Джонатан Крейг - Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 12, December, 1953

The clerk looked at me with a bored expression on his face. He was a thin man with a hawk-like nose, and he wore a green eye shade.

“Lots of people buy tickets here,” he said.

“You’d remember my wife,” I said. “She’s a redhead. How many redheads do you have every day?”

“A redhead, huh?”

“Yes. She was probably alone, if she bought a ticket.”

“Then this one ain’t her.”

“There was one?”

“Yeah. But she was with another girl. A blonde. I remember them because they... well, you remember two pretty girls traveling alone together.”

“What time was this?”

“Early this morning. Eight, nine... maybe ten. I don’t remember.”

“And they bought tickets here, is that right?”

“The blonde bought the tickets. The redhead stood right beside her.”

“Tickets for where?”

“New York.”

“What were they wearing? I mean, what was the redhead wearing?”

“A white dress, I think. Yeah, she was in white, and the blonde was in black. I tell you, they made a pretty pair.”

“A white dress? Are you sure?”

“Mister, I’m positive.”

“Were there any other redheads who bought tickets today?”

“I didn’t see any. Hold it a minute.” He walked out of his booth and had a little chat with the guy at the next window. When he came back, he said, “Charlie didn’t sell no redhead. Charlie remembers things like that.”

“Do you think you can recognize her from a picture?”

“The redhead? Maybe.” He shrugged. “I didn’t pay much attention to the face.” He grinned sheepishly, remembering it was my wife I was asking about.

I fished into my wallet and came up with the only picture I had of Anne, a snap we’d taken on our honeymoon. Her hair had been long then, and she now wore it clipped close to her head in the new Italian cut. She’d also filled out a little more since then. I looked at the picture as if I were seeing it for the first time, and then I handed it to the clerk.

“Is that her?” I asked.

He studied the picture and then shrugged again. “Search me,” he said. “This broad had shorter hair.” He studied the picture again. “Gee, mister, I honestly couldn’t say.”

I sighed and took the picture back. “Well, thanks a lot,” I said.

“Not at all. Glad to help.”

I left him and walked outside to the Dodge. A white dress, he’d said. Anne owned a white dress, but it was home in our closet. She didn’t even have a white blouse along with us, no less a dress. And the blonde. Even assuming Anne had made the acquaintance of another woman somewhere on her walk from the motel to the terminal, the friendship couldn’t have blossomed that rapidly. After all, the blonde had paid for the tickets.

It stank. It stank right from go.

To begin with, I knew Anne like the back of my checkbook. If she’d come into that cabin and found me asleep with the brunette, she’d first have kicked the girl out on her fanny, and then awakened me to ask just what the hell was going on.

But even giving her the benefit of the doubt, I knew damn well she was not the kind of girl who’d go traipsing down to the bus terminal, taking up with a blonde on the way. When Anne is angry, she’s angry right down to the roots of her toes. She’d have taken every penny in my wallet, along with the keys to the car. She’d have packed the valise, and probably taken my pants with her, too, just to show me how angry she really was. She’d have driven back to the city, and she’d probably have started suit for divorce within an hour.

That’s the way Anne was. We’d known each other for six years, and we’d been married for three, and I could just about tell what her reactions would be to any set of circumstances. My money was on her awakening me and having it out right then and there. Second choice was a vengeful leave-taking, with no holds barred — not a quiet withdrawal wearing some other woman’s dress.

I drove back to the cabin, and I went through the clothes there. As far as I could tell, she’d taken nothing. Even her purse was still on the dresser, and Anne wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere without her purse. The only garment missing was the robe she’d taken with her to the shower.

I picked up a towel and a bar of soap, shed my clothes and donned a robe, and then started for the office, trying to plan as I walked. Anne had left me to take a shower. All right, the shower was the starting point. I’d start there. Then, later in the night, giving her plenty of time to get to New York, I’d call home. Maybe Hobbs’ story was true. Maybe she had left in high dudgeon. But I’d be damned if I was going to run back to the city after her. The shower was the starting point. My hunch was that Anne had not boarded that bus, or if she had, it was not done willingly.

I opened the screen door to the office, and I was confronted with the semi-nude photographs on the wall again. Hobbs was leafing through a small book, and I had an idea what kind of literature it was.

“Where’s the shower?” I asked.

“You staying?” He looked surprised.

“Yes.”

“You check at the terminal?”

“I did.”

“Was I telling the truth?”

“Maybe. I’m staying, anyway. Where’s the shower?”

“How come? I mean...”

“She’ll be back,” I said curtly. “Where’s the shower?”

“Around back. Just follow your nose.”

“Thanks,” I said. I walked out of the office and around back, following my nose. The shower was a simple wooden stall tacked to the rear wall of the office. Wooden plankings were set around the stall, and they also formed the bottom of it. I walked inside, closed the door, and looked for a latch on it. There was none. I pulled the door tight, but it didn’t fit the jamb well, and it hung open about two inches. I grunted and turned on my heel, looking around the stall. There was nothing in it but the showerhead and the pipes supplying the water. The rear wall of the stall was peppered with knotholes, and light glanced through several of them. I put my eye to one of them, and was surprised to see the interior of Hobbs’ office. Of course! The stall was tacked to that wall.

I wondered how many times that sonovabitch had peered through the knotholes when a woman was taking a shower. In the daytime, with no light on in the office, it would be difficult to tell that the viewing season was on. I also wondered if he’d been at his post when Anne had gone to the showers this morning. I sighed heavily. Wondering wasn’t going to help me find Anne. There was nothing in the stall to give me a clue, so I started walking out, and then remembered Hobbs could hear the water from his office. He’d know I hadn’t taken a shower, and I didn’t want him to know I suspected something unkosher.

I took off my robe, turned on the hot faucet and got a stream of luke warm water. I didn’t touch the cold faucet. I stayed under the shower for about three minutes. Then I turned it off, dried myself, got into the robe, and headed for my cabin.

I was rounding the corner of the office when I almost ran into the brunette who’d been in my bed, earlier. I started to sidestep her, and then I saw what she was wearing, and I grabbed her arm.

“Hey!” she complained. “What the hell...”

“Where’d you get that robe?” I asked.

“It’s mine,” she said.

“It’s not yours, honey. Where’d you get it?” The robe was a plain white one, with a fleur de lis design delicately printed on it in red. We’d bought the robe in Greenwich Village, and it had been hand printed at the shop. I knew damn well it was Anne’s.

The girl studied me for a moment, saying nothing.

“Where’d you get the robe?” I asked. “Let’s talk.”