High, Low and Wide Open by James R. Francis

Author:James R. Francis [Francis, James R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Criminals & Outlaws, Rich & Famous, Social Science, Ethnic Studies, American, Native American Studies, History, United States, 19th Century
ISBN: 9781839740237
Google: a4C7DwAAQBAJ
Barnesnoble:
Publisher: Phocion Publishing
Published: 2019-11-01T00:00:00+00:00

12

At six o’clock I telephoned Bruno from Therese’s apartment and asked him to get my car, to drive it home from in front of the depot, and to leave it home. There was no use taking an unnecessary risk of its discovery, I explained, and I would return to Middleville on the street-car. Bruno grumbled a little, but agreed to do as I asked—at once.

Therese had asked me to stay for dinner. It would be much safer, she said, if I left after dark. She was expecting no visitors; I was taking her mind from her grief and troubles, she continued; and in her ice-box and pantry was food aplenty.

Her invitation ended my insincere offer and half-hearted attempt to leave after hours of talk and the consumption of the two bottles of champagne. We had discussed many subjects: books, Therese preferred biography; her shelves were filled with the printed accounts of famous men and women (and that had surprised me, for I had thought, when I saw the volumes, that they would be sensational novels or erotic tales); music, our tastes inclined to the classical, especially opera; myself, my part in the war, my experiences as a prize-fighter and private detective—and many other things. But not once, after the cork popped out of the first bottle, did we again mention the murder or any person or thing connected with it.

In fact, the champagne and Therese’s charm drove from my mind the thought of blood and blood-money; I forgot that I had come to that pleasant place to discover a clue to a murder.

We were very gay as we sat down to a dinner which proved to be excellent. Therese might, as Elsie Johnson had said, have hated house-work, but she had not neglected to become an expert cook—an important part of any woman’s equipment for charming men.

After we had eaten, I helped her with the dishes. There is something about the atmosphere of a kitchen and soap suds and dishes and dish-towels that is conducive to intimacy. The kitchen was small and our bodies frequently touched. As Therese handed me the last dish, I lightly ran my fingers over her extended and bare arm. She looked at me, smiled, and dropped her eyes. Then we both knew what was to be that evening and, with that glance, silently admitted—and accepted—it.

“Let’s have some highballs,” I said. “Which would you rather have, brandy or gin, charged water or ginger-ale?”

She asked for gin and ginger-ale, and went into the living room. As I mixed the drinks, I heard music from the radio: A dance orchestra was playing a fox-trot.

When I took in the drinks, Therese was standing at the window, watching the violent colors of a western sunset. We tried to resume our conversation, but the talk did not go very well. We wanted, we waited for more than words. The light from the windows grew dim.

Therese jumped from her chair and came over to the divan on which I was sitting. “I’ll mix this batch,” she said, and reached for my empty glass.

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