The bride wore black by Woolrich Cornell 1903-1968

Author:Woolrich, Cornell, 1903-1968
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: New York : Ballantine Books
Published: 1984-08-09T04:00:00+00:00

"He's thinking of a plot," Sam suggested.

Holmes gave him a startled look, as though the remark was disconcertingly shrewd. He filled a saucer from his cup, put it on the floor. The German shepherd came over and noisily siphoned it up.

"Well, is the plot finished yet?" she wanted to know presently.

"Incomplete," Holmes said. He had been watching the dog. "But 111 get it later." He took up his cup, drained it, held it out to her for more.

He got up, threw her a brief, "See you tonight," and went into the living room.

"What does he mean, 'See you tonight*?" she asked Sam blankly. "What am I supposed to be, invisible until then?"

"He's going to produce now." Sam went in after him, as though his presence was required to set things in

order. She watched from the doorway. Sam shifted the "inspiration chair," cocked his head at it, readjusted the chair with haidine precision.

"Does that have to be in the exact same place each time?" she asked incredulously. "I suppose if it was two inches out of line he couldn't think straight."

"Shh!" Sam silenced her imperiously. "If it ain't even with that diagonal pattern of the carpet, it distracts him."

Holmes was standing looking out the window, already lost to the world. He made an abrupt backhand gesture of dismissal. "Get out! Here it comes now."

Sam tiptoed out with almost ludicrous haste, fren-ziedly motioning her before him. She stood there a moment outside the closed door, unabashedly eavesdropping. Holmes's voice filtered through in a droning singsong, talking into the dictating machine: "Chinook mushed on through the snow wastes, face a mask of vengeance under his fur parka—"

Sam wouldn't leave her in peace even there. "Don't stand this close, you're liable to make the floor creak."

She turned away reluctantly, limping on her one slippered foot. "So that's how it's done. And there must never be the slightest variation in detail, not even in the way his chair stands."

Sam poised himself, watch in hand, outside the door, one fist upraised in striking position. He waited until the sixtieth second had ticked off, then brought his fist down. "Five o'clock!" he called warningly.

Holmes came out haggard, hair awry, shirt open down to his abdomen, cuffs open, shoelaces untied, even his belt buckle unfastened.

A prim, mousy little figure of a middle-aged woman, sitting under the antlered hat rack near the door, stood up. She wore an ill-fitting tweed suit, steel-rimmed spec-

tacles, and had her graying hair drawn tightly back into an unsightly little knot at the nape of her neck.

"I'm the new typist, Mr. Holmes. Mr, Trent says he hopes 111 be more satisfactory than the last one he sent you."

The Cameron girl had come to the doorway of her room, opposite them, drawn by the sound of his emergence.

"I'm afraid the damage has been done already," he said with a glance at her. "Did you come prepared to stay?"

"Yes." She indicated a venerable Gladstone bag on the floor beside her. "Mr. Trent explained the work would have to be done on the premises.

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