The Scarlet Letters

Ellery found Martha on a park bench in a deep shadow. He very nearly missed her, because she was all in black, including a veil. It was as if she had deliberately dressed to blend with the night.

She caught his hands as he sat down.

“Martha, you’re shaking.” Ellery felt that levity might help. “Isn’t that the approved opening line?”

He was wrong. Martha began to cry. She snatched her hands away and put them to her face and cried into them in a deep, dry, horrible way.

Ellery was appalled. He looked around quickly to see if anyone was watching. But the bushes behind their bench were silent and most of the people on the other benches ignored them. Tears in Central Park were no novelty to nature lovers.

“Martha, I’m sorry. I really am. Won’t you tell me what’s the matter? It can’t be as bad as all that. Things seldom are...” He went on in this dismal vein for some time. But Martha only cried more deeply, more dryly, and more horribly.

Ellery began to wish himself elsewhere. A few nearby heads had turned with indignation, then curiosity. And a large figure in a peaked cap, swinging a nightstick, had stopped strolling to stare at them very hard.

“Something wrong, bud?” boomed the large figure.

“No, no, officer,” Ellery called loudly enough for their bench neighbors to hear, too. “We’re just rehearsing a scene from our new play.” He pulled his hat brim lower.

“Yeah?” The park patrolman lumbered over quickly as heads turned everywhere within range. “When do you open? I’m sort of a confirmed theatergoer myself. Me and the wife see every show I can rustle some ducats for—”

“Next month. Broadhurst. Simply mention my name at the box office. Now if you’ll excuse us—”

“Yes, sir. But what name?”

“Alfred Lunt,” said Ellery.

“Yessir!” The patrolman stepped back respectfully. Then he said to Martha, “Good night, Miss Fontanne,” saluted, and marched off whistling.

Ellery said in a hurry, “Now, Martha—”

“I’ll be all right in a minute, Ellery. This is so stupid of me. I hadn’t the slightest intention of... It just happened...” Martha buried her face in his chest.

“Of course,” said Ellery, looking around uncomfortably. Everyone was watching the rehearsal. “You’ve kept this in a long time. Naturally. Now just pull yourself together, honey, and we’ll have a long talk.” Ellery’s left arm began to ache; Martha was jamming it against the slats. To relieve the ache he worked his arm free and draped it along the top of the bench. It touched Martha’s shoulders.

“Lovers’ quarrel?” said a voice.

Martha quivered.

Ellery turned.

Dirk Lawrence stood behind the bench.

Dirk’s hat was plastered to one side of his head and his dark features had the fixed but pendulous set of the very drunk. The reek of whisky surrounded him. The eyes under their thick black overhang were unpleasant-looking pits.

“Hello, Dirk,” said Ellery heartily. “Where’d you come from?”

“Hell,” grinned Dirk. “And I’m looking for company.”

Ellery found himself on his feet. But Martha was already between him and her husband.

“Go home, Dirk,” she said in a shrill voice. “Please go home.”

“Hell of a home. See what I mean?”

“Now look here, Dirk,” said Ellery resentfully. “If that crack about lovers wasn’t a gag, you’re a bigger damn fool than I am. This is the first time I’ve seen Martha in months. She wanted to talk something over with me—”

“In the language of the eyes, no doubt,” said Dirk Lawrence dreamily. “My little Martha. My little nymph. You know something, Brother Q? You kid me not.”

“Martha,” said Ellery, “you’d better go.”

“Yes, Martha my love, you do that,” said Dirk. “On account of I’m going to teach this dirty feist to keep his paws off another man’s wife—”