Woman In The Dark

“That’s done,” he said cheerfully, and took off his raincoat, dropped it on a chair, and put his damp hat on it. “I left it at the end of the fence.” He picked up the woman’s empty glass and his own and went to the table. “Better slide out to the kitchen in case he pops in suddenly.” He began to pour whiskey into the glasses.

The girl wet her lips with her tongue, said, “Yes, I guess so,” indistinctly, smiled timidly, pleadingly, at Luise Fischer, hesitated, and touched his sleeve with her fingers. “You—you’ll behave?”

“Sure.” He did not stop preparing his drinks.

“I’ll call you up tomorrow.” She smiled at Luise Fischer and moved reluctantly toward the door.

Brazil gave the woman her glass, pulled a chair around to face her more directly, and sat down.

“Your little friend,” the woman said, “she loves you very much.”

He seemed doubtful. “Oh, she’s just a kid,” he said.

“But her father,” she suggested, “he is not nice—eh?”

“He’s cracked,” he replied carelessly, then became thoughtful. “Suppose Robson phoned him?”

“Would he know?”

He smiled a little. “In a place like this everybody knows all about everybody.”

“Then about me,” she began, “you—”

She was interrupted by a pounding on the door that shook it on its hinges and filled the room with thunder. The dog came in, stiff-legged on its feet.

Brazil gave the woman a brief grim smile and called: “All right. Come in.”

The door was violently opened by a medium-sized man in a glistening black rubber coat that hung to his ankles. Dark eyes set too close together burned under the down-turned brim of his gray hat. A pale bony nose jutted out above ragged, short-cut, grizzled mustache and beard. One fist gripped a heavy applewood walking stick.

“Where is my daughter?” this man demanded. His voice was deep, powerful, resounding.

Brazil’s face was a phlegmatic mask. “Hello, Grant,” he said.

The man in the doorway took another step forward. “Where is my daughter?”

The dog growled and showed its teeth. Luise Fischer said: “Franz!” The dog looked at her and moved its tail sidewise an inch or two and back.

Brazil said: “Evelyn’s not here.”

Grant glared at him. “Where is she?”

Brazil was placid. “I don’t know.”

“That’s a lie!” Grant’s eyes darted their burning gaze around the room. The knuckles of his hand holding the stick were white. “Evelyn!” he called.

Luise Fischer, smiling as if entertained by the bearded man’s rage, said: “It is so, Mr. Grant. There is nobody else here.”

He glanced briefly at her, with loathing in his mad eyes. “Bah! The strumpet’s word confirms the convict’s!” He strode to the bedroom door and disappeared inside.

Brazil grinned. “See? He’s cracked. He always talks like that—like a guy in a bum book.”

She smiled at him and said: “Be patient.”

“I’m being,” he said dryly.

Grant came out of the bedroom and stamped across to the rear door, opened it, and disappeared through it.

Brazil emptied his glass and put it on the floor beside his chair. “There’ll be more fireworks when he comes back.”

When the bearded man returned to the room, he stalked in silence to the front door, pulled it open, and, holding the latch with one hand, banging the ferrule of his walking stick on the floor with the other, roared at Brazil: “For the last time, I’m telling you not to have anything to do with my daughter! I shan’t tell you again.” He went out, slamming the door.

Brazil exhaled heavily and shook his head. “Cracked,” he sighed. “Absolutely cracked.”

Luise Fischer said: “He called me a strumpet. Do people here—”

He was not listening to her. He had left his chair and was picking up his hat and coat. “I want to slip down and see if she got away all right. If she gets home first she’ll be O.K. Nora—that’s her stepmother—will take care of her. But if she doesn’t—I won’t be long.” He went out the back way.

Luise Fischer kicked off her remaining slipper and stood up, experimenting with her weight on her injured leg. Three tentative steps proved her leg stiff but serviceable. She saw then that her hands and arms were still dirty from the road and, exploring, presently found a bathroom opening off the bedroom. She hummed a tune to herself while she washed and, in the bedroom again, while she combed her hair and brushed her clothes—but broke off impatiently when she failed to find powder or lipstick. She was studying her reflection in a tall looking-glass when she heard the outer door opening.

Her face brightened. “I am here,” she called, and went into the other room.

Robson and Conroy were standing inside the door.

“So you are, my dear,” Robson said, smiling at her start of surprise. He was paler than before and his eyes were glassier, but he seemed otherwise unchanged. Conroy, however, was somewhat disheveled; his face was flushed and he was obviously rather drunk.

The woman had recovered composure. “What do you want?” she demanded bluntly.

Robson looked around. “Where’s Brazil?”

“What do you want?” she repeated.