13 French Street by Gil Brewer

on.”
    I got out of the car and we walked toward the house. She talked loudly enough so anybody could hear now. She was very beautiful and I wanted to feel her against me. But I knew I had to tell Verne. I couldn’t weaken. My God, was there nothing left to me?
    “Where’s Jenny?” she asked. “I thought you went in for Jenny.” We approached the porch and the man stood there, watching. “Verne feels terrible. Where is Jenny?”
    “She couldn’t come just now,” I said. I didn’t want to tell her now because the sheriff might think anything. Sometimes these country sheriffs were something to deal with—lots of times.
    “This is Mr. Bland, Sheriff Reynolds.” She went on inside. His hand was cold and hard.
    “Pleased to meet you,” the sheriff said.
    I nodded.
    “Let’s go inside,” he said.
    We went in and the door closed again. The hall was cool and dim, and in the living room Verne was seated drinking brandy. He was dressed in shirt and pants, but his hair was still uncombed.
    Petra stood by Verne’s chair, one hand on the back of the chair. Whenever her gaze touched mine it was like a current passing between us. I’d never had it like this before. And now it was all mixed up with murder and blackmail; hired hands who sat humped in the cool darkness of brambled hills staring bug-eyed at a bedroom window.
    The sheriff was a plain man, from head to toe. His face was something like a wad of dough with mouth, nose, ears, and eyes carved in it. But his eyes were little black oily beads and they watched.
    “Just wanted to asked a few questions,” he said, “then I’ll run along.”
    Verne glanced at me. “Where’s Jenny?”
    I started to answer, but Petra spoke up. “She couldn’t come just now.”
    “Oh,” Verne said. He drank from his glass and stared at his shoes.
    “Reason is,” the sheriff said, “in a case of this kind, and all. Routine. Did you happen to see Mrs. Lawrence fall?” He turned to Verne. “Verne, why don’t you go into the—”
    “No, it’s all right,” Verne said.
    “No,” I said. “I didn’t.”
    “Well,” the sheriff said. He sighed. He was holding his hat in his hands now and his hair was very sparse, plastered tight to his skull. It was straw-colored hair. “Well,” he said again, “would you tell me what happened, so far’s you know, Mr. Bland?”
    I hated it. Every word was like yanking a tooth out of my head with a pair of pliers. Because it was all lies, and I was saying it before Verne and she was standing there watching me and knowing with whatever it was in her eyes telling me, Yes, yes, yes, yes.
    “I heard a scream,” I said.
    “
A
scream?”
    “Several. Two or three, maybe. I don’t know. I was in my room. I ran down toward Petra’s, Mrs. Lawrence’s room, and went in. The door was open. Petra was standing over on the other side of the room, by the bed, and she—well, she was rather troubled.”
    “I see. Yes, certainly,” Sheriff Reynolds said.
    “She told me Verne’s mother had fallen out of the window and right then Verne came into the room.” I spread my hands. “That’s all, Sheriff, that’s all.”
    “Yes. Well, thank you.” He turned to Verne. “Now, Verne, you get some rest. You take it easy. I had to do this, you understand? Routine and all. Not many window fallings….” He glanced at Petra. She smiled. He looked at me, jammed his hat on, and went out.
    A moment later he returned. “Pardon me,” he said. “But if you could move your car, so I could get out of the drive?”
    “Sure.” I went out and moved the car and he drove off. As I walked back to the house across the lawn, I glanced over at the hill beyond the road. Then I looked down the road. It was the man, the hired hand from Corey’s; he was leaning against a tree just beyond Verne’s home, watching. He saw me looking and waved. I went into the house.
    I wanted to tell Verne everything, the whole stinking business. I wanted to tell him, and yet I was