13 French Street by Gil Brewer

doctor.”
    “Yes. Of course….”
    “God,” he said. “This is great for you, isn’t it?”
    “Good Lord, man, don’t think of me.” The wind blew. “I’m sorry.”
    The dry leaves skittered about our feet. A maple leaf crawled humpbacked with burry noise across the flagstone walk and tipped over in the grass. It reminded me of a crab scuttling.
    “Did you see her fall?”
    “No,” I lied. He was still in his pajamas. This lie would pile on top of everything else.
    “Do you think we should bring her in?” He meant his mother’s body.
    I didn’t answer.
    “I guess not. They’ll—” He paused. “Alex, will you do something for me? We’ll need some help out here. Take the car and run into town. Pick up Jenny, will you? She was our maid. Jenny Carson. In Allayne.” He told me her address. “Will you do that, Alex? Then hurry back?”
    “Sure,” I said. “Can’t you phone?”
    “No phone.” He went inside the house. “Petra’s got the car keys.” He called her. She’d been in the living room. As she entered the hall, she didn’t look at me, only at him. He told her what he wanted. He seemed very haggard, worn out.
    “Why, I’ll go,” Petra said. “There’s no need sending—I mean, why should Alex have to go?”
    “Because I asked him. Give me the keys.”
    Petra’s eyes turned my way. She was a beautiful black bitch. “Well,” she said. “I’ll just run in along with Alex, then.”
    “I’ll need you here,” Verne said. “The keys!”
    She got them and handed them to me. Verne started up the stairs. I headed for the front door. She ran ahead of me, got in front of me. I tried to pass her.
    “Kiss me good-by,” she said. “And hurry, hurry.” Her eyes were a little wild and then I had her in my arms. God, oh, God, I said to myself. Her lips were hot and good, her body something I wanted to crush up against the wall. I held her so tightly she moaned. Then I flung her away.
    “Lord, Alex!”
    I went on out to the car and drove to Allayne. I wondered whether we were praying or cursing. Both of us. Every minute that passed snarled me up in this thing a little more. I was wading in deadly quicksand. Already it was too late to back out. Death. Murder. Sure as God.
    Me. Alex Bland. Colorless and common and with a conscience that would keep five people treading the straight and narrow. Nose-to-the-grindstone Bland.
    She was a sickness. I was filled with the insidious sickness of her and the only doctor was time and I wasn’t sure Doc Time would do so hot with this case. Pulled one way, yanked the other. She’d waited, all right—she’d held me off, and now this….
    I passed a couple of cars on the road to Allayne and wondered if one of them might be carrying the doctor Verne had phoned.
    The black-top road dipped and Allayne spread out before me; gray-roofed buildings beneath a roof of gray sky, church spires, the courthouse dome, and all the rust-red-green autumnal trees.

Chapter Twelve
    C HURCH bells tolled a solemn recollection of timeless Sundays spent in an apathy of occasional prayer tokening an afterward of roast chicken and mashed potatoes, stuffed stomachs and shirts, groaning couches and the geometric disarray of thick newspapers among the wailing havoc of snores, wet diapers, clanking kitchen sinks, or the shade-drawn sedate parlors where through rich cigar smoke they mumbled ritualistic weekly histories of business and how Oscar got drunk last night at the
hotel
bar. As I drove up Main Street people were congregating in front of the churches and it was a nice autumn Sunday for death.
    The elms were disrobing now and seemed slightly ashamed of it, clutching to the last minute browning remnants of their wardrobe. I found Chapman Lane, where Jenny Carson lived, and turned down.
    It was a tiny house with two tiny front windows and a very small door. There was a second story, but it looked as if you’d have to bend over to walk around up there. The house was tightly