Read Online THE WHITE WOLF by Franklin Gregory - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Franklin Gregory
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Pierre said, “You mean your paper has.”
“The woman was young,” Trent said. “Somebody—lounger or somebody—saw her pick the baby up. Didn't think anything of it at the moment. Natural enough to pick up your own baby and go into a store. Not that he saw her go in.”
“That’s so. But this head.’’
Trent was unwrapping the cellophane from a cigar.
“Checks. Wasn’t so badly battered up it couldn't be identified. But, godamighty, where’s the torso?”
Pierre’s eyes were on the corner of the room. The picture he saw there was that of a young woman of fashion who was disinterested in the conversation of men. Sara was examining her fingernails with the critical look of a female about to change her manicurist. Pierre said:
“Not being either the kidnaper or a clairvoyant, I couldn’t say. Did the fellow get a good description?”
He thought, with satisfaction, that Sara was beginning to take an interest in the talk. She seemed to lean forward slightly, and then to settle back when Trent said:
“So-so. Young, pretty, blonde. But you know how those things go. Get a dozen witnesses to the same thing and you’ll get a dozen different reports.’’
Sara got up and walked out of the room. She was walking across the lawn, a light throw over her shoulders, when she heard David’s voice behind her.
She halted, and her shoulders sagged in resignation.
“ ’Lo, Dave.”
“Just drove over to get dad.” David explained. “He’s awfully upset tonight.”
Sara replied:
“I noticed.”
“Is he still in there?”
“Yes.’’
“Still—talking about that baby?”
Sara said. “Really, I didn’t notice what they were talking about.”
David thought he caught a false note. He became, quite suddenly, angry.
“That’s a lie!” he exclaimed.
Sara stepped away from him. The mere movement forced him to plead:
“Please, that was a lousy thing to say. I’m awfully sorry. Guess I’m upset, too.”
She remained aloof. But she was feminine enough to goad David on.
“I don’t have the reputation of telling lies,” she said icily. She realized instantly she had gone too far. David stepped forward and grabbed her by her shoulders. He shook her, “And that’s a lie!” he said. He said it between his teeth and this time he knew there would be no retreat. “Do you know where that child’s head was found? Back of that house, that's where!”
He thought that she shuddered under the touch of his strong hands; then he felt the muscles of her shoulders stiffen.
“But, David,” she asked, “why this? What does this have to do with me?”
He felt himself weakening. But a cloud that had obscured the moon passed over and he could look down into Sara's changed face.
“I think—plenty,” he said. “What were you doing there?”
“Where?”
“That house.”
Sara whispered, “Are you insane?”
David released his grip. And then he was aware that she had turned and was walking down toward the creek—a rather defiant figure, checkered by the shadows from the branches overhead.
The autumn was long that year. And down along the Neshaminy the woods retained their rich coloring far into November. In the clearings and in the fields, the amber corn stood in the shock; and pumpkin and squash lay between the shocks.
It had been a good year. There had been rains, and the Neshaminy was full. It raced joyously between the moss-clad rocks and grassy banks still green. And thwarted here or there by a small boulder, a current would explode into a silver shower of spray, and then race with abandon around the boulder.
Occasionally you would see a brace of gaily feathered pheasants strut into the open from a thicket. They would pause and listen warily, for men in hunting clothes were now about. You could hear their guns, now distant, now near.
Or you might see a
“The woman was young,” Trent said. “Somebody—lounger or somebody—saw her pick the baby up. Didn't think anything of it at the moment. Natural enough to pick up your own baby and go into a store. Not that he saw her go in.”
“That’s so. But this head.’’
Trent was unwrapping the cellophane from a cigar.
“Checks. Wasn’t so badly battered up it couldn't be identified. But, godamighty, where’s the torso?”
Pierre’s eyes were on the corner of the room. The picture he saw there was that of a young woman of fashion who was disinterested in the conversation of men. Sara was examining her fingernails with the critical look of a female about to change her manicurist. Pierre said:
“Not being either the kidnaper or a clairvoyant, I couldn’t say. Did the fellow get a good description?”
He thought, with satisfaction, that Sara was beginning to take an interest in the talk. She seemed to lean forward slightly, and then to settle back when Trent said:
“So-so. Young, pretty, blonde. But you know how those things go. Get a dozen witnesses to the same thing and you’ll get a dozen different reports.’’
Sara got up and walked out of the room. She was walking across the lawn, a light throw over her shoulders, when she heard David’s voice behind her.
She halted, and her shoulders sagged in resignation.
“ ’Lo, Dave.”
“Just drove over to get dad.” David explained. “He’s awfully upset tonight.”
Sara replied:
“I noticed.”
“Is he still in there?”
“Yes.’’
“Still—talking about that baby?”
Sara said. “Really, I didn’t notice what they were talking about.”
David thought he caught a false note. He became, quite suddenly, angry.
“That’s a lie!” he exclaimed.
Sara stepped away from him. The mere movement forced him to plead:
“Please, that was a lousy thing to say. I’m awfully sorry. Guess I’m upset, too.”
She remained aloof. But she was feminine enough to goad David on.
“I don’t have the reputation of telling lies,” she said icily. She realized instantly she had gone too far. David stepped forward and grabbed her by her shoulders. He shook her, “And that’s a lie!” he said. He said it between his teeth and this time he knew there would be no retreat. “Do you know where that child’s head was found? Back of that house, that's where!”
He thought that she shuddered under the touch of his strong hands; then he felt the muscles of her shoulders stiffen.
“But, David,” she asked, “why this? What does this have to do with me?”
He felt himself weakening. But a cloud that had obscured the moon passed over and he could look down into Sara's changed face.
“I think—plenty,” he said. “What were you doing there?”
“Where?”
“That house.”
Sara whispered, “Are you insane?”
David released his grip. And then he was aware that she had turned and was walking down toward the creek—a rather defiant figure, checkered by the shadows from the branches overhead.
The autumn was long that year. And down along the Neshaminy the woods retained their rich coloring far into November. In the clearings and in the fields, the amber corn stood in the shock; and pumpkin and squash lay between the shocks.
It had been a good year. There had been rains, and the Neshaminy was full. It raced joyously between the moss-clad rocks and grassy banks still green. And thwarted here or there by a small boulder, a current would explode into a silver shower of spray, and then race with abandon around the boulder.
Occasionally you would see a brace of gaily feathered pheasants strut into the open from a thicket. They would pause and listen warily, for men in hunting clothes were now about. You could hear their guns, now distant, now near.
Or you might see a
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