The Man in the Net by Patrick Quentin Page B

looked out at the familiar New England summer evening—the parched meadows, garish with black-eyed susan and devil’s paintbrush, the distant, wooded mountains, the scattered white clapboard houses, lawns shaded by sugar maples, a peony or two, narrow beds of phlox—sedate, pastoral, faintly sad.
    It wouldn’t be long now.
    Already New York seemed infinitely remote, except, of course, for its exasperations. The “little talk” with Charlie Raines at the Barberry Room had faded completely. It had been so easy once the time had come to face it. Charlie was a nice guy. “I guess Linda got carried away on the phone. Of course I understand, Johnny. We’re sorry. I don’t have to tell you that. But good luck to you.” Over. End of Raines and Raines.
    It was the frustrations that remained, the strain of having Brad with him on both train trips and at the hotel, so friendly, so concerned over the “misunderstanding” with Linda, such a constant temptation to break down and admit the truth which he knew he mustn’t admit. And then the frustrations around Bill MacAllister too. The nurse’s brisk voice on the phone that morning. “I’m sorry, but Dr. MacAllister’s away on his vacation … in Canada … No, I’m sorry. He didn’t leave an address. He doesn’t really have one. He’s out in the wilds, you see, fishing … Oh yes, he’ll be back around the end of the mouth.”
    It always seemed to happen that way. When a chance came for things to get better, another chance stepped in and neutralized it. Perhaps he could find a psychiatrist in Pittsfield? Just look one up in the classified directory?
    “I want you to help me with my wife. She drinks. Of course she doesn’t admit it. But for years now …”
    His exhausted mind refused to plan any more. Soon he’d be facing her again. That’s all that had any reality for him. How would she be? A day and a half had gone by—over thirty-six hours, with her alone in the house, knowing what he was arranging for her in New York. Had she been genuinely panicked by his stand? Had she really reached a point where at last she was ready to let someone try to help her? Or had it all swung around? Would he return to find her on the war-path, full of ruses and stratagems— with him as the Enemy again?
    She’d been all right when he’d left her. Or it had seemed to him, with the new optimism brought by a definite plan of action, that she had been all right. As the conductor called “Great Barrington next” and Brad, looking up from the puzzle, said “Not long now, thank God”, John forced himself to review every minute of his time with her from yesterday morning until he’d left her to drive to the station.
    It had been she who had awakened him. He’d felt a light tap on his shoulder and had opened his eyes to see her. The sunlight was streaming through the window behind him. She was wearing a neat white dress with a kitchen apron over it. She was holding a tray and smiling brightly.
    “I’ve brought your breakfast. I thought you’d like to be pampered once in a while.”
    She was wearing sunglasses. Still confused by sleep, John wondered why. Then he remembered her eye.
    “Sit up, darling. Do sit up properly.”
    She arranged the tray, the pathetic peace offering, on his knee. She was very careful about it, proving how steady her hands were.
    “There. Call me if you want anything.”
    She walked, humming under her breath, out of the room. Later, as he was dressing, the phone rang. He went downstairs to answer it and it was Brad saying an important client had shown up in New York. Mr. Carey, who had to go off to Springfield, had given him a long briefing after the party the night before and was sending him to New York as his proxy.
    “You going on the two o’clock train, John?”
    “Yes.”
    “Fine. So am I. I’m leaving the Buick for Vickie. Where are you staying in New York?”
    “I don’t know. At a hotel, I