Spider Webs
- Автор: Миллар Маргарет
- Год: 1986
- Язык: английский
- Год: William Morrow
- ISBN: 978-0-688-06593-5
- Жанр: Криминальные детективы
Электронная книга - «Spider Webs». Краткое содержание книги:
She laughed. He didn’t.
“I’m beginning to doubt,” he said somberly, “that Thatcher is presidential timber.”
“He won’t be eligible to run for another twenty-five years so you might as well stop worrying about it for now and come to bed. Whose turn is it to switch off the lamps?”
“Yours.”
“I thought it was yours.”
“All right, mine.”
She got into bed, and he switched off the lamps and joined her.
They lay together in the darkness, their bodies touching but separated by Thatcher and the amendments and the dog, by the trial and the pictures of the dead woman and the smiling brown face of the man who may have killed her, by Vee’s broken vacuum cleaner and the fettucine Oliver had eaten for lunch.
Vee said, “How did the boys behave in court?”
“Very well except for a few whispers. I confess to being disappointed in their notes on the proceedings.”
“Maybe you expect too much.”
“More than that. I sometimes get the feeling I’m out of touch with my sons.”
“Sometimes you are, Oliver. But we all drift in and out of touch with each other throughout our lives.”
She put her head on his shoulder and smiled with her mouth against his skin. He was such a big, beautiful man she often wondered how she’d been lucky enough to land him.
IV
The Clerk
Before court resumed the next morning, the judge summoned Court Clerk Eva Foster to his chambers.
The judge was wearing the half glasses that divided his face into two parts contradicting each other. The upper part was the broad intellectual forehead and grave little eyes. The lower part had the puffy cheeks and full pink lips of an older Thatcher.
Eva had on a new knit dress, an unfortunate choice for the occasion.
“Sit down, Miss Foster.”
“Yes, sir.”
The judge studied her over the tops of his glasses, then put his head back and studied her through the bottoms of the glasses to achieve a balanced view.
Finally he spoke. “District Attorney Owen brought his three sons to court yesterday afternoon. The two older boys were quite noticeably — ah, noticing you, or shall I say ogling you?”
“Boys that age will ogle anything that moves.”
“And you do move, Miss Foster. Quite well, if I may say so.”
“Is my work satisfactory, sir?”
“Yes, yes indeed. You’re always right in there pitching, bringing in the evidence, knives, guns, garments, et cetera. Which brings me to the point.”
“What does?”
“Garments. Your garments.”
Eva looked down at her dress, which had cost her a week’s salary and been advertised in Vogue. “You don’t like this dress?”
“I like it fine. It’s very becoming.”
“Then what’s this all about? I fail to see—”
“He saw. Mr. Owen, that is. And what he saw was two of his boys ogling you. So of course, he had to ogle you also in order to determine what they were ogling. Understandable, really. Parental responsibility and all that. At any rate he reached a conclusion.”
“Indeed?”
The top half of the judge’s face seemed to be fighting the bottom half, with the fight ending in a draw.
“Consarn it, Miss Foster, all this ogling wasn’t my idea. I’m just the middleman.”
“What conclusion did Mr. Owen reach?”
“He feels — that is, he opines, believes, whatever — that you do not wear undergarments designed to bind, confine, restrain—”
“I know what ‘bind’ means, Your Honor. ‘Bind’ is what the ancient barbarous Chinese did to the feet of their little princesses. They bound their feet to prevent them from growing normally so the poor creatures were never able to walk. Those barbarians believed that only peasants should find it necessary to walk. It was a cruel, inhumane, dreadful thing to do.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Miss Foster. I am not asking you to bind your feet. I simply want you to wear a bra.”
Eva sat in deliberate silence, looking around the room. It was as contradictory as the judge’s two-part face. Dignified rows of red and gold lawbooks were topped by a stuffed great horned owl with one of its glass eyes missing and a dead mouse squeezed between its claws. The formal mahogany desk was scarred with cigarette burns and scratches from the seashells the judge collected on his morning beach walks. The latest pile of seashells gave the room the pervasive odor of fish.
“The bailiff,” Eva said, “has a potbelly.”
“I’m aware of that, Miss Foster.”
“Have you asked him to wear a girdle?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“A potbelly is not as ogleable — oglible — consarn it, a potbelly is not as seductive as certain other parts of the anatomy. Also, he wears a belt around it.”
“Only to keep his pants up.”
The judge was beginning to regret having brought the subject up. “It would be very difficult for me to ask my bailiff to wear a girdle.”
“You didn’t seem to mind asking me to wear a bra.”
“On the contrary. I hesitated; I weighed the pros and cons; I mulled over it a long time.”
“If you had mulled a little longer, you would have realized that this is clearly a case of sexual discrimination.”
“But it isn’t discrimination. It is simply a recognition of obvious sexual differences. The bailiff’s potbelly is not in the same category as your chest.”
“Cases of sex discrimination can go all the way to the Supreme Court.”
“Oh, Lord,” the judge said. His day had started out so well. The sun was shining; he’d eaten a good breakfast; nobody was mad at him. Now suddenly he was coming up before the Supreme Court on charges of sexual discrimination. “Couldn’t we forget this conversation, Miss Foster?”
“I could if you could.”
“It never happened. Right?”
“Right. But in case it happens again, I shall have no hesitation in bringing the matter to the attention of the National Organization for Women.”
“You wouldn’t by any chance consider a compromise?”
“You mean wear half a bra? That doesn’t sound feasible. In fact, it might have quite the opposite effect of the one you’re seeking by proving to be a turn-on for certain kinky types. Do you understand?”
“Yes yes yes.”
“Also,” Eva said, “you can’t buy half a bra. I would have to buy a whole bra and cut it in two, which would make it impossible to fasten.”
“I didn’t suggest half a bra, Miss Foster. I suggested a compromise, something in the nature of — well, a rather snug-fitting chemise.”
“I haven’t seen a chemise in years.”
“Then perhaps you might choose outer garments that don’t follow so precisely the contours of the human form. Would you consider such a compromise?”
“Oh, yes. I would consider such a compromise blatant discrimination.”
“Very well, the subject is closed.”
“Thank you, sir. And I’ll try to walk out very, very carefully so as not to attract any—”
“Oh, go bind your feet, Foster,” the judge said.
At ten minutes to ten the deputy brought Cully King in from the county jail. In jail Cully wore what the other inmates did, but on trial days he was allowed to dress in his best clothes, navy blue blazer, gray slacks, white shirt and a blue tie which he’d bought in Mazatlán at a waterfront stall. The tie bore the picture of a yacht painted by an expatriate American artist from a picture Cully showed him of the Bewitched. Nobody would have recognized the Bewitched from the painting, but any sailor could see it was a ketch, and the artist insisted it was one of his finest works for a mere twenty-five dollars.