Read Online Old Sinners Never Die by Dorothy Salisbury Davis - Free Book Online
Authors: Dorothy Salisbury Davis
Ads: Link
Madame Cru. And somebody I think called Montaigne—a young man. He was very gay, and most reactionary. The violinist, M. Katz, who was very melancholy. And that is all, except the host—and your father, who was, if you don’t mind me saying it, also very gay.”
He didn’t mind d’Inde’s saying it half so much as he minded the old man’s being it. “Forgive me for not seeing you home, Helene?” He was more than a little hurt that she did not insist on accompanying him.
She put her hand in his and clung to it for a second. “Call me … or come,” she said in a voice not quite a whisper but intended for him only to hear. There was, he became aware, some purpose to her easy consent to d’Inde’s escort. “I do understand, of course,” she said more loudly.
“By the way, Jarvis,” the Frenchman said, “your father had words with that Montaigne boy—as I did myself.”
“On politics?”
“On Hitler and Mussolini. Of course, I suppose you could call it politics.”
“Oh,” Jimmie said, relieved. His father was rather fond of talking about the Russians. He liked to say that some of his best friends were Russians. Whereupon he often recited their names, making up some of them, Jimmie was sure, for rhyme and metre. What it did for the Russians at home, friendship with an American army officer, Jimmie used sometimes to ponder, little realizing until the last few months how little it might prosper the American at home.
Montaigne, Jimmie thought, awaiting the delivery of his car: he did not suppose he had ever heard the name except for the sixteenth century French essayist.
In the car Jimmie turned on the radio as he headed along the Potomac. It was time for the 12.30 news. He did not know whether or not he really wanted to hear it. Surely there were other important things going on in the world. There were, but Jimmie soon discovered he was not listening to them: he was waiting for the name, Senator Fagan, convinced he would hear it before the broadcast was over. How many throughout the city were waiting for the same thing, albeit less intimately concerned: there were some people to whom Fagan’s revelations had more suspense than a lottery. And the senator never failed his public. The newscaster said:
“A late bulletin. Reached by telephone within the hour. Senator Fagan announced that tomorrow morning he would turn over to the proper authorities for investigation the names of persons involved in tonight’s charges. Earlier, the mid-western lawmaker had accused a prominent member of the State Department of entertaining at least four known subversives …”
Jimmie switched off the radio and turned into his own driveway. The garage was empty. Even Tom’s jalopy was gone. He knew the moment he let himself in the house that the only possible company he might find there was the family cat, and he thought bitterly, observing her reluctant rise from the kitchen rocker at his approach, she wouldn’t be home either if she weren’t already pregnant.
Not a note anywhere: it was entirely unlike Mrs. Norris. Of course, she might have been persuaded earlier to go riding with Tom, and something might have happened to delay them; almost anything could happen in his automobile; he called it “Sophie” in honour of a singer of comparable vintage.
Then the cat jumped up on the table, a laborious leap; but thus was Jimmie’s eye attracted to the words Mrs. Norris had written as Tom remembered them: “Key Bridge, Arlington side,” and the card on which was engraved the name, “Leo Montaigne.”
Jimmie sat down for a moment and made a lap for the cat. The handwriting was Mrs. Norris’, no doubt of it. But the card, Leo Montaigne’s—what was it doing here? Had his father been home? What had gone on here that had taken Tom and Mrs. Norris from the house? The cat stretched and began to purr and knead her paws. Her claws went through to his flesh.
Jimmie thought then of Virginia Allan, remembering her name.
He didn’t mind d’Inde’s saying it half so much as he minded the old man’s being it. “Forgive me for not seeing you home, Helene?” He was more than a little hurt that she did not insist on accompanying him.
She put her hand in his and clung to it for a second. “Call me … or come,” she said in a voice not quite a whisper but intended for him only to hear. There was, he became aware, some purpose to her easy consent to d’Inde’s escort. “I do understand, of course,” she said more loudly.
“By the way, Jarvis,” the Frenchman said, “your father had words with that Montaigne boy—as I did myself.”
“On politics?”
“On Hitler and Mussolini. Of course, I suppose you could call it politics.”
“Oh,” Jimmie said, relieved. His father was rather fond of talking about the Russians. He liked to say that some of his best friends were Russians. Whereupon he often recited their names, making up some of them, Jimmie was sure, for rhyme and metre. What it did for the Russians at home, friendship with an American army officer, Jimmie used sometimes to ponder, little realizing until the last few months how little it might prosper the American at home.
Montaigne, Jimmie thought, awaiting the delivery of his car: he did not suppose he had ever heard the name except for the sixteenth century French essayist.
In the car Jimmie turned on the radio as he headed along the Potomac. It was time for the 12.30 news. He did not know whether or not he really wanted to hear it. Surely there were other important things going on in the world. There were, but Jimmie soon discovered he was not listening to them: he was waiting for the name, Senator Fagan, convinced he would hear it before the broadcast was over. How many throughout the city were waiting for the same thing, albeit less intimately concerned: there were some people to whom Fagan’s revelations had more suspense than a lottery. And the senator never failed his public. The newscaster said:
“A late bulletin. Reached by telephone within the hour. Senator Fagan announced that tomorrow morning he would turn over to the proper authorities for investigation the names of persons involved in tonight’s charges. Earlier, the mid-western lawmaker had accused a prominent member of the State Department of entertaining at least four known subversives …”
Jimmie switched off the radio and turned into his own driveway. The garage was empty. Even Tom’s jalopy was gone. He knew the moment he let himself in the house that the only possible company he might find there was the family cat, and he thought bitterly, observing her reluctant rise from the kitchen rocker at his approach, she wouldn’t be home either if she weren’t already pregnant.
Not a note anywhere: it was entirely unlike Mrs. Norris. Of course, she might have been persuaded earlier to go riding with Tom, and something might have happened to delay them; almost anything could happen in his automobile; he called it “Sophie” in honour of a singer of comparable vintage.
Then the cat jumped up on the table, a laborious leap; but thus was Jimmie’s eye attracted to the words Mrs. Norris had written as Tom remembered them: “Key Bridge, Arlington side,” and the card on which was engraved the name, “Leo Montaigne.”
Jimmie sat down for a moment and made a lap for the cat. The handwriting was Mrs. Norris’, no doubt of it. But the card, Leo Montaigne’s—what was it doing here? Had his father been home? What had gone on here that had taken Tom and Mrs. Norris from the house? The cat stretched and began to purr and knead her paws. Her claws went through to his flesh.
Jimmie thought then of Virginia Allan, remembering her name.
Similar Books
