13 French Street by Gil Brewer Page B

broad, as I said, so I had to crawl over after the phone and unsnarl the wires. I placed a call with long-distance for Madge Collins, at her home in Chicago. Then I hung up and sat there, waiting.
    “You’re sweating,” Jenny said. “Running around in your shirt sleeves, sweating. I’ll go get you a drink of water.” She turned in front of me. “Don’t peek at that painting.” She turned and left the room. I watched the sway of her hips and thought of Petra. Water. I needed something stronger than water.
    Murder didn’t lie. I looked at my hands and they were trembling. I was in it right up to here; and “here” was a long way up. Jenny wouldn’t return with me to 13 French Street. What would Verne say about that? The phone rang. I grabbed it up. And all the time I was thinking how I wanted to be back there with Petra.
    Madge’s slightly puzzled voice finally reached me.
    “But why haven’t you written? Only one letter, Al.”
    “That’s why I’m phoning.”
    “But Al, I’ve worried.”
    “I know, I know. Something’s come up.” The couch sank beside me as Jenny sat down. She handed me a cool glass of water and I drank it down, all of it. Jenny took the glass, watching me openly, and smiling a little.
    Here I was, thinking of Petra, sitting beside a very pretty girl called Jenny, talking to the girl I intended to marry, Madge. And through it all I kept seeing a gray something smashed against stone, like a broken rag doll.
    “Al—Al, say something!”
    “I’m sorry.” I tried to think of nothing but Madge. It wouldn’t work. I could taste Petra’s lips….
    “Al—”
    “Madge, darling,” I said, and I didn’t want to talk with her. She was too far away, too far removed from me and the things that were happening. I told her about the death of Verne’s mother. “Madge. That’ll mean I’ll have to stay here a bit longer.”
    “Oh, Al! It’s been long enough already. My gosh, maybe they don’t want you around there—with that going on, and all.”
    “No, Madge. He asked me to stay.” Jenny’s fingers touched my arm. I glanced at her. She shook her head and clucked her tongue. She looked somehow very clean and fresh.
    In my mind’s eye I could see Madge standing by the phone in her hallway, looking crisp and efficient and blonde. She was Madge and right now her eyes were gray, sure as anything. She’d never act like Jenny, of the country, of hay and summer and sunshine, or like Petra, of … She was Madge. Jenny quietly inspected the hole in her red slipper.
    “I think you should come home,” Madge said.
    “I can’t, darling.”
    “You can, Al. There’s no sense in your staying on. Besides, what about me? What should
I
do all this time? Just sit around and stare at walls?”
    “Madge, I can’t help it. I don’t know how soon I’ll be able to make it.”
    Jenny rose, went over to the paint table, and began fussing with her brushes.
    “Well, all right.” Madge’s voice was a bit crisp. “Stay, if you must. When you can make it, let me know.” She hung up. I slapped the phone in its cradle.
    Jenny and I looked at each other.
    “She’s a fine girl,” I said. “You’d like her.”
    “I’m sure. But she hung up on you, didn’t she?”
    I rose and said, “I’ll leave five dollars for the phone call. If there’s anything left, buy a new paintbrush.”
    “It’s not necessary,” she said.
    I found a five-dollar bill and put it on the table by her easel.
    “You coming with me?” I said.
    “I’m afraid not, Alex. I’m sorry, but, as I said, I’ve got a new job, beginning in a week or so. Meanwhile I’m just going to loaf. And I don’t want any more of
them
.” She kept trying to smile at me. “Why don’t you stay and have lunch with me? This is supposed to be your vacation, isn’t it?”
    “Yes. But I can’t stay.”
    She watched me a moment, soberly. Then she smiled again. “All right. Maybe some other time?”
    “Maybe.”
    We walked to the door. I