Read Online The Man in the Net by Patrick Quentin - Free Book Online
Authors: Patrick Quentin
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guess.”
“Come to mine. That was Vickie’s bright idea last night. We can keep each other out of trouble, she says, and, more important, I can wangle you on to my expense account. Don’t tell Father.” His laugh was conspiratorial. “How’s Linda this morning?”
“She’s fine.”
“Not hung-over, I hope?”
“Doesn’t seem to be.”
“Fine. See you on the train. Vickie would send her love, I know, but she’s out on the lake teaching Leroy to catch bass. It’s her new mother routine. They were up at dawn.” Brad’s voice became serious. “Don’t worry about Linda, John. It’ll be okay. Women … It’ll all iron itself out.”
John dropped the receiver and took the breakfast tray into the kitchen. Through the window, he saw Linda strolling toward the studio. She skirted it and disappeared around the rear wall into the old cow-barn, which formed the basement of the studio, where the logs were stacked and where, in a recent spurt of gardening enthusiasm, Linda kept her tools. Soon she reappeared, dragging a plastic hose behind her. She pulled it up to the bed of zinnias she had planted in front of the studio and started to sprinkle them.
The sunlight was full on the flowers and she usually made a great point of only watering in the evening. It seemed an improbable thing for her to be doing at that hour, anyway. Then he realized. Of course. She had another bottle hidden in the cow-barn. She’d gone for a drink and was sprinkling the zinnias to justify the visit to the barn.
He went out to join her. Looking up from the flowers, she gave him the same bright smile.
“So you’re up already. Do be an angel, will you, and keep in the studio this morning? When I’m through with the flowers I’m going to have a great house-cleaning project and I don’t want big feet tramping around.” The smile stretched even wider. “Or maybe you’d rather go out with the kids. I had to call Mrs. Jones about some dress pattern I’ve been promising to help her with for weeks. Emily answered the phone. She said they were expecting you at the swimming hole. You’d promised specially to go swimming, she said. But it’s just as you like, of course.”
So this was her way of letting him know she had capitulated? No recrimination. No references even. Just the busy cheerful housewife, the considerate neighbor, the model helpmeet. He was sure now that she’d had a drink in the barn. But it didn’t matter. Once she’d made the decision to be co-operative, she’d need the drink to fortify her.
She turned the nozzle shut and dropped the hose. “Now for the living-room.” She started away and, turning, asked with elaborate casualness, “Oh, are you going to New York?”
“Yes. I’m going.”
“I see. I just wanted to know about lunch. If you do go out with the kids, remember to be back by twelve-thirty. I’ll have to get your lunch a bit early for you to make the train.”
She started back toward the house and he went into the studio. Pictures were stacked against the walls. His latest canvas was on the easel. He stood a moment, looking at it. It made no sense to him, and he knew it would be hopeless to try to work. The kids, he thought. Why not? The morning had to be got through somehow. Linda had suggested it and probably that’s what she wanted—to get him out of the way. She was afraid of herself, scared that if they gave themselves any opportunity for another scene her good intentions might crack.
He returned to the house, put on swimming trunks and slipped his pants back over them. He could hear Linda running the vacuum in the living-room. Calling to her, “I’m off swimming”, he went out of the front door and started down the road.
The bend in the creek which the kids used as their swimming hole was only half a mile away toward Stoneville at a point where disused pastureland broke, for a while, into the vast acreage of woods.
When he reached the
“Come to mine. That was Vickie’s bright idea last night. We can keep each other out of trouble, she says, and, more important, I can wangle you on to my expense account. Don’t tell Father.” His laugh was conspiratorial. “How’s Linda this morning?”
“She’s fine.”
“Not hung-over, I hope?”
“Doesn’t seem to be.”
“Fine. See you on the train. Vickie would send her love, I know, but she’s out on the lake teaching Leroy to catch bass. It’s her new mother routine. They were up at dawn.” Brad’s voice became serious. “Don’t worry about Linda, John. It’ll be okay. Women … It’ll all iron itself out.”
John dropped the receiver and took the breakfast tray into the kitchen. Through the window, he saw Linda strolling toward the studio. She skirted it and disappeared around the rear wall into the old cow-barn, which formed the basement of the studio, where the logs were stacked and where, in a recent spurt of gardening enthusiasm, Linda kept her tools. Soon she reappeared, dragging a plastic hose behind her. She pulled it up to the bed of zinnias she had planted in front of the studio and started to sprinkle them.
The sunlight was full on the flowers and she usually made a great point of only watering in the evening. It seemed an improbable thing for her to be doing at that hour, anyway. Then he realized. Of course. She had another bottle hidden in the cow-barn. She’d gone for a drink and was sprinkling the zinnias to justify the visit to the barn.
He went out to join her. Looking up from the flowers, she gave him the same bright smile.
“So you’re up already. Do be an angel, will you, and keep in the studio this morning? When I’m through with the flowers I’m going to have a great house-cleaning project and I don’t want big feet tramping around.” The smile stretched even wider. “Or maybe you’d rather go out with the kids. I had to call Mrs. Jones about some dress pattern I’ve been promising to help her with for weeks. Emily answered the phone. She said they were expecting you at the swimming hole. You’d promised specially to go swimming, she said. But it’s just as you like, of course.”
So this was her way of letting him know she had capitulated? No recrimination. No references even. Just the busy cheerful housewife, the considerate neighbor, the model helpmeet. He was sure now that she’d had a drink in the barn. But it didn’t matter. Once she’d made the decision to be co-operative, she’d need the drink to fortify her.
She turned the nozzle shut and dropped the hose. “Now for the living-room.” She started away and, turning, asked with elaborate casualness, “Oh, are you going to New York?”
“Yes. I’m going.”
“I see. I just wanted to know about lunch. If you do go out with the kids, remember to be back by twelve-thirty. I’ll have to get your lunch a bit early for you to make the train.”
She started back toward the house and he went into the studio. Pictures were stacked against the walls. His latest canvas was on the easel. He stood a moment, looking at it. It made no sense to him, and he knew it would be hopeless to try to work. The kids, he thought. Why not? The morning had to be got through somehow. Linda had suggested it and probably that’s what she wanted—to get him out of the way. She was afraid of herself, scared that if they gave themselves any opportunity for another scene her good intentions might crack.
He returned to the house, put on swimming trunks and slipped his pants back over them. He could hear Linda running the vacuum in the living-room. Calling to her, “I’m off swimming”, he went out of the front door and started down the road.
The bend in the creek which the kids used as their swimming hole was only half a mile away toward Stoneville at a point where disused pastureland broke, for a while, into the vast acreage of woods.
When he reached the
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