Peter Abrahams - A Perfect Crime

“With what? What’s wrong?”

And then Anne’s face was tilted up at her, imploring, and Anne, fighting the sobbing demon inside her for control of her own voice, got the words out. “It’s N-it’s Ned. I… I think he’s having an a-a-affair.”

Francie, stroking the back of Anne’s head, went still. The towel had fallen to the floor, and Anne, naked, was holding on to Francie harder than ever, her crying eyes locked on Francie’s, desperate, pleading. “Oh, God,” Francie said, doing all she could not to cry herself. “I’m so sorry.”

At that moment, with them in each other’s arms, Francie saw Nora standing wide-eyed at the end of the row of lockers. Francie shifted her own eyes once in the direction she wanted Nora to go. Nora went.

Anne made a sound, partly smothered by Francie’s breast, somewhere between laughing and crying. “Don’t you be upset, Francie. It’s not your fault. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. She’s”-the laughing component vanished-“she’s just so much prettier than me, and so much smarter. I guess he couldn’t resist.”

Francie stepped back, freeing herself from Anne’s grasp. “Who are you talking about?”

Something-the new distance between them, the change in Francie’s tone-made Anne grow aware of her nakedness. She reached for the towel, rewrapped herself, rose unsteadily to her feet. “No one you know, Francie. It’s terrible of me to inflict this on you, especially after that exhibition out there.”

“Fuck that,” Francie said. “Who?”

“Her name’s Kira Chang. She’s high up in some big media outfit in L.A. She even had dinner in my house. Can you believe it?”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure?”

“That it’s happening. That he’s… doing this.”

“I haven’t walked in on them or anything, if that’s what you mean.”

“Then how do you know?”

“I just do.” She shivered like a baby after a long cry.

“But based on what?”

“Little things, but a wife always knows deep down, doesn’t she?”

“What little things?”

“Like the other night, the night he drove you back here. He didn’t come home for hours and he had some feeble story about a flat tire. I know he was with her.”

“How?”

“She called him. It must have been about the arrangements. She’s that brazen.”

Brazen. Francie flinched at the word; did Anne not see? “But how can you be sure?” Francie said. “What’s your evidence?”

Anne stopped mopping her face with a corner of the towel, stared at Francie. “You think I’m stupid.”

“You know better. Why do you even say things like that?”

“It’s your tone. I haven’t heard you like this before, so impatient.”

Francie took a deep breath. Anne had the right story but the wrong name; that meant she really knew nothing, not with certainty, and it had to stay that way. What Francie was seeing now wouldn’t compare with what would happen to Anne if she ever learned the truth. “I just don’t want you jumping to any false conclusions,” Francie said. “How do you know he didn’t have a flat tire, for example?”

“I checked the spare. He said he hadn’t been able to use it because it was flat, too, but in fact he hadn’t even unbolted it to look.”

“Does he have a pressure gauge?”

“Pressure gauge?”

“One of those little sticks to put on the valve. That’s all you need to check pressure-the tire can stay where it is.”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s what I mean about jumping to conclusions.”

“Do you think I should ask him?”

“Why not?”

“I’m not good at that kind of thing.”

“Then-then just look in his car.”

“That’s a good idea. You’re so smart, Francie.” She stared at her feet. “God-what I’ve put you through tonight.”

“It’s still early.”

Anne looked up, started laughing, laughter that threatened several times to turn to tears, but did not. “You’re the best, Francie,” she said, and embraced her again, kissing her on the cheek. “Don’t be mad at me.”

“Let’s just hope he has that pressure gauge,” Francie said, hating herself for it, but it was just the kind of pragmatic remark she would have made if Kira Chang really were a suspect, and she had to stay in character, Anne’s tennis partner and newfound friend.

“Oh, Francie. Do you think he does? I love him so much.” Her eyes filled with tears, but not tears of misery this time; she had hope, was starting to believe in her marriage again. “I even have these fantasies of us getting old together, going for long walks in the woods, that kind of thing. Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Have fantasies like that.”

“Everybody has fantasies.”

Anne bit her lip. “Francie?”

“Yes?”

“If you had to bet on the pressure gauge?”

“It’ll be there,” Francie said.

Quick, Francie. Shower, dress, dirty things in the gym bag, out, out ahead of Anne. Francie hurried up to the bar. A few people actually applauded as she came in. Francie hardly heard. She scanned the room for Ned, found him-drinking Scotch with Roger. She went to their table. They both rose, something she couldn’t recall either of them doing separately, ever.

“Very well played, Francie,” Roger said.

“Just incredible,” Ned said. “If only-”

“Thanks,” said Francie, interrupting whatever was coming after that. “I’m thirsty.”

They sat down. The waiter appeared. Francie ordered water and a beer. Anne would be there any moment. She had to get Ned alone, but how? Both men were looking at her, both a little flushed, both on the point of making some remark as soon as the waiter left. “Damn it,” she said, kicking Ned under the table, “I forgot something. Excuse me.” She got up, left the bar, went down to the lobby, borrowed a pen and a piece of paper at the desk, drank from the fountain, did this and that, looked busy. Where was Ned? Didn’t he get it?

Ned walked into the lobby, saw her. By now she was at the bulletin board, pretending to scan it. He stood beside her. “You didn’t have to kick me so hard,” he said, eyes on the bulletin board.

“Is there a pressure gauge in your car?”

A pause, but very brief. Francie was sure she felt him reeling inside. “What does she know?” he said, almost too low to hear.

“She doesn’t know anything. She thinks you’re having an affair with Kira Chang.”

Francie glanced at him. His eyes were closed and there was a V — shaped groove on the right side of his brow. He opened his eyes, turned to her. “What are we going to do?”

Get on the next plane to Marrakech, she thought, you and me. She said, “Do you have a pressure gauge, yes or no?”

“No.”

“Give me your keys.”

He glanced around, handed her the keys.

“What did you tell him?” Francie said.

“That I was going to the bathroom.”

“Then go.”

Ned headed for the locker room. Francie hurried back upstairs to the bar, thinking fast. She had come in Roger’s car, Anne in Ned’s. Roger would have a pressure gauge; she seldom went in his car, had never actually seen his pressure gauge, but she knew him.

Roger was writing something on a napkin as she approached the table. He smiled. “I was getting lonely all by myself.” He folded the napkin, pocketed it.

“I can’t find my hairbrush,” Francie said, the kind of female inanity he wouldn’t question. “I must have left it in your car, if you’ll give me the keys.”

“Your hair looks fine to me.”

“Thanks,” she said, holding out her hand. He gave her the keys.

Downstairs, across the lobby, out. The two cars were parked side by side under the full glow of a sodium arc light. Francie unlocked Roger’s, flipped open the glove box, riffled through the contents: manual, warranty, maps, calculator, touch-up paint; pressure gauge. She grabbed it, locked the car, unlocked Ned’s car, opened his glove box. The contents burst out, cascaded to the floor: CDs, tapes, floppy disks, bills, letters, receipts, crayon drawings, crayons, elastics, tokens, and M amp;M’s, which in turn came spilling out of their box in a second flood. Francie scooped everything up, crammed it all back in the glove box, jammed in the pressure gauge, and was just about to lock up when she noticed the front door of the club starting to open. She tossed Ned’s keys on the seat, banged the door shut with her foot, leaned against Roger’s car.