Hamilton, Donald - Novel 02 by The Steel Mirror (v2.1) Page A

bed and drop to the floor in one quick movement
that startled him with its abruptness; a moment before she had been crying. He
put himself in her way.
                 “Please,
give it to me,” she gasped.
                 He
looked down at her streaked pale face. “I think I’d like to see it first, if
you don’t mind,” he said slowly, holding the broken mirror away from her, as
she reached for it, as if keeping it away from a playful puppy, or a child. Her
face seemed to contract a little; and for a moment he thought she would strike
him. Then her shoulders sagged in defeat.
                 “There’s
just the clipping,” she breathed. “You’ve already read it And—” She watched him
draw a small card from behind the shattered glass. “—and a picture,” she said,
her voice trailing off in silence.
                 He
was looking down at a small studio photograph, on fairly stiff paper, of a size
to be carried in the compartment of a wallet with the driver’s license and
identification cards. The picture had apparently been carried flat for easy
visibility for a long time; the face of it had the scuffed, smudged, worn look
of paper that had rubbed against celluloid or leather for years. It was flat
now, but at some intervening time it had been folded so that the crease broken
into the photographic emulsion ran directly across the smiling face of the girl
it represented: a younger Ann Nicholson than the girl he knew, with her hair
worn longer and a young fullness to her face that she did not now have. The
broken surface of the photograph marred the expression of the smiling young
face, but he could see that even that long ago she had been lovely. The picture
had been inscribed on the back: To
Georges, with all my love—Ann.
                 “It’s
mine,” she murmured. “Please, may I have it now?”
                 The
momentary panic had left her, he thought; and then he saw her eyes avoid his as
he looked at her. He glanced again at the picture in his hand; it seemed quite
innocent, although there was something vaguely unpleasant and frightening about
the wanton way it had been creased. You might fold a photograph like that
before throwing it away, but this photograph had not been thrown away. Someone
had carried it for a long time, treasuring it; and then the same person, or
another, had broken it ruthlessly, but had not thrown it away.
                 Then
the answer came to him. This was a picture she had given to the man she had
apparently married in France . To
Georges, with all my love… Georges had carried it; it was possible that
Georges had broken it after the death and capture of his friends. But Georges,
she had just told him, had been killed with the Maquis later, helping an
American flyer escape. He glanced at her, feeling suddenly cold and rather
scared.
                 “How
did you get this?” he asked.
                 “It
was… sent to me,” she whispered.
                 “By
whom?”
                 “By
Georges. When he was dying.” She hesitated. “He… wanted me to know… to know
that he had kept it in spite of…”
                 “I
see,” Emmett said. “And wounded to death, he sauntered out to the nearest
mailbox and—”
                 “Do
you have to be so cruel?”
                 “I
have to know how you got this,” he said evenly. “I have to know why you jumped
to keep me from seeing it. How was it sent? When did you get it?”
                 “I
got it—” Her lips were gray in her white face. “I got it… yesterday. That’s why
I—”
                 He
was silent for a long time, and she did not finish. Then he shivered a little,
and licked his lips. “That’s why you started off for Denver ?”
                 She
nodded mutely.
                 “Who
brought it to you?”