12 Stories They Wouldn't Let Me Do on TV by Alfred Hitchcock (ed) Page B
Authors: Alfred Hitchcock (ed)
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finger.
No, there were thousands of other women in Mexico City with far more obvious signs of wealth. There were young, beautiful women and any one of them might have been pleased and proud to have Mario as an escort and-yes, Miss Lucy faced it uncompromisingly-as something else.
And yet… suddenly Miss Lucy became frightened at the illogicality of it all.
Some virginal instinct stirred in her and warned her of-danger.
And because there was no nonsense about Miss Lucy, she decided that she must do something final about it. Lying there quietly beneath the sheets, she came to her great resolution.
Miss Lucy and Vera were waiting at the bus station. Both of them hugged their coats around them as if cold. Vera was always cold, of course. But today Miss Lucy was cold, too, despite the splendid warmth of the spring sunshine. Her eyes-and her nose- were red.
They were waiting for Ellen who had been left behind to deliver the final coup de grace to Mario. The bus for Patzcuaro was leaving in twenty minutes.
At last Ellen appeared. Her nose was red too.
"You shouldn't have done it, Lucy," she snapped. "It was cruel." She thrust two one-hundred-peso bills into Lucy's hands. "I thought he was going to hit me when I gave him these." She sniffed. "And he burst into tears like a child when he read your letter."
Miss Lucy did not speak. In fact, she spoke very little during the entire length of the tiring bus journey to Patzcuaro.
The three women had been sitting since dinner around their table on the veranda overlooking the serene expanse of Lake Patzcuaro. Ellen, restlessly voluble, was discussing possible plans for the next day. Miss Lucy was, apparently, paying no attention. Her eyes studied the evening gray-green waters of the lake with its clustering inlands and its obscene bald-headed vultures that squawked and fought greedily over scraps of carrion on the lake shore.
After a short time she rose, saying, "It's getting a bit cold. I think I'll go up to my room. Good night."
Miss Lucy's room, with its small veranda, commanded a view of the lake from another angle. Below her, in the. growing darkness, the fishermen were pottering with their boats, talking in low, sibilant voices or singing snatches of Michoacan songs.
Miss Lucy sat watching them. She was thinking of Mario, missing him with an intensity that was almost painful. She had thought of him constantly since she left Mexico City and now was appalled at her harshness in dismissing him by proxy through Ellen. She should have spoken to him herself. She would hate to have him think… The thoughts went on with a goading persistence. She had done him a wrong, hurt him…
At some indeterminate stage of her reverie she became conscious of a white-clad figure moving among the fishermen below. Miss Lucy's gaze rested on him and then her heart turned over. She strained forward and peered into the darkness. Surely, surely, there was something familiar about those light, graceful movements-that small, compact form.
But it couldn't be Mario! She had left him hundreds of miles away in Mexico City, and Ellen had been particularly instructed not to tell him where they were going.
The figure in white moved away from the lake shore toward her window. He passed through a shaft of light from an open door. There was no doubt about it now.
It was Mario.
She bent over the balcony, her heart fluttering like a foolish bird. He was only about fifteen feet below her.
"Oh, Miss Lucy, I have found you." He spoke in the slow careful Spanish which he reserved for her. "I knew I would find you."
"But, Mario, how…?"
"The bus company told me you had come here. I got a ride and I have been waiting."
She saw his teeth gleaming as he smiled at her. "Miss Lucy, why did you go away without saying adiosT'
She did
No, there were thousands of other women in Mexico City with far more obvious signs of wealth. There were young, beautiful women and any one of them might have been pleased and proud to have Mario as an escort and-yes, Miss Lucy faced it uncompromisingly-as something else.
And yet… suddenly Miss Lucy became frightened at the illogicality of it all.
Some virginal instinct stirred in her and warned her of-danger.
And because there was no nonsense about Miss Lucy, she decided that she must do something final about it. Lying there quietly beneath the sheets, she came to her great resolution.
Miss Lucy and Vera were waiting at the bus station. Both of them hugged their coats around them as if cold. Vera was always cold, of course. But today Miss Lucy was cold, too, despite the splendid warmth of the spring sunshine. Her eyes-and her nose- were red.
They were waiting for Ellen who had been left behind to deliver the final coup de grace to Mario. The bus for Patzcuaro was leaving in twenty minutes.
At last Ellen appeared. Her nose was red too.
"You shouldn't have done it, Lucy," she snapped. "It was cruel." She thrust two one-hundred-peso bills into Lucy's hands. "I thought he was going to hit me when I gave him these." She sniffed. "And he burst into tears like a child when he read your letter."
Miss Lucy did not speak. In fact, she spoke very little during the entire length of the tiring bus journey to Patzcuaro.
The three women had been sitting since dinner around their table on the veranda overlooking the serene expanse of Lake Patzcuaro. Ellen, restlessly voluble, was discussing possible plans for the next day. Miss Lucy was, apparently, paying no attention. Her eyes studied the evening gray-green waters of the lake with its clustering inlands and its obscene bald-headed vultures that squawked and fought greedily over scraps of carrion on the lake shore.
After a short time she rose, saying, "It's getting a bit cold. I think I'll go up to my room. Good night."
Miss Lucy's room, with its small veranda, commanded a view of the lake from another angle. Below her, in the. growing darkness, the fishermen were pottering with their boats, talking in low, sibilant voices or singing snatches of Michoacan songs.
Miss Lucy sat watching them. She was thinking of Mario, missing him with an intensity that was almost painful. She had thought of him constantly since she left Mexico City and now was appalled at her harshness in dismissing him by proxy through Ellen. She should have spoken to him herself. She would hate to have him think… The thoughts went on with a goading persistence. She had done him a wrong, hurt him…
At some indeterminate stage of her reverie she became conscious of a white-clad figure moving among the fishermen below. Miss Lucy's gaze rested on him and then her heart turned over. She strained forward and peered into the darkness. Surely, surely, there was something familiar about those light, graceful movements-that small, compact form.
But it couldn't be Mario! She had left him hundreds of miles away in Mexico City, and Ellen had been particularly instructed not to tell him where they were going.
The figure in white moved away from the lake shore toward her window. He passed through a shaft of light from an open door. There was no doubt about it now.
It was Mario.
She bent over the balcony, her heart fluttering like a foolish bird. He was only about fifteen feet below her.
"Oh, Miss Lucy, I have found you." He spoke in the slow careful Spanish which he reserved for her. "I knew I would find you."
"But, Mario, how…?"
"The bus company told me you had come here. I got a ride and I have been waiting."
She saw his teeth gleaming as he smiled at her. "Miss Lucy, why did you go away without saying adiosT'
She did
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