was a deep and tragic irony in his smile. He got up and turned his back on me to look out into the twilight that was rising from the ground like thin smoke into the pale sky. I stood up and looked out of the bay window over his shoulder. A few ragged clouds were scudding north and out of sight above the house. The curved window in which we stood was like the glassed-in prow of a boat, headed nowhere across a darkening sea.
Something moved in the garden and broke the illusion. I looked down towards the far end and saw a man get up out of a deck-chair on the last terrace by the cliff-edge. He stood for a moment with his back to the house, looking up into the moving sky. His body was slim and straight against the horizon and he stood with his legs apart like a young man, but in the evening greyness his hair looked snow white.
Dr. Schneider rapped on the window and the man in the garden turned around and saw us and started up the flagstone path to the house. He moved quickly and easily like a cat, his Angora hair blowing in the wind. When he came closer, I could see that he was a young man, hardly older than some of my students. His face and hair were very blonde, almost albino, and his eyes were as pale and empty as the sky.
Schneider turned to me and said, “My son Peter. I don’t believe you know him.”
“I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“I seldom see him myself. He’s a consulting engineer, you know, and his job takes him all over the country. He just got back from Canada and is taking a short holiday.”
“Really? Did he meet Ruth Esch?”
“No, I don’t believe so.”
“Of course not,” Peter Schneider said from the doorway. I turned and looked at him. If his pale eyes had not been incapable of expression, he would have been glaring at his father. “Canada is a large country, you know.”
His accent was surprisingly good, less evident than the old man’s, although Peter had only been in the country two years.
Dr. Schneider moved around me and said, “Of course, you were in Toronto, weren’t you? Peter, I’d like you to meet Dr. Branch. Dr. Branch, my son Peter.” There was no warmth and no fatherly condescension in his voice. The two spoke to each other as equals and their relation puzzled me.
“How-do-you-do,” Peter said and put out his hand. I answered him and stepped forward to shake it. It was soft and strong like his face, which was as rosy and smooth as a baby’s.
The strength of his face was in the bones. Under the light drift of hair the brow was wide, with bulbous ridges above the eyes. The nose was blunt and straight and the sharp, triangular chin looked determined, but the lower lip was thick and soft, like a woman’s or a sulky boy’s. His face, strong and petulant at once, was handsome enough, but two things made it strange. His eyelashes and eyebrows were so light that he seemed to have none, and his steady eyes were almost colorless and held no meaning. If the eyes are the windows of the soul, Peter Schneider’s soul had long ago pulled down the blinds and gone into another room.
“I know Toronto a bit,” I said.
“Really?”
I turned to Dr. Schneider. “Where was Ruth in Canada?”
He looked at his son and said nothing. Finally he spoke: “I don’t know.”
An elderly woman with drooping eyes and mouth and breasts came into the room and stood twisting her apron until Schneider said, “Ja?”
“Dinner is ready,” she said in German and stumped away on flat slippered feet.
I looked at Schneider and he said, “My housekeeper. I brought her with me from Germany and she has refused to learn English. Mrs. Shantz is an ignorant peasant, but she is a good cook.”
When the dinner had reached the coffee and cigarettes stage, I was ready to agree with