later?”
I called him before I went to . . . to Mr. Newton’s room.” Her eyes were lowered in embarrassment.
Mr. Newton, I thought. Murder, the strange impersonalizer.
Then the doorbell rang. Jones got up and opened it.
Jim. He came in and talked to Jones for a few minutes, and then Peggy went to the station with Jones and Jim. I wasn’t invited. As they got into the police car, Jim told Steig to follow them. I felt a tremor in my stomach as the big German eyed me before getting in the Cadillac. I tried to imagine him with an icepick in one hand and a razor in the other.
It was easy.
I tried to catch Peggy’s eye as the police car moved away from the curb. But she avoided my look. I guessed because I’d as much as told her I suspected her.
I watched the two cars go down the street. And I felt sick and empty.
* * *
That afternoon, back at my room, I was trying to nap when I heard footsteps on the porch and, looking out the window, saw that it was Jim.
“Come in,” I said when he knocked. He came in and the first thing I asked him was how Peggy was.
“As well as can be expected,” he said, always cryptic.
“What the hell does that mean?”
He took his hat off and looked at me dispassionately.
“If you’re going to tell me that Peggy killed Albert, save your breath. I know she didn’t,” I said.
“And how do you know?”
“I . . . I know.”
“Hardly a legal defense David,” he said. “You always did talk before thinking.”
“And you,” I said, “always did destroy what stood in your way.”
A flicker. Gone then. He sighed.
“What’s the use?” he said. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and drew out a rich leather billfold. He was holding something out to me.
“Well, take it,” he said. He paused for effect. “Are you afraid?”
I reached out a visibly shaking hand and took it. Thinking, imagining . . . refusing to accept.
“No.” I muttered.
“Read it.”
The clipping was five years old. San Francisco dateline. Picture of a man I’d never seen. And next to him a picture of Peggy.
The headline:
G.I. Student Stabbed
Pregnant Wife Confesses
I sat slumped on the bed staring at the floor. The clipping still hung from my nerveless fingers. Jim still sat in the chair looking at me. His expression was vaguely sympathetic now. He’d made his point. He didn’t have to belabor any more.
“I met Peggy’s father when I was in the Navy during the war,” Jim said. “I was his aide for about a year while he served on the court martial board.
“When the war was over he invited me to his home several times for dinner. That was before I went home to Missouri. I stayed on the coast about three months after I was discharged.
“Lister wasn’t trying to be social. He was trying to make me join the regular Navy, it turned out. It was at the captain’s house that I first met Peggy.”
He paused and I heard him clear his throat in the silence of the room. I lay there, still apathetic.
“There was no particular attraction,” Jim said, “and when I went back to Missouri, I forgot about her and her about me. She married George.”
Was that bitterness in his voice? I couldn’t be certain. I didn’t explore.
“It was what you might call a shotgun wedding,” Jim said, and that was bitterness in his voice. “Peggy was forced into it by her father. She’d stayed out late one night and Captain Lister accused her of being intimate with George. He said his name was in disgrace. And poor Peggy, too naive to know any better, too shy to argue, married George.”
He smiled without pleasure. I guess he was showing me a little more of his feelings because he figured that his battle had been won.
“George didn’t mind,” he said. “It was all right with him. And maybe Peggy didn’t mind at first either. She hated her father. She still does. I don’t even know all the reasons. They stretch back through the years. At any rate all she thought of at first was
I called him before I went to . . . to Mr. Newton’s room.” Her eyes were lowered in embarrassment.
Mr. Newton, I thought. Murder, the strange impersonalizer.
Then the doorbell rang. Jones got up and opened it.
Jim. He came in and talked to Jones for a few minutes, and then Peggy went to the station with Jones and Jim. I wasn’t invited. As they got into the police car, Jim told Steig to follow them. I felt a tremor in my stomach as the big German eyed me before getting in the Cadillac. I tried to imagine him with an icepick in one hand and a razor in the other.
It was easy.
I tried to catch Peggy’s eye as the police car moved away from the curb. But she avoided my look. I guessed because I’d as much as told her I suspected her.
I watched the two cars go down the street. And I felt sick and empty.
* * *
That afternoon, back at my room, I was trying to nap when I heard footsteps on the porch and, looking out the window, saw that it was Jim.
“Come in,” I said when he knocked. He came in and the first thing I asked him was how Peggy was.
“As well as can be expected,” he said, always cryptic.
“What the hell does that mean?”
He took his hat off and looked at me dispassionately.
“If you’re going to tell me that Peggy killed Albert, save your breath. I know she didn’t,” I said.
“And how do you know?”
“I . . . I know.”
“Hardly a legal defense David,” he said. “You always did talk before thinking.”
“And you,” I said, “always did destroy what stood in your way.”
A flicker. Gone then. He sighed.
“What’s the use?” he said. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and drew out a rich leather billfold. He was holding something out to me.
“Well, take it,” he said. He paused for effect. “Are you afraid?”
I reached out a visibly shaking hand and took it. Thinking, imagining . . . refusing to accept.
“No.” I muttered.
“Read it.”
The clipping was five years old. San Francisco dateline. Picture of a man I’d never seen. And next to him a picture of Peggy.
The headline:
G.I. Student Stabbed
Pregnant Wife Confesses
I sat slumped on the bed staring at the floor. The clipping still hung from my nerveless fingers. Jim still sat in the chair looking at me. His expression was vaguely sympathetic now. He’d made his point. He didn’t have to belabor any more.
“I met Peggy’s father when I was in the Navy during the war,” Jim said. “I was his aide for about a year while he served on the court martial board.
“When the war was over he invited me to his home several times for dinner. That was before I went home to Missouri. I stayed on the coast about three months after I was discharged.
“Lister wasn’t trying to be social. He was trying to make me join the regular Navy, it turned out. It was at the captain’s house that I first met Peggy.”
He paused and I heard him clear his throat in the silence of the room. I lay there, still apathetic.
“There was no particular attraction,” Jim said, “and when I went back to Missouri, I forgot about her and her about me. She married George.”
Was that bitterness in his voice? I couldn’t be certain. I didn’t explore.
“It was what you might call a shotgun wedding,” Jim said, and that was bitterness in his voice. “Peggy was forced into it by her father. She’d stayed out late one night and Captain Lister accused her of being intimate with George. He said his name was in disgrace. And poor Peggy, too naive to know any better, too shy to argue, married George.”
He smiled without pleasure. I guess he was showing me a little more of his feelings because he figured that his battle had been won.
“George didn’t mind,” he said. “It was all right with him. And maybe Peggy didn’t mind at first either. She hated her father. She still does. I don’t even know all the reasons. They stretch back through the years. At any rate all she thought of at first was
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