The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories

“My name is Paul January and I didn’t kill anybody and scrambled soft, please.”

She went back to the stove, cut down the flame under the percolator and began making housewife motions over the eggs.

Once she turned and said, “Of course, you’d say that anyway.”

He thought it over. “Yes, I guess I would. Not the killer type, though. I even hate to watch bugs after they get a jolt of DDT.”

In a few moments she pushed the table over to his chair, brought over his plate and cup, sat opposite him.

“I still don’t know why I did it,” she said softly.

He bent busily over the eggs. This was indeed a remarkable young woman. She seemed to have a little transparent sheet over her emotions.

“They’ll be coming after you, you know,” she said. “That is, unless you were a good deal cleverer in getting to the bus than you were after you were on it.”

“They won’t be coming after me,” he said with decision.

“Oh, then you were clever?”

“Not at all. They won’t come after me, because I will go to them, Miss Logan. I don’t know why I ran in the first place. Shock, I guess. The whole thing is still pretty foggy in my mind. I just wanted to get away from there. Anywhere. Just away.”

“Away from where?”

“Suppose I think over the whole thing while I drink the coffee and then tell you later.”

They sat on the screened porch. It was a placid morning, slightly overcast. The lake had a steel-gray sheen. The morning held, for Paul January, a peculiar and haunting unreality. No other camp was visible from the porch. On the far side of the lake silent pines cast deep aqua shadows.

He liked the way she did not press him for explanations, but was content to sit quietly and wait for him to tell her in his own good time.

“This makes me sound like seven kinds of fool,” he said. “And probably I am. I had just arrived in the city. I had never been there before. I checked my luggage in the station rather than cart it around with me while looking for a place to stay. I’m an unsuccessful architect — one of those visionary guys who build marble palaces and forget the plumbing. My idea was to hit the new Planning Commission for a job. I’ve got a letter to the chairman of the commission.

“I arrived in the late afternoon, and after trying three hotels and getting nowhere, I went into a sort of steakhouse place to eat. I had a couple of drinks. It was a paneled place, with an orange glow to the lights and a lot of glitter on the backbar and oversized prices on the drinks and food. But I was too lazy to look for another spot.

“Sitting at the bar was a woman. This probably sounds completely screwy to you, but I never did find out all of her name. Just Cynthia. Long black hair curled in at the ends and when she bent her head over the bar a long strand of it would swing around in front and she’d push it back with an impatient gesture. Maybe you can guess how a man alone will watch a woman who is alone. It’s sort of a speculative procedure. But the milquetoast type, such as myself, never gets past the speculation stage.

“She had rather coarse lines about her face. Heavy lips, wide across the cheekbones, snub nose, dense black eyebrows. She sat at the bar and from my table I could see her face reflected in the backbar. She had what I call princess eyes. It’s a silly term. They were nice eyes. Straight and true and sensitive. I played a mental game of trying to figure her out.

“I felt vaguely disturbed when the man moved in on her. Conservative pinstripe, immaculate hands and an air of extreme extroversion. I guessed at once that he’d call all waiters ‘Charlie’ and make a practice of sending food back to the kitchen.

“When he nuzzled up beside the girl and began to make small talk, I got a look at her eyes. All they seemed to hold was an incalculable weariness and resignation. My chops came and I kept an eye on them as I ate.

“The man made the mistake of being too big a shot in the drink department. He bought too many rounds. With more conservatism, she might have remained agreeable. But the liquor broke through the crust of self-disgust, and suddenly she began to snarl at him. I saw the anger on his face. He grabbed her arm and she shook him off. He sulked like a little boy. His fingers had made red spots on her arm.

“She chased him away, but he had a certain grim look that spelled trouble. I had finished eating, and I should have gone off to look for a room, but some hunch made me stay. She should have eaten, but instead she had more to drink. When she walked out, I paid my check and followed her.

“She walked an invisible tightrope to the door and went out onto the street. The man appeared out of the shadows and they argued. I could only hear the tone of voice. Then he put his hands on her shoulders and tried to wrestle her toward a waiting cab. I turned hero and shoved in on him.

“He was too easy. I stabbed him in the middle with my fingertips and backhanded him across the mouth when he bent over. Cynthia crowed with laughter. He blundered into the cab and was whirled away. Cynthia wavered toward a red roadster. She was too far gone to drive. I got behind the wheel and she directed me to a small white house on Hillside Street.