Read Online Waltz Into Darkness by Cornell Woolrich - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cornell Woolrich
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recalled rather ruefully, completely overlooked
having his mailing address changed from here, his old quarters, to
the new house on St. Louis Street, when he made the move. Not that it
was vitally important; his business mail all continued to go to the
office, as it always had, and of personal correspondence he had never
had a great deal, only his courtship letters with Julia, now brought
to a happy termination. He would stop by the post office, on his way
home, and file the new delivery instructions, if only for the sake of
an occasional stray missive such as this.
Meanwhile
she had come back with it. "Here ! Isn't it good you just
happened to come by this way?"
He
gave the inscription a brief glance, simply to confirm it, as he took
it from her. "Mr. Louis Durand," in spidery penmanship; the
three capitals, M, L, and D, standing out in black enlargement, the
minuscule letters too finely traced and too diminished in size to
make for legibility. However, it was his own name, there could be no
mistaking that, so he questioned it no further; thrust it carelessly
into the side pocket of his coat for later reference and promptly
forgot about it.
Their
leavetaking was as exclamatory and enthusiastic as their greeting had
been. She kissed him on the forehead in a sort of maternal
benediction, waved him steadily on his way for a distance of the
first three or four succeeding house-lengths, even touched her apron
to the corner of her eye before at last turning to go inside. She
wept easily, this Madame Tellier; wept with only a single glassful of
wine, or at sight of any once-familiar face. Even those she had once
ruthlessly evicted for non-payment of rent.
He
accomplished his errand, he returned to his office, he absorbed
himself once more in the daily routine of his work.
He
discovered the letter a second time only within the last quarter of
an hour before leaving to go home, and as equally by accident as it
had been thrust upon him in the first place by happening to thrust
his hand blindly into his pocket, in search of a pocket handkerchief.
Reminded
of its presence, he rested himself for a moment by taking it out,
tearing it open, and leaning back to read it. No sooner had his eyes
fallen on the introductory words than he stopped again, puzzled.
"My
own dearest Julia :"
It
was for her, not himself.
He
turned to the envelope again, looked at it more closely than he had
on the street in presence of Madame Tellier. He saw then what had
misled him. The little curl, following the "Mr." so tiny as
almost to escape detection, was meant for an "s."
He
went back to the paper once more; turned this over, glanced at the
bottom of its reverse side.
"Your
ever-loving and distressed Bertha."
It
was from her sister, in St. Louis.
"Distressed."
The word seemed to cast itself up at him, like a barbed fishhook,
catch onto and strain at his attention. He could not pry it off
again.
He
did not intend to read any further. It was her letter, after all.
Somehow
the opening words held him trapped, he could not stop once they had
seized his eyes with their meaning.
My
own dearest Julia:
I cannot understand why you treat me thus. Surely I deserve
better
than this of you. It is three weeks now since you have left
me,
and in all that time not a word from you. Not so much as the
briefest
line, to tell me of your safe arrival, whether you met Mr.
Durand,
whether the marriage has taken place or not. Julia, you
were
never like this before. What am I to think? Can you not
imagine
the distracted state of mind this leaves me in--
14
He
waited until after they were through their supper to speak of it, and
then only in the mildest, least reproachful way.
He
took it out and gave it to her, after they had entered the sitting
room from the dining room, and settled themselves there, she across
the lamplit table from him. "This came for you today. I opened
it by mistake, not noticing. I hope you'll forgive me."
She
took the whole envelope
having his mailing address changed from here, his old quarters, to
the new house on St. Louis Street, when he made the move. Not that it
was vitally important; his business mail all continued to go to the
office, as it always had, and of personal correspondence he had never
had a great deal, only his courtship letters with Julia, now brought
to a happy termination. He would stop by the post office, on his way
home, and file the new delivery instructions, if only for the sake of
an occasional stray missive such as this.
Meanwhile
she had come back with it. "Here ! Isn't it good you just
happened to come by this way?"
He
gave the inscription a brief glance, simply to confirm it, as he took
it from her. "Mr. Louis Durand," in spidery penmanship; the
three capitals, M, L, and D, standing out in black enlargement, the
minuscule letters too finely traced and too diminished in size to
make for legibility. However, it was his own name, there could be no
mistaking that, so he questioned it no further; thrust it carelessly
into the side pocket of his coat for later reference and promptly
forgot about it.
Their
leavetaking was as exclamatory and enthusiastic as their greeting had
been. She kissed him on the forehead in a sort of maternal
benediction, waved him steadily on his way for a distance of the
first three or four succeeding house-lengths, even touched her apron
to the corner of her eye before at last turning to go inside. She
wept easily, this Madame Tellier; wept with only a single glassful of
wine, or at sight of any once-familiar face. Even those she had once
ruthlessly evicted for non-payment of rent.
He
accomplished his errand, he returned to his office, he absorbed
himself once more in the daily routine of his work.
He
discovered the letter a second time only within the last quarter of
an hour before leaving to go home, and as equally by accident as it
had been thrust upon him in the first place by happening to thrust
his hand blindly into his pocket, in search of a pocket handkerchief.
Reminded
of its presence, he rested himself for a moment by taking it out,
tearing it open, and leaning back to read it. No sooner had his eyes
fallen on the introductory words than he stopped again, puzzled.
"My
own dearest Julia :"
It
was for her, not himself.
He
turned to the envelope again, looked at it more closely than he had
on the street in presence of Madame Tellier. He saw then what had
misled him. The little curl, following the "Mr." so tiny as
almost to escape detection, was meant for an "s."
He
went back to the paper once more; turned this over, glanced at the
bottom of its reverse side.
"Your
ever-loving and distressed Bertha."
It
was from her sister, in St. Louis.
"Distressed."
The word seemed to cast itself up at him, like a barbed fishhook,
catch onto and strain at his attention. He could not pry it off
again.
He
did not intend to read any further. It was her letter, after all.
Somehow
the opening words held him trapped, he could not stop once they had
seized his eyes with their meaning.
My
own dearest Julia:
I cannot understand why you treat me thus. Surely I deserve
better
than this of you. It is three weeks now since you have left
me,
and in all that time not a word from you. Not so much as the
briefest
line, to tell me of your safe arrival, whether you met Mr.
Durand,
whether the marriage has taken place or not. Julia, you
were
never like this before. What am I to think? Can you not
imagine
the distracted state of mind this leaves me in--
14
He
waited until after they were through their supper to speak of it, and
then only in the mildest, least reproachful way.
He
took it out and gave it to her, after they had entered the sitting
room from the dining room, and settled themselves there, she across
the lamplit table from him. "This came for you today. I opened
it by mistake, not noticing. I hope you'll forgive me."
She
took the whole envelope
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