Jack and Susan in 1953 by Michael McDowell Page A

very rich.” Jack didn’t answer. “Very beautiful and very rich. Not all men are so fortunate as to marry a woman like that.”
    Rodolfo smiled blandly at Jack.
    The blood that had been draining slowly through his neck suddenly reversed direction and sped back up into Jack’s face. More came up from his heart. He feared his feet would go numb again because it felt like so much blood was rushing upward to fill his cheeks and make his forehead bead with sweat. Sodium pentathal. Lie detectors. The rack and screw. None of those could get the truth out of Jack Beaumont as quickly and as undeniably as his own blushes.
    If Rodolfo had been guessing, then he now knew that he had guessed correctly. Jack felt cornered in his own house—as if he’d asked the Spanish Inquisition over for tea or opened the door to Hitler’s storm troops.
    It also occurred to Jack that Libby, despite her promise of discretion, might have placed an engagement announcement in the paper. The morning Times lay on the floor next to the couch. Jack stifled an urge to leap up, grab the paper, and search out the appropriate page to see if his name were publicly linked there with that of Elizabeth St. John Mather.
    Instead, he took another swallow of scotch.
    â€œIt is an interesting question,” said Rodolfo.
    â€œWhat question?” said Jack.
    â€œWho gets to the altar first.” Rodolfo smiled. A smile that said, I am a romantic Cuban, and my outlook on life is essentially romantic. You are a reserved American man, and do not show your feelings. Ah, well! At heart, you’re no less romantic than I…
    Jack didn’t buy a bit of it. Rodolfo had come here on a fishing expedition, to find out whether Jack still cared for Susan and to find out if Jack had any intentions toward Libby. By Jack’s blushes, Rodolfo had got answers to both questions: Jack was still in love with Susan—whether or not he admitted it to himself. And Jack stood in danger of being married to Libby Mather—whether or not the actual proposal had been made.
    Jack blushed again, for himself, and the contradiction in those two statements.
    Then Rodolfo said: “I am glad that things have worked out this way.”
    â€œWhat way?” said Jack.
    â€œThat you are in love with Miss Mather as I am in love with Susan. So easy. So convenient. We do not step on one another’s feet.”
    Jack said nothing.
    â€œLove…” began Rodolfo, and then shrugged with a smile.
    â€œLove what?” said Jack.
    â€œLove will make a man do what he would not do under another circumstance. Not here, perhaps, but in Cuba,” said Rodolfo, “a man may die for love.”
    â€œIs that so?” said Jack, idly noticing that his drink was more than half gone already. He pondered the question of whether he should ask Rodolfo to leave politely or ask him to leave in some other fashion—with a threat of instant death if he did not, for instance.
    â€œA Cuban man may even kill for love,” Rodolfo added blandly.
    That was definitely a threat.
    Good , thought Jack, that’s something I can deal with . But Jack made no immediate response. He wanted to hear how far the Cuban would go.
    No further, as it turned out.
    â€œI must leave, and allow you to recover,” said Rodolfo. “I would not like Miss Mather to think that I had delivered up her bridegroom as damaged goods.”
    Jack smiled a smile he hoped was as false as Rodolfo’s. Jack saw Rodolfo to the door, and had to grab Woolf by the scruff of the neck to keep him from blithely following after Susan Bright’s Cuban suitor.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    S USAN BRIGHT WORKED every Sunday morning, and sometimes evenings as well, quite alone in her small apartment, translating Russian pamphlets, documents, and letters supplied her by the U.S. Army. Even at the best, this was tedious work, but Susan was quick at it and accurate, and so the army used her even