Read Online Puzzle for Pilgrims by Patrick Quentin - Free Book Online Page B

the muscles of my legs felt thin as water.
    “Iris,” I said.

Eight
    She wore her coat slung over her shoulders, Sally-style. Her dark hair gleamed in the pink light that was hardly light. Her face was thin and terribly pale. She looked as if she had been sick for weeks. I wondered if her idyll with Martin was doing this to her.
    She stared at me, her eyes almost vacant. I was surprised that seeing me should be such a shock. And I’d been thinking about her so much that I had lost the faculty of being natural. I felt awkward, clumsy.
    “Peter.” Her hand came out and took my sleeve. Even the touch of her hand was different. That wasn’t the way my wife’s fingers had felt. “Peter, I didn’t recognize you. So dark.”
    She seemed to be making a terrific effort at control. I said, “What are you doing here?”
    “Me?” She paused as if thinking what she was doing there. Then the words came hurriedly. “Sally sent for me. She called me in Acapulco. She said not to tell Martin, but she wanted to talk to me. She said maybe—maybe everything could be arranged.” She added, “And you?”
    “Remember your SOS? I’m here to talk to Sally too. Where is she?”
    Iris leaned against the arm of a sofa that glowed a pale yellow. “I don’t know. I just came. I knocked on the door. Nothing happened. The door was open. I walked in. She isn’t here.”
    “And the servants?”
    “There’s some kind of fiesta. She must have let them all go to the fiesta.”
    A flat silence came. We stood there in the gloom close together but like strangers—worse than strangers, because there was that quivering tension between us.
    I said stiffly, in a tea-party voice, “I hope you are well.”
    “Yes, thank you, Peter.”
    “And Martin?”
    “He’s well too. He doesn’t know I’m here.”
    I stared down at the carpet. Some small object gleamed dully. I tried to identify it. A slipper? Yes, a silver slipper sprawled on its side. Beyond it, over by the open French windows leading to the terrace, a big vase full of tuberoses had fallen off a table and was lying on the carpet. I wondered if the wind had knocked it down.
    “I hope you’re happy,” I said.
    “Yes, Peter, yes.” The words sprang from her.
    There seemed so much bravado that my heart melted for her. I didn’t mind any more that she was shutting me out. I went to her. I put my hands on her arms. She was shivering the way Marietta had shivered. Because what had happened between us had made me physically humble, I thought she found my touch repulsive. I took my hands away.
    “Iris,” I said, “I want things to turn out right for you. You believe that, don’t you?”
    She didn’t answer.
    I said, “On the phone Sally told me too that things might be arranged. Maybe she was telling the truth. Maybe it’ll pan out.”
    “Don’t, please,” she whispered.
    “Iris, baby, what’s the matter?”
    She threw herself against me, sliding her arms around me. “Let’s get away from here. This room, I hate it. Don’t let’s wait. Please, Peter, let’s go.”
    I was exhilarated because she was in my arms of her own accord. That meant more to me than the desperation in her.
    I said quietly, “Don’t be silly, baby. This is important. We’ve got to wait. Maybe between us, we can—”
    I heard footsteps at the door behind me. Then a reading lamp was snapped on. Iris broke from my arms. I turned to face the door, expecting Sally.
    It wasn’t Sally. Large and handsomely brash in his tight gabardine suit, Jake Lord stood on the threshold. Under the cropped red hair he was grinning at me.
    “Well, well,” he said. “Pardon me.”
    We both stared at him, uncertain. He strolled into the room throwing a casual glance around its muted elegancies.
    “Well,” he said again. “Fancy finding you here, Peter.” He came very close to us, staring blatantly at Iris. “And the little lady?”
    I said, “Iris, this is Jake Lord. Jake—my wife.”
    “Your wife?” He gave