Read Online RENDEZVOUS IN BLACK by Max Gilbert - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Max Gilbert
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she said disclaimingly. "A business jacket over your dinner trousers. A lump under your coat. The revolver gone from the drawer. You weren't very subtle about it, you know." Then she added, quite neutrally, "And did you?"
He stared his horror at her.
"I'm only going by the indications you gave. You showed every intention, and yet you look at me so appalled when I--"
"But do you have to be so brittle about it?" he pleaded almost poignantly.
"Forgive me," she said. "I'm sorry." And she sounded quite penitent about it. "I'm not used to living with violence, you know. I'll have to learn to drop my drawing-room glaze."
His head was drooping far downward, showing her the part in his hair. He was holding his hands cupped to his face, and speaking between them. His voice was stifled.
"She was already dead. I found her lying there already dead. Someone--I don't know who--I only know I didn't."
She reached for his hand and held it. She patted the back of it, almost maternally.
"Of course you didn't. Of course."
He raised his head, became a little more alert, as a sudden recollection struck him. "I can prove it. I can show I didn't. Wait a minute, where is that--!" He grew frightened for a moment, at finding he no longer had his coat on. He jumped up, went into the bathroom, came back with the coat. "Here. Here it is. I found this lying there in the room." He handed her the note.
She read it aloud. "'Now how do you like it, Mr. Strickland?'"
Her thinking was always so much quicker than his. "You should have left it there," she said instantly. "There's where it should have stayed, where he put it. Not here, where they can't see it."
"But I didn't want to be linked--"
She changed her mind, abruptly. "Maybe it's better. Yes, maybe you were right. But keep it, whatever you do. Make sure you hang onto it. If you have to, you can show it to them. But you see, you've already destroyed the greater part of its value. You can't prove you found it there in the room, now that you've removed it. You can prove, or they can, that it wasn't written by you; but you could have found it anywhere. It could have come from anywhere else. It's too late now." Then seeing the dismay this had brought into his eyes, she added: "But even without the note, you're safe enough. They can't saddle it on you, when you really didn't do it. There would have to be a complete miscarriage of justice. Those things don't happen."
"But they'll come here. They're bound to. They'll ask questions. . . ."
She nodded regretfully. "They'll go back into her past. And the association was--a rather long one."
"Florence, you've got to help me! No matter what they find out about the past, that won't count so much; at least, if we can keep them from finding out about tonight. Don't you see? This big party you gave tonight. What a marvelous thing. Dozens of people; they all saw me here all evening, to the very end. Florence, I didn't go out of the house after our guests left tonight! I never left it, do you understand? Florence, you won't go back on me, will you? You'll stick by me? You're my only hope."
"I'm your wife, Hugh," was all she said. "Are you forgetting? I'm your wife." There was only tender devotion in her eyes as they met his.
His head fell forward against her breast, with a deep choking gasp of relief that was almost a sob.
Softly, reassuringly, her hand stroked his hair. Forgivingly, understandingly, with all the wifely solicitude there was in the whole world.
She'd died the night of Tuesday to Wednesday. Nothing happened Wednesday. Nothing happened Thursday. It was just flat, impersonal; it was just cold print, black on white. He held his breath. Then on Friday it finally leaped out of the papers, came to life, and took the form of a man standing on his threshhold.
"Show him in," he said to Harris.
Then he checked the order. "No, wait a minute." He tried a pose at the desk, scanning some papers. No, that didn't look right, this wasn't an office. He
He stared his horror at her.
"I'm only going by the indications you gave. You showed every intention, and yet you look at me so appalled when I--"
"But do you have to be so brittle about it?" he pleaded almost poignantly.
"Forgive me," she said. "I'm sorry." And she sounded quite penitent about it. "I'm not used to living with violence, you know. I'll have to learn to drop my drawing-room glaze."
His head was drooping far downward, showing her the part in his hair. He was holding his hands cupped to his face, and speaking between them. His voice was stifled.
"She was already dead. I found her lying there already dead. Someone--I don't know who--I only know I didn't."
She reached for his hand and held it. She patted the back of it, almost maternally.
"Of course you didn't. Of course."
He raised his head, became a little more alert, as a sudden recollection struck him. "I can prove it. I can show I didn't. Wait a minute, where is that--!" He grew frightened for a moment, at finding he no longer had his coat on. He jumped up, went into the bathroom, came back with the coat. "Here. Here it is. I found this lying there in the room." He handed her the note.
She read it aloud. "'Now how do you like it, Mr. Strickland?'"
Her thinking was always so much quicker than his. "You should have left it there," she said instantly. "There's where it should have stayed, where he put it. Not here, where they can't see it."
"But I didn't want to be linked--"
She changed her mind, abruptly. "Maybe it's better. Yes, maybe you were right. But keep it, whatever you do. Make sure you hang onto it. If you have to, you can show it to them. But you see, you've already destroyed the greater part of its value. You can't prove you found it there in the room, now that you've removed it. You can prove, or they can, that it wasn't written by you; but you could have found it anywhere. It could have come from anywhere else. It's too late now." Then seeing the dismay this had brought into his eyes, she added: "But even without the note, you're safe enough. They can't saddle it on you, when you really didn't do it. There would have to be a complete miscarriage of justice. Those things don't happen."
"But they'll come here. They're bound to. They'll ask questions. . . ."
She nodded regretfully. "They'll go back into her past. And the association was--a rather long one."
"Florence, you've got to help me! No matter what they find out about the past, that won't count so much; at least, if we can keep them from finding out about tonight. Don't you see? This big party you gave tonight. What a marvelous thing. Dozens of people; they all saw me here all evening, to the very end. Florence, I didn't go out of the house after our guests left tonight! I never left it, do you understand? Florence, you won't go back on me, will you? You'll stick by me? You're my only hope."
"I'm your wife, Hugh," was all she said. "Are you forgetting? I'm your wife." There was only tender devotion in her eyes as they met his.
His head fell forward against her breast, with a deep choking gasp of relief that was almost a sob.
Softly, reassuringly, her hand stroked his hair. Forgivingly, understandingly, with all the wifely solicitude there was in the whole world.
She'd died the night of Tuesday to Wednesday. Nothing happened Wednesday. Nothing happened Thursday. It was just flat, impersonal; it was just cold print, black on white. He held his breath. Then on Friday it finally leaped out of the papers, came to life, and took the form of a man standing on his threshhold.
"Show him in," he said to Harris.
Then he checked the order. "No, wait a minute." He tried a pose at the desk, scanning some papers. No, that didn't look right, this wasn't an office. He
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