13 French Street by Gil Brewer Page A

enclosed by an artificial cement-stone fence, which only made the house seem smaller still. There was a gate. The house dated ‘way back, the broad, white-painted boards running vertical. There was a brass bellpull. I pulled. It tinkled.
    I half expected a little old lady dressed in blue with a teacup rattling in her hand. Instead, I got Jenny. She was a different Jenny from the Jenny I’d thought I’d met out at Verne’s.
    “I kind of expected you’d come, Mr. Bland,” she said. “Don’t stand there, come in.”
    I followed her inside and she closed the door. A radio played quiet melodies from somewhere.
    “In here,” she said, leading me into a small living room. It was decked out like a studio, very clean and neat. A broad studio couch up against the far wall, with a tired but colorful blanket sleeping on it, a couple of easy chairs, a large bookcase, filled, and in one corner an easel with a painting of a nude woman partly completed on it. There was a table by the easel cluttered with paints, brushes, rags, and bottles. There was a faint odor of turpentine. Jenny went immediately to the painting and tossed a piece of cloth over it.
    She turned, smiling that hesitant smile. “Simply because it’s not finished,” she said. “Please sit down. Why did you come?”
    I stared at her, groping for a chair, and sat. Her carrot-colored hair was sort of all flung over to one side and her eyes were filled with patient questioning laughter. She wore a fawn-colored skirt and a white blouse, short-sleeved, that buttoned close around her throat. Turning, she moved over to the studio couch and sat down, crossed her legs, put her elbow on her knee, and cupped her chin in her hand. She had very broad hips and a very thin waist. One of her soft red slippers had a hole in the toe.
    “Well, for goodness’ sake, Mr. Bland. Don’t sit there like that. What’s the matter?”
    “I came because of Verne, Jenny.”
    “Oh?”
    “He wants you back.” I told her about Verne’s mother. I told her how she had died, only I didn’t mention that Petra had pushed her. And I didn’t tell her what Petra and I were trying to do at the time.
    “I see,” Jenny said. “Is Mr. Lawrence broken up?”
    “Seems to be.”
    “I’m sorry, of course. That was a horrible way for the old lady to die, but—”
    “But what, Jenny?”
    She glanced down at the floor, then up at me again. “I rather expected it would be something like that.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “Did Petra push her?”
    “What!”
    “Did Petra push her out of the window?”
    “Listen,” I said. “Will you come with me?”
    Jenny shook her head slowly. “No,” she said. “No, I wouldn’t go out there again. I’ve had enough of that place. It was bad enough, just knowing—”
    “Knowing what?”
    “Mr. Bland, you know what I mean.”
    “Please call me Alex, and I don’t know what you mean.”
    “All right, Alex. Yes, you do. She’s got you, hasn’t she?” She rose quickly, moved across the room to the corner by the windows. The radio—a small set—was on the floor. She turned it off, then stood there with her back to me, staring out the window. “You’re—you’re stuck like a fly in the glue,” she said.
    “Verne’s waiting,” I said. “Will you please come?”
    The thought of Petra was like a cold knife getting red hot. I suddenly wanted to burst these walls and be with her. Jenny turned and looked at me.
    “I’m not going with you, no. He’ll have to wait.”
    “He needs help.”
    She tipped her head and smiled at me. “Yes,” she said simply, “he surely needs help. A pail of arsenic would do the trick.”
    “Jenny!”
    “I’m sorry.”
    I rose and something went loose inside me as I found myself staring at a telephone on the studio couch. It was a dull ache.
    “Verne said you had no phone.”
    “Just had it installed. I have a new job now. I can afford one.”
    “Could I use it?”
    “Sure.” She didn’t move. The couch was