of being a number. And all the time you were just encouraging me to prattle on and on so I’d make a nice harmless-seeming target for the man sneaking up on me you were trying to trap! All that lovely sympathy and understanding that I fell for so completely was merely a psych routine to keep me playing my part convincingly!” She drained her glass abruptly, and shook her head when I tried to speak. “No, please don’t play any more smoothie games with me. I don’t want to hear any sincere explanations; I’m sure you’ve got a million of them. Just take the dumb sucker bitch out and feed her. You want a nice plump target for the next marksman, don’t you?”
There was nothing to say. Perhaps I had laid on the politeness more heavily than I otherwise might; but I’d thought I was doing it mainly to conceal my shock at what prison had done to her. And perhaps I had led her on to talk, deliberately; but I’d wanted to hear her story so I could make up my mind about her. But there was no doubt that I’d been conscious of the necessity for putting on a convincing act for the man sneaking up on us with a gun. In any case, in the conflict between the trusting girl she’d been and the wary ex-convict she’d become, the prison paranoia was once more ascendant; and I made no attempt to overcome it as I escorted her to the restaurant on the far side of the motel parking lot.
An hour later, she gave her empty plate a little push away from her and sat back with a satisfied sigh. “My God, real food instead of that institutional grease and cardboard!”
The meal hadn’t been all that great, as far as I was concerned, but then I hadn’t spent eight years being fed by the numbers in a penitentiary mess hall.
“Coffee? Dessert?”
She nodded. The pleasant experience of eating again in moderately civilized surroundings—even just a run-of-the-mill motel restaurant—seemed to have diminished her hostility.
“Might as well be fat,” she said with a wry little grin. “What the hell difference does it make now, anyway? It’s too late for me to influence the jury with my sexy figure and dazzling smile, and I was found guilty even when I had them, wasn’t I?” Then her assurance faltered, and her eyes grew shiny. “Oh, God, look what they’ve made of me, Helm! I really was… kind of good-looking once, remember?” Before I could respond, she said sharply, “Christ, the broad is getting maudlin on one little Scotch!”
I signaled the waitress, who brought coffee and took our dessert orders. When the woman had gone, I said in a challenging way, “If you really
were
innocent, Madeleine—”
“No!” she said sharply. When I looked at her, startled, she went on: “Call me Mrs. E, or Mrs. Ellershaw. Call me ex-inmate number 210934, Fort Ames. Or Elly, as the other women did in there. But not Madeleine. I haven’t been Madeleine to anybody for a very long time, and I don’t think I want to start again with you.” For a moment dislike was naked in her eyes once more; then she looked away and said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to overreact like that. What the hell difference does it make what you call me? But really, all you have to do is just blow the whistle. Number 210934 will come running like a good little felon. What was that about my being innocent?”
“
If
you were innocent,” I said, with deliberate lack of conviction, “then somebody certainly must have worked hard to make you look guilty. I’ve studied your history and read up on your trial, and the evidence against you was pretty damning. I think you’ll admit that.”
She sighed. “Here we go again! I keep telling you, you don’t have to pretend to all this sympathy and interest. You don’t have to pretend you find me attractive and fascinating. I know what I look like now, what I am now.” She moved her shoulders in an ugly shrug. “But all right, if you want another installment in the sad, sad Ellershaw story, why the hell not? What else
There was nothing to say. Perhaps I had laid on the politeness more heavily than I otherwise might; but I’d thought I was doing it mainly to conceal my shock at what prison had done to her. And perhaps I had led her on to talk, deliberately; but I’d wanted to hear her story so I could make up my mind about her. But there was no doubt that I’d been conscious of the necessity for putting on a convincing act for the man sneaking up on us with a gun. In any case, in the conflict between the trusting girl she’d been and the wary ex-convict she’d become, the prison paranoia was once more ascendant; and I made no attempt to overcome it as I escorted her to the restaurant on the far side of the motel parking lot.
An hour later, she gave her empty plate a little push away from her and sat back with a satisfied sigh. “My God, real food instead of that institutional grease and cardboard!”
The meal hadn’t been all that great, as far as I was concerned, but then I hadn’t spent eight years being fed by the numbers in a penitentiary mess hall.
“Coffee? Dessert?”
She nodded. The pleasant experience of eating again in moderately civilized surroundings—even just a run-of-the-mill motel restaurant—seemed to have diminished her hostility.
“Might as well be fat,” she said with a wry little grin. “What the hell difference does it make now, anyway? It’s too late for me to influence the jury with my sexy figure and dazzling smile, and I was found guilty even when I had them, wasn’t I?” Then her assurance faltered, and her eyes grew shiny. “Oh, God, look what they’ve made of me, Helm! I really was… kind of good-looking once, remember?” Before I could respond, she said sharply, “Christ, the broad is getting maudlin on one little Scotch!”
I signaled the waitress, who brought coffee and took our dessert orders. When the woman had gone, I said in a challenging way, “If you really
were
innocent, Madeleine—”
“No!” she said sharply. When I looked at her, startled, she went on: “Call me Mrs. E, or Mrs. Ellershaw. Call me ex-inmate number 210934, Fort Ames. Or Elly, as the other women did in there. But not Madeleine. I haven’t been Madeleine to anybody for a very long time, and I don’t think I want to start again with you.” For a moment dislike was naked in her eyes once more; then she looked away and said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to overreact like that. What the hell difference does it make what you call me? But really, all you have to do is just blow the whistle. Number 210934 will come running like a good little felon. What was that about my being innocent?”
“
If
you were innocent,” I said, with deliberate lack of conviction, “then somebody certainly must have worked hard to make you look guilty. I’ve studied your history and read up on your trial, and the evidence against you was pretty damning. I think you’ll admit that.”
She sighed. “Here we go again! I keep telling you, you don’t have to pretend to all this sympathy and interest. You don’t have to pretend you find me attractive and fascinating. I know what I look like now, what I am now.” She moved her shoulders in an ugly shrug. “But all right, if you want another installment in the sad, sad Ellershaw story, why the hell not? What else
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