Get a Load of This

     “What do you call that?” a mechanic demanded. “Do you call that driving?”

     “Do you think he'll last?” Myra asked.

     I turned abruptly and found her at my elbow. Her eyes were fixed on the red car, and I could see she was quivering with excitement.

     I said rather bitterly: “Don't you think you'll see better if you go to the stand?”

     “I want to be with you. I want to see his face if he wins,” she said. “Look, he's coming round again. He's getting in front. Really, isn't he marvellous? Oh, God! Look, they're trying to squeeze him. They've cornered him! Look, look, if he loses his head... he's finished.”

     The three cars flashed past us. George was in the middle. The other two were trying to crowd him, but as he didn't fall back they were beginning to lose their nerve. There couldn't have been more than a foot between each car.

     I shouted suddenly: “He'll beat them on the bend. You see, they'll slow down for the bend. Come on, George, come on, for the love of Mike!”

     I was right. Suddenly the red car shot clear and whizzed round the bend at a sickening speed. The others fell back and George was in the lead.

     I heard Myra scream suddenly: “Blast him! He's going to win after all.”

     George was coming up for the last lap. The noise of the cars and the shouting was deafening. Round he came into the straight. It was like watching a red smudge. I don't know how it happened; no one knew. It was not as if he were taking a corner. It looked as if he knew he had won and then suddenly thrown in his hand. The car swerved right across the track, turned over, bounced in the air like a huge ball and then burst into flames.

     Myra screamed and I ran forward. It was no use. Other cars were still thundering past and no one could get across the track. When at last we did get there, it was too late. George had been strapped in, and one look at the blackened, twisted car told me it was useless to stay.

     I walked away, feeling sick and too stunned to really realize what had happened.

     As I climbed into my car, Myra came up to me. Her eyes were very dark, and her mouth worked rather horribly.

     “Give me that paper,” she said.

     Because I wanted to get away I took the paper from my wallet and looked at her. “This isn't the time now to talk about this. I'll come and see you later.”

     “Oh no, you won't,” she said. She seemed to be speaking through locked teeth. “I fooled George and I fooled you. Read what it says. Didn't I promise to pay my husband one million dollars? Well, he wasn't my husband, I can contest that. By the time the court has made a ruling, it will be too late. George's little suckers will be down the drain.”

     I said: “What do you mean? George married you, didn't he?”

     “Yes, he married me, but that was all. He didn't lie with me. Oh no! My money was good enough for him, but I wasn't. He thought it was sufficient just to marry me—the fool.”

     I stared at her. “You can't prove that,” I said slowly. “Surely you are keeping to your agreement?”

     “Prove it? It will take years not to prove it. By that time the money will not be needed. Tear up the paper, Mr. Arden. You know as well as I do that it's useless now. The poor fool killed himself, although he won the race.... Do you know why? Because he despised himself for marrying me. No man can treat me like that. I warned you, didn't I, about the twist in the tale.” She laughed hysterically. “Don't you think it's lovely?”

     I engaged the gears and drove away, leaving her still laughing.

CONVERSATION PIECE

     He was very tall, thin and distinguished-looking. He had a close-clipped moustache, a square jaw and the hair on each side of his head was white.

     He sat on a high stool at the 'Roney Plaza' bar, a cigarette between his thin lips and a glass of Scotch-and-soda at his elbow. Every now and then he would glance up and catch his reflection in the bright mirror behind the bar. He would look at himself and adjust the wings of his evening dress-tie with his well-shaped fingers, and once he adjusted the set of his coat.

     People kept coming up to the bar, but he ignored them. Sometimes they glanced at him curiously, especially the women, but no one spoke to him. He had been in the bar several times during the week, and the habitues began to wonder who he was.

     Manuel, the barman, had tried to discover who he was without success. Not that he wasn't talkative, but that he steered the conversation away from any personal topic.

     During a lull, Manuel came down the long bar towards him. He began polishing glasses. “Not much about tonight,” he said casually.

     The tall, thin man agreed. “Why do you think that is?” he asked.

     Manuel shrugged. “You can't tell these days,” he said; “there is too much entertainment going on. People get too much amusement. They don't know where to go next.”

     “Personally, I find things very dull.”