Women Crime Writers by Sarah Weinman

Author:Sarah Weinman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Library of America
Published: 2015-05-28T16:00:00+00:00

37

THE OFFICE was simple, wonderfully simple. Walter just walked into George Martinson’s office—it was one of the days Willie Cross was not in, though Walter wished he had been—and announced that he was leaving, and Martinson gave his assent with a minimum of words. Martinson looked at him as if he were amazed that he was still, at least to the eye, a free man.

Everybody looked at him that way, even Peter Slotnikoff. Nobody said anything but a mumbled hello to him. Everybody looked as if he were waiting for somebody else to take the initiative and spring on him and hold him, or put him in jail. Even Joan looked afraid of him, afraid to say one friendly word. Walter didn’t care. Something—his indifference that had become total and genuine or his physical exhaustion that felt like a kind of drunkenness—gave him a sense of wearing an armor that protected him against everyone and everything.

Dick Jensen came into his office while he was clearing out his desk and collecting his books. Walter straightened up and watched him approach, his chin sunk reflectively down on his collar, the morning sun glinting handsomely on the gold-coin watchfob that hung out of his vest pocket.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Walter began. “It’s perfectly all right.”

“Where are you going?” Dick asked.

“To Forty-fourth Street.”

“You’re starting the office alone?”

“Yes.” Walter went on with his drawer-emptying.

“Walt, I hope you understand why I can’t come in with you. I’ve got a wife to support.”

“I understand,” Walter said evenly. He stood up and took out his billfold. “Before I forget, I want to give you back your share of the rent. Here’s a check for two hundred twenty-five.” He laid it on the edge of the desk.

“I’ll take it on condition that you take the Corpus Juris,” Dick said.

“But that’s yours.”

“We were going to use it together.”

The Corpus Juris was at Dick’s apartment, part of his private library. “You’ll be needing it one day yourself,” Walter said.

“Not for a long time yet. Anyway—I’d like you to have it. And the State Digests, too. They’ll be way out of date before I open an office.”

“Thanks, Dick,” Walter said.

“I saw the notice about the office in the paper this morning.”

Walter hadn’t seen it yet. It was the little notice he had put in defiantly on Saturday morning, just before he went to Newark. “I was careful not to mention our names,” Walter said. “Your name. I’ll have my own name on the second ad this week.”

Dick’s big, soft brown eyes blinked. He looked surprised. “I wanted to say, Walt, that I admire your courage.”

Walter waited, hungry for something else. But apparently Dick was not going to say anything else. Walter watched him pick up the check and fold it. “I’ll be glad to come and get the books sometime myself in the car. Some evening when it’s convenient for you. I’m going to be living in Manhattan now, starting today. I’ll still consider the books just a loan until you need them.

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