A Bullet for Cinderella by John D. MacDonald Page A

friend?”
    “We’re going to report this to the police,” Ruth said.
    “Go ahead, lady. Be a good citizen. Give them the word.”
    “Come on, Tal,” she said. We went back up the trail. When we got into the car I looked back and saw him standing by his car, watching us. He didn’t take his eyes off us while he lit a cigarette and shook the match out.
    Ruth was oddly silent as I drove back toward the Stamm camp. Finally I said, “What’s the matter?”
    “I don’t know. At first I thought you lied to me. Then I believed you. Now I don’t know.”
    “How come?”
    “You know what I’m thinking. You asked him about a Rose Fulton. It shocked him when you asked him that. Anybody could see that. Eloise Warden ran away with a man named Fulton. What would make you think to ask that Mr. Grassman that question?” She turned to faceme. “What are you doing in Hillston, Tal? If that’s your name.”
    “I told you what I’m doing.”
    “Why did you ask that man that question?”
    “The police picked me up last night. They had word that Rose Fulton had hired another man to come here. This will be the third. They thought I was that man. They interrogated me and then they let me go. So I guessed that maybe he was the man.”
    We got out of the car. She was still looking at me oddly. “Tal, if you’re here to write up Timmy, I think you would have told me that before now. It’s a cute and interesting little story if you were here just to write up Timmy. And I can’t believe that you could have forgotten it.”
    “I just didn’t—think of telling it.”
    “That’s no good, Tal.”
    “I know it isn’t.”
    “What’s wrong? Is it something you can’t tell me?”
    “Look, Ruth. I—There is another reason why I came. I lied to you. I don’t want to tell you why I came here. I’d rather not.”
    “But it has something to do with Timmy.”
    “That’s right.”
    “He is dead, isn’t he?”
    “He’s dead.”
    “But how can I know when you’re lying and when you’re not?”
    “I guess you can’t,” I said helplessly.
    She locked the camp and, on the way back, told me which turns to take. She had nothing else to say. I drove into her place. She opened the door quickly to get out.
    “Wait a minute, Ruth.”
    Her right foot was on the ground. She sat on the corner of the seat and turned and looked back at me. “Yes?”
    “I’m sorry about this.”
    “You’ve made me feel like a fool. I talked a lot to you. I believed you and so I told you things I’ve never told anybody. Just to help you when you had no intention of writing up Timmy.”
    “I tell you, I’m sorry.”
    “That doesn’t do very much good. But I’ll give you this much benefit of the doubt, Tal. Look right at me and tell me that you have no reason to be ashamed of why you came here.”
    I looked into the gray eyes and, like Grassman, I hesitated too long. She slammed the car door and went to the house without looking back. Saturday night was no longer a nice thing to think about. Somehow, through impulsiveness and through awkwardness, I had trapped myself. I felt as if I had lost a great deal more than a Saturday night date. She was not a girl you could lie to. She was not a girl you would want to lie to. My little cover story now seemed soiled and dingy. I drove into town. I started my drinking at the Hillston Inn.
    Before I left the Inn I cashed two traveler’s checks. I hit a great many bars. It was Saturday night. The city seemed alive. I can remember seeing the dwarf bartender. There was a woman I bought drinks for. At one time I was in a men’s room and four of us were singing. The door was locked and somebody was pounding on it. We were making fine music. I was sick in a hedge and I couldn’t find my car. I wandered a long time before I found it. I don’t know what time it was. It was late. I had to keep one eye closed as I drove cautiously out to the motel. Otherwise the center line was double.
    I parked the car in