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

The overhead light did not disturb Bill Grant. He remained prone, on his stomach, sleeping soundlessly, on the side of his face. She moved. She raised herself upon an elbow, turned her head and blinked her eyes, annoyance disfiguring her face. She saw her husband. She closed one eye, squinting. Then she lifted one hand, waving him off, fingers-moving slowly.

“Go away,” she said thickly. “Put out that damn light and go away. Will you please?”

“Phew,” Blinney said, feeling an infinite disgust.

He went to the air-conditioner and touched a button. The motor commenced its initial roar. He crossed to the light-switch and thumbed off the overhead light. He closed the door and went downstairs. He put on his jacket and left the house. He walked all the way to the station breathing deeply and contentedly.

He was cured and he knew it. Finally the sickness was vanquished and he was immune to recurrence. He never slept in the same bed with her again. For the remainder of their marriage he slept downstairs in the living room. He never desired her again. The sickness was finished.

The one remaining problem was ridding himself of her. The trap was as firmly sealed as ever but at least it was no longer a trap within a trap; he was loosened from self-hatred; her lure was dissipated; her wiles were feckless; he was free of her within himself.

XI

On the seventh day of August, the third Wednesday of that month, Adrienne Moore was packing for a trip to France, a quick trip, but one which she faced with divided emotions. She was to have a two-week showing of some of her paintings in one of the major galleries of Paris and she was to attend a number of dinners where she and her work were to be feted and honored. This was a distinct and important step in an already important career and a step which, her manager insisted, could not and should not be avoided.

In all, the trip comprised nineteen days. Not long, but she was worried about Blinney. She was loath but she was prevailed upon. Now, when Blinney arrived, she had completed her packing. He arrived at five-twenty. He had a post-graduate class in banking for that evening which he had no intention of attending. He was to accompany her to the airport. Her plane was scheduled to take off at seven o’clock.

They had a drink together and they chatted and she studied him with her painter’s eye and she wondered suddenly whether she had been wrong to deny herself to him.

At a quarter to six the phone rang and she answered it and she came from it perplexed. “It’s for you,” she said.

“Me?” he said. “Who would be calling me here?”

“It’s a man,” she said.

“What man?” he said.

“He didn’t give a name. Wants to talk to you.”

He went to the telephone, lifted the receiver, said, “Hello?”

“Bill Grant, here,” said Bill Grant.

“Who?”

“Take it easy, pal. Easy does it. Keep your voice down and talk like it’s casual. I said — this is Bill Grant.”

Softly Blinney said, “How did you know to call me here?”

“Oh, man, there are a lot of things I know. Like your chick is taking a plane for Paris at seven o’clock. Good? Good, huh?”

“What do you want?”

“You’ll tell her it’s somebody from the bank that called you. A friend like about an excuse for cutting your class tonight. Dig?”

“Yes. What do you want?”

“I want to talk to you. Personal. You and me. Alone.”

“What about?”

“About your — dilemma. That’s a beauty for what you’ve got, pal. A dilemma. And, man, yours is a whopper. I may be able to help, Mr. Blinney. You do know what I’m talking about?”

“What?”

“Evangeline. Dig?”

“Yes.”

“Will you meet me tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Remember this address. Two thirty-three East thirty-third. It’s apartment 1A. Push the button downstairs. How’s nine o’clock?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a smart man, Mr. Blinney. A pleasure to talk to you. See you at nine. Tell the chick it’s a guy from the bank. Bye, now.” He hung up.

Blinney hung up and returned smiling fearfully.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“One of the boys from the bank.”

“Bank?”

“Fellow who takes class with me. I once told him where he could reach me, not at home, in case of emergency. His idea of a gag.” He looked at his watch. “I think we’d better get going.”

“Yes,” she said...

He took her to the plane. He saw her off. He kissed her goodbye. He had a light dinner at the restaurant at the airport. He thought about Evangeline and Bill Grant. He suddenly had hope. Perhaps they were in love. Perhaps they wanted one another. Perhaps this was it. Perhaps this would produce the divorce that he desired so devoutly: quiet, friendly, practical, adult, uncontested and unrecriminatory.

In the taxi, driving back into town, he resolved not to add new guilt to old guilt so newly acquired. He would tell Bill Grant. He would tell what he knew of Evangeline. He would not permit this man to follow the spoor that he had created. He would tell him all, everything he knew about Evangeline, and then, if the man persisted, he, Blinney, would have no remainder of stigma of guilt.