There is No Return by Anita Blackmon

Author:Anita Blackmon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-05-21T04:00:00+00:00

11

I should, of course, have put the alley cat out. There were several things I should have done when I discovered Sheila Kelly in my room, such as informing the deputy, if not the sheriff, of her presence. However, I had taken my stand and there was nothing to do except live up to it, or so I thought at the time, though had I foreseen... But it is too late now to wonder whether I could have changed the dreadful sequence of events if I had not lied to Butch Newby, if instead I had thrown my door open for his inspection.

I did lie — that remains unalterable — and I put neither Sheila Kelly nor the cat out. Once I had recovered from the initial shock I felt equally sorry for both of them. It was, as I have said, a very gaunt, miserable-looking specimen of alley cat. Its ribs showed through its mangy grey coat. It was depressingly dirty and wet and one of its paws had been injured, so that it limped slightly. Like all strays, it was embarrassingly grateful for the smallest attention.

“Here, puss, here, puss,” I murmured, as much to give myself as Sheila Kelly a breathing space.

An invitation was all that Mr Tom required. I suppose it had been a long time, if ever, since he had had a kind word. Rubbing against my ankles, he purred loudly.

“There’s nothing wrong with his motor at any rate,” I said and sat down rather limply in a chair.

The cat promptly jumped into my lap and, still purring loudly, stretched luxuriously before cuddling down with every appearance of having settled in for the winter.

Sheila Kelly looked at me, her lips quivering. “I’ve got to talk to you, I’ve got to talk to somebody,” she whispered.

She was at the breaking point, I realized that at once. I suppose that is really why I lied to Butch. The girl looked so desperate and forlorn, as if, like the cat, she hadn’t a friend in the world.

“But maybe you’re afraid of me,” she said. “Maybe you’re scared to be alone with me.”

I cannot describe the horror with which she managed to invest these words. I realized that the hand with which I was stroking the cat was trembling visibly. I tried to hide it, but she saw and shivered.

“I did it,” she said. “I killed a man! Cut his throat! Oh, God!”

By my sharp revulsion of feeling I knew that, like the others, I had gradually arrived at the decision that Sheila Kelly was guilty, in spite of how I had felt about it the night before. Only, face to face with her, it did not seem possible. “She is no killer,” I remember saying to myself quite fiercely. I leaned a little forward and the cat squirmed, then accommodated himself to my new posture after a reproachful glance up into my eyes.

“The professor is back of it,” I said. “He must be!”

She caught her breath. “If only I could believe it!”

I made my voice as stern as possible.

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