Эд Макбейн - Strangers When We Meet

“I’ll design your house,” Larry said.

“Don’t do me any favors. If you don’t want to—”

“I want to. I’ll run. You don’t deserve it, but I’ll run for you.”

“Why don’t I deserve it? Does there have to be a prize attached before you turn on the steam?”

“That was below the belt, Altar. That damn prize didn’t mean a thing, and you know it.”

“Sure.” Altar paused. “Maybe none of the prizes mean anything, Larry. Maybe there’s only one prize that really counts.”

“Which one?”

“You tell me.”

“I’m not a big thinker.” Larry said. He rose. “I’ll bring you new sketches. I’ll give them everything I’ve got, and if you still don’t like them, that’s that. I can’t spend the rest of my life trying to please you.”

“Nor can you spend it trying to please yourself, either.”

“What does that mean?”

“How the hell do I know?” Altar said, grinning. “Another one of my profound banalities.”

“You son of a bitch,” Larry said, returning the grin. “You don’t forget anything anyone ever says, do you?”

“Never. I’m a big sponge. I’m a brain picker. I’m recording secretary for the world at large. Don’t ever tell me your life story. I’m liable to use it.”

“Not a chance,” Larry said. “It’s pretty dull.” He went to the door. “You can turn off the record player now,” he said, smiling. “We don’t need the string accompaniment any more.”

He heard Altar’s laugh erupt as he went in to the hall way.

At fifteen minutes to two on the Tuesday he was to meet Margaret Gault, Larry told the first of what was to be an endless succession of lies.

He did not particularly relish telling the lie, especially since Eve had been so understanding when he’d related the Altar incident the night before. Her earnest sympathy had carried over into the new day. While he worked out a tentative schematic for one of the housing-development buildings, she hovered over him constantly, bringing him coffee and toast, coming in every hour, trying to let him know that she, at least, thought he was a damned good architect.

He could not deny that Altar’s attack had hurt him. He would not admit to himself that its most penetrating aspect had been its utter truthfulness. But he had allowed the attack to fire an indignation and then fill him with a fervent desire to design a house that would knock Altar’s eyes out. He was grateful to Altar for having given his incentive a shove. But faced with the factory schematic, he did not appreciate the residential designing itch that tickled his unconscious. And faced with the kindnesses Eve showered upon him that morning, he did not appreciate the lie he was about to tell her.

He became conscious of the steadily advancing hands of the clock during lunch. He listened to Eve chatter, watched David pick listlessly at his food, and all the while he was thinking. This is Tuesday, she will be at the shopping center at two.

He was a little afraid of meeting her. He didn’t know what he would say to her, and wondered indeed if he actually wanted to meet her. The thing could be dropped now. Nothing had really been said or done. Pursuit, on the other hand, might lead anywhere. Margaret Gault was still a total mystery to him, and he could no more determine exactly what might happen than he could explain to himself the tentative commitment he’d already made with her. He knew that he’d debated meeting her a hundred times, and he knew that he would meet her and, oddly, he felt there was nothing he could do to prevent the meeting. The concept was a peculiarly fatalistic one, especially for a person who’d flatly rejected the Rubaiyat at seventeen. But he knew that he had to see Margaret Gault again, if only to tell her he was crazy ever to think, ever to think what ? He did not know.

He would see her. He would explain to her. Explain what to her?

Again, he did not know.

So he sat during lunch and plotted the lie he would tell Eve, and he felt an enormous sense of shame when she turned to him and asked, “Are you listening to me?”

He sprang the lie at one-forty-five.

He left the drawing board, wiping his hands on the rough tweed of his trousers. “Eve!” he called.

“I’m in the basement, honey,” she answered.

He took the steps down, entering the dim concrete vault. The washing machine was making discordant music in one corner of the basement. Eve stood over her wash basket, sorting clothes. He did not want to see her face when he told the lie. From the steps he said, “I want to run into town a minute, Eve.”

“All right,” she said.

“I may be a while. Few things I have to get.”

“All right,” she said. “Will you be near the drugstore?”

“I can stop. Why?”

“Get some St. Joseph’s aspirin. I think David is coming down with something.”

“Okay,” he said. He turned quickly and went up the steps. His heart was pounding. She had accepted the lie, had almost abetted it, but his heart was pounding nonetheless, pounding so hard that he began trembling as he put on his overcoat. From the front door, he felt compelled to say something else to her.

“I won’t be too long, honey,” he shouted.

He waited for an answer, but the washing machine had probably drowned him out. He sighed, left the house, and walked to the car. Sitting in the kitchen across the street, clearly visible in the large picture window, was Mrs. Garandi. He smiled pleasantly and waved at her. He unlocked the car, got in, and looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to two.

His heart was still pounding. He realized that he was very frightened, and he wondered whether he had looked peculiar to the Signora, wondered suddenly whether Eve had detected the lie in his voice, wondered what he could bring back from town to make his trip look legitimate. The simple assignation was somehow assuming gigantic proportions. He backed the car out of the driveway, and then self-consciously nodded and waved to Mrs. Garandi again, thinking he saw suspicion on her face.

He half expected Eve to appear accusingly at the front door, but she did not. Sighing in what he supposed was relief, he turned the corner and headed for the shopping center. It did not occur to him until he was almost there that Margaret Gault hadn’t even said she’d definitely come. In a strange way he was beginning to hope she would not be there. But at the same time he wanted her to be there; and he knew that if she did not keep the date, he would seek her out again.

He felt suddenly trapped.

He wanted to turn the car, head back for the house, and he almost did. But his hands remained firm and steady on the wheel, and he pulled into the parking lot, stopped the car, and looked for her.

She was not there.

Nervously, he lighted a cigarette and began waiting.

Adrienne Gault was a widow.

She did not drive, and she found the train trip to her son’s house tedious, but she nonetheless made the trip every week. She usually arrived on Wednesday, slept overnight, and then left Thursday morning.

This week she arrived unexpectedly on Tuesday.

At 1:35, while Margaret stood in the bathroom combing her hair, Mrs. Gault stood in the doorway and said, “If you’re going shopping, I’d like to go with you.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Margaret said.

“Why?” Mrs. Gault asked, knowing very well why. This girl simply didn’t like her. In Donald’s home, in her own home, she was always treated like some sort of a visiting dignitary. She did not mind being made comfortable, but she did object to feeling tolerated. It certainly would not have killed Margaret to generate a little warmth. Well, that was the way it went. You raised your children and then you lost them.