The Fallen Sparrow (1942) by Dorothy B. Hughes

Author:Dorothy B. Hughes
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9781480426986
Publisher: Mysteriouspress.Com/Open Road
Published: 2013-05-07T22:05:00+00:00

5

IT WAS NEARER EIGHT-THIRTY than eight. He’d overslept. Only a froth of yellow hair was visible above the blankets on the other bed.

He showered, dressed rapidly. He was knotting his tie when she spoke.

“Where are you going?” Her eyes were sleep-clouded.

“Out.”

She said, “Oh,” burrowed under the covers.

He put the gun into his right hand pocket. “Does Jake live over the club?”

“Yes. He doesn’t get up so early.”

He closed the door, went down the corridor. He wasn’t consciously moving softly but the carpeting was plushy and he had learned to travel with care. Elise didn’t hear him. Her face was bent over the small table; she sorted the first mail. Without reason, he watched. He saw her lift one envelope, examine it; she raised her head furtively as she thrust it into her apron pocket. Her eyes scuttled as they met his but her fingers retained their thrust on the letter.

He moved to her deliberately. He demanded, “Give me that.”

“It’s mine.”

“Give it to me.”

“No.”

His fingers clutched her wrist but she resisted with desperate strength. Her breath was short. “You can’t take my mail.”

If he were wrong, recitation of the incident wouldn’t favor him. He didn’t know what reprisals an agency could take. Nor was he certain she was spying on him; his mother’s letter to Lotte could have been genuine, Bea Wilhite had her erratic moments. He had to take the chance. If the letter were to him, as his hunch directed, she had been told to watch for it. He had no intention of having the Wobblefoot censor his mail.

Without warning he relaxed his grip. She rubbed the mark but she didn’t remove her pocket hand from the letter.

He said, “We’ll let Lotte decide.” He nodded her to the kitchen door; he’d take no risk of this being mislaid conveniently. “She’s in there, isn’t she?”

The maid’s trapped face saw no escape. As if doomed, she preceded him. Lotte turned from the stove; seeing Kit, she frowned her suspicion of Elise as well as her scorn.

He spoke pleasantly, “I wish you to settle a small misunderstanding, Lotte. Elise claims the letter in her pocket. I believe it is mine. If it is hers I have no wish to see it.” He ordered the girl, “Hand the letter to Lotte.”

She had no choice. They were too strong for her. Her mouth worked; she could not will her fingers to release the prize.

He might have pitied the unbearable strain under which she was laboring; Lotte had no pity. For small things, yes; for a child or a young furry beast, but not for a weak man or woman. You must be strong enough to stand up to life no matter how it bludgeoned you; it had bludgeoned the old cook but it had not disquieted her creed. She commanded now, “Gif it to me, Miss.”

The girl’s sigh quivered through her to her heels. She complied.

Lotte took one angry glance and thrust it at Kit. “Yours.” She left the room. The rest was up to him.

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