Better to Eat You by Charlotte Armstrong Page A

Consuelo’s soft old face looked as ferocious as possible.
    â€œAnd therefore Malvina also knows. And moreover, the old man let her cover and he went along with that. And if they do know about my car and don’t speak of it to me, then there sure is something devious and dishonest going on.”
    Consuelo said uneasily in a moment, “Do you think you’d better go and stay there? Possibly it’s a nest of snakes, Davey.”
    â€œThat’s why I jumped at it,” David said. “One thing worries me. I’m on a false basis with Sarah. Couldn’t speak to her aside, you know. There wasn’t a chance. I’ll have to make one. She doesn’t realize why I’ll be there.”
    â€œDavey, you’ll get no work done.”
    â€œI don’t expect to. Don’t plan to try.”
    â€œThey may try … to fix another piece of bad luck up for you.”
    â€œHow I hope they do!” he said. “I can hardly wait.”

Chapter 5
    The Monday was one of those glorious days when the whole world looked freshly painted in the crystal air. For once, the ocean was properly aquamarine. The crisp ruffles of surf, whiter than white. The sky as blue as a back-drop.
    The red car flashed up the road at ten exactly. David walked into a burst of welcome. Gust Monteeth, a bent and durable-looking man, respectfully carried his bags into the guest house, which stood apart, backed up against the bluff at the land side of the garden. Edgar was there, like a sub-host, showing him his half of the cottage. Then he was introduced to Mrs. Monteeth, elderly and shapeless, with soft flabby cheeks, a flying eye, and upright but absent-minded air. Moon was summoned from the kitchen, an ageless Chinaman who uttered a sequence of syllables that were gibberish to David’s ear. His manner conveyed welcome. Finally Fox himself came out into the garden and chirruped and twinkled at him.
    Malvina, mistress of all these ceremonies, looking rather regal in a white cotton sun-dress that might have been a ball gown, now led him to the studio.
    And there waiting, in a sedate blue cotton waist and skirt, looking very small and tense and determined, was Sarah Shepherd.
    David took over. He sent Gust to carry up his books and boxes.
    The garage building began from a lower level than the garden so that the studio could be entered without climbing either up or down. One passed first through a cluttered anteroom where Gust kept garden tools on one side and his saw and hammers, paint pots and plumbing aids on the other. The studio itself took up two thirds of the space of this second story and looked out upon the road, the cove, and of course the ever-present sea. There was here a big desk, a table for Sarah, many shelves, some cushioned window benches, a chair or two, and a couch against the partition. There began a great unpacking.
    David took notebooks and papers from his boxes. He had along an early draft of his first three chapters and, for the rest, he had snatched some old stuff. Now he directed Sarah firmly because he soon saw that this helped her. Occupied with classifying in her own mind the papers as he arranged them, trying to understand his system, she forgot to be frightened. David, meanwhile, kept up a running conversation with Malvina, who had sat down on one of the window benches and remained as if she were too fascinated to move.
    She listened, but her interest was policy, her questions betrayed the poverty of her outlook. David could feel the little girl’s swift understanding running ahead of the heavy work it was to expound upon the history of California, as he saw it, to Malvina Lupino. The big girl was all pose, all polish, all this curious, fresh and yet reticent personality of hers. David began to suspect she was wearing a mask over nothing, that the secret of Malvina was a certain numbness and stupidity.
    But Sarah was as quick as his own hand.
    Putting books on shelves, Sarah must