Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 8, No. 6, May 1961

The drink had begun to melt some of his shyness. “I admit I thought of it, I mean, just now, for a moment.”

“I have a very good excuse. I wasn’t here. I just got into town. Today.”

“You remained in Coral Gables?”

“No. I had a show. At the Berkshire Galleries in San Francisco. I flew there directly from Coral Gables. And so now you must realize that I have not been derelict, that I do pursue, and that I’m shamefully aggressive.” And she laughed. And then she cocked her head and studied him. “You know, something’s been added.”

“Pardon?” he said.

“Your face. There’s a new dimension. I believe I’m going to have more fun painting you than I had anticipated.” She moved her head back as she regarded him, her eyes narrowing.

“You sit and sip,” she said, “while I engage myself in my kitchen. Be with you in a trice, or perhaps thrice trice. Thrice trice, nice.” She giggled, as a very young girl. “Thrice trice is not twice trice but thrice trice. Say that quickly a dozen times or so. It’ll cut the waiting time.”

Appetizer was hot shrimp, main course was roast ribs of beef with mashed potatoes and juice-gravy, tossed green salad, and sparkling Burgundy; dessert was expresso coffee and petit-fours, and more sparkling Burgundy. And then she said, “Oscar, you’re exactly as I pictured you would be. This has really been a charming evening and I thank you.”

“Oh no. I thank you.”

“Which brings me to another point.”

“Yes?”

“I warned you I was a blunt one.”

“Yes, Adrienne?”

“Blunt, yes, but not bitchy, although what I’ll say now may sound bitchy. About the girl you were with that night, Evangeline.”

“I... I...”

“If ever there were two people who didn’t belong in each other’s company!”

“I... please...” He reached for the goblet of Burgundy and drank rapidly.

“You’re obviously such a decent kind of guy. And that one.” She shook her head, her face serious and puzzled. “She had a horrible reputation at school, just horrible. And the rumors that drifted back after she left school...”

“Please.”

“I was no longer in Coral Gables but, gosh, every time I had a visitor from the South, they were full of choice tidbits of Evangeline Ashley in Rome, and Evangeline Ashley in Hollywood. I just can’t understand a man like you and a gal like that — and honestly, I’m not being bitchy.”

“I... I married her.”

It was as though she had not heard. “Pardon?”

“I married her.”

And now it was as though she did not understand. “Married whom?”

“Evangeline Ashley.”

And now it struck and blood suffused her face in a dark flush. “I’m sorry. Oh, I’m dreadfully sorry. I’m so damned ashamed.”

“I... I regret it.”

“So do I. Please forgive me.” The flush remained, perspiration at her temples. The deep, dark, enormous eyes quivered with tears. “I... I’m just beside myself. Damn!”

“No, no.” He gulped, spoke slowly, distinctly. “I regret that I married her.”

“Please. If you please. I’d rather not talk about it.”

“No. If you please. I rather would. I must. Please. Please listen.”

And he had release. He had confession. Calmly, unhurriedly, stolidly, in an unemotional monotone, as though a witness reciting the misadventures of another, he told her all he knew of Evangeline Ashley, from the moment that he had first seen her to the present; he told her of his courtship and his marriage; he told her of his trap and its convolutions, the impossible insoluble quandary; he told her of himself, his background, his parents, his job, the bank, Alfred Hodges, even the Board of Directors — all in relation to Evangeline Ashley.

He talked for almost two hours to her nods, grunts, murmurs, and small noises of comprehension, but she did not interrupt once. And then he was finished. He sat back, and they were silent.

And then he said, “I’m sorry.”

Almost truculently she said, “For what?”

“For sitting her and running off at the mouth like that. For boring you. For—”

“Now stop that!”

He sighed, bit a corner of his mouth. “Maybe it was the wine. Maybe I just had to talk to someone. Maybe it was... was you.”

“I hope, sincerely — it was I.”

He pushed his knees against the chair and stood up. “I’ll be going now. I thank you, for everything... and for listening.”

“Going where, Oscar?”

He shrugged.

“Home?” she said.

“No.” He spoke the word dully.

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why?”

He shrugged again. “Because I think I’ve taken advantage of you. Because it’s late. Because you’ve been very nice, and I’m most appreciative. Because I like you... very much... too much.”

“That’s no reason for wanting to go away, is it?” And she stood up, and her smile was small, and tender.

“It is,” he said. “Things... happen to me. Thoughts. An excitement with certain people. You. It’s wrong.” He grimaced, ran a hand down his cheek. “There must be something wrong with me. Rotten. I must be rotten somewhere.”