Stranger At Home by George Sanders

you, Michael?”
    Vickers’ left eyebrow made a cold, questioning arch. “Should I have done?”
    Angie went over and put her hand on Joan’s arm. “Please, darling,” she said gently. “Come and help me pack.” Joan stood still a moment, then allowed Angie to steer her toward the hall. Neither one glanced back.
    Harriet Crandall said “H’m!” audibly. She tapped her husband on the shoulder. “Come on, Job. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
    Job set his glass down slowly and stood up. Harriet was waiting for him, but he paid no attention to her. He went instead to Vickers and stood facing him.
    â€œDon’t start thinking things about Angie,” he said. “No matter what anybody says, they’re not true.”
    Vickers said nothing. His eyes were cool and impenetrable, faintly amused. Job flushed darkly.
    Harriet said, “You might try standing up for your own wife sometime.” She went off to get her belongings. Job Crandall turned on his heel and followed her.
    Bill Saul kissed his blonde lightly and patted her up onto her feet. He motioned, and she trotted off obediently like a well-trained dog. Saul yawned, but his eyes, meeting Vickers’, were anything but sleepy. He nodded toward the door, apparently referring to Trehearne.
    â€œI don’t like him,” he said. “Never trust a man with a mouth that should belong to a good woman. They’re poison.”

Chapter Six
    It was not a merry trip back to town. They went in Sessions’ car. Sessions drove, Vickers sat beside him, Angie and Joan were in the back, and nobody spoke. Jennie Bryce was driving Harry’s car. The bay, when they left it, was still blue and calm and quite unperturbed by the recent dumping of a corpse into it.
    Sessions was oppressed by the silence. He was also embarrassed. It was embarrassing to hate a man with all the strength of one’s soul – a rather flabby and undersized soul, admittedly, but still one’s only possession of that kind – to hate, and for four years to cherish the completely logical hope that this man is painfully dead and in hell, and then have him turn up sound in wind and limb and securely in his old place, which is neatly astride one’s neck. It is even more embarrassing when the hated one knows all about it and is not even angry. Merely amused.
    When he could stand it no longer, Sessions said heartily, “Well, Vick, when are you coming down to the store? Everybody will be delighted to have you...”
    He was going to say, “– have you back.” But Vickers turned his head slightly and Sessions glimpsed the raised eyebrow and the smile. He did not finish. His eyes were on the road after that, and he did not see the expression that came gradually in Vickers’ face. somber look, and one that Sessions would have found completely unfamiliar.
    â€œBusiness has improved, you say.”
    Sessions nodded. There was a very tiny, almost invisible imp of malice in his reply. “As I told you – nearly a third.”
    â€œHow odd,” said Vickers. He slid down in the seat, made an effort to get his long legs arranged comfortably, and closed his eyes. “I would have thought the business would simply crumble away without me.”
    He appeared to sleep.
    Sessions smiled. Quite brazenly. But it didn’t, you son of a bitch , he said to himself. You conceited, overbearing bastard. Michael Jehovah Horse’s-ass Vickers. The business got on just fine without you – and so did everybody else!
    He drove carefully, never exceeding thirty miles an hour. He made all signals punctiliously and yielded right of way without question. His only citation had been for overtime parking in Beverly Hills. He brought this up frequently in conversation, half bragging, half wistfully hoping that the violation might admit him into the bright company of daredevils who ignored boulevard stops and did