The Bamboo Blonde by Dorothy B. Hughes

a favored spot, the waiters were deferential. Griselda sat beside him in well-mannered docility, ate and drank, listened and spoke. She didn't want to. She wanted to clutch Con's hand, make him run, swim, fly with her away from the macabre reverberations there at the St. Catherine. But Con didn't notice her; he was not wasting charm on a wife that night. Nor did he pay any attention to the man he had traveled to meet. Pembrooke should have been harassed at having his companion taken over completely by Con. Actually he wasn't, Griselda realized. It was because he was waiting for something, for someone else.
    When Kew entered the dining room with Kathie Travis on his arm, Griselda knew what that something was. She knew with such certainty that there was no amazement in her at Kew being there, nor at Kathie being with him, not even at Sergei Vironova following sadly in their wake.
    Con saw them, too. He laid his fingers on Dare's arm and shouted, "Look what's here!"
    Dare put her other hand on Albert George's red-haired wrist. "There's Kew Brent and Kathie Travis. Shall they join us?"
    Griselda was certain this had been staged. More than ever she resented being on the outside, being relegated to busboy intelligence. She knew wheels within wheels were revolving, revolving with rapidity and precision; she didn't like not knowing the motive nor the goal. It left her nerves too tight for comfort.
    Dare signaled, crying, "I didn't dream you were coming over, Kew. Why didn't you tell me? And you, Mrs. Travis. Of course you'll join us."
    She made introductions. Sergei Vironova stood back, wetting his sad lips. Kew remembered him, "You know Vironova, Dare, the director."
    She broke in, "How d'you do," as if not interested but her eyes measured him. Albert George was curt to the little Russian. Sergei knew it. He cringed. But he had accomplished what he was here to accomplish. He wedged in now beside Con, made his chair closer than need be. He was afraid of Albert George. He glanced in the major's direction and quickly again at Con's shoulders as if these were bodyguard. Con ignored him.
    Griselda sat quietly in that group encircling the table of shining glass and silver and white napery, her scalp prickling. She knew that she was dining with Death. She was conscious of only one person, the reason that each of the others was present. He bulked there, certain of himself and his power.
    Why was Kew here? Was it to give Kathie a taste of the luxury that grimly, sweetly, she was determined to attain? Would he do that much for a woman? Or had he brought Kathie to deliver her over to Major Pembrooke for some unknown purpose?
    She heard him say, "Mrs. Travis's husband is Lieutenant Travis, Major."
    The silence was brief but it was pregnant. Unconsciously Griselda glimpsed over her shoulder for a hovering Chang Smithery. He alone was missing.
    Kew's repetition was distinct. "Lieutenant Walker Travis of the Antarctica."
    Major Pembrooke laughed. "Indeed!" His laugh didn't belong to him; it was pleasant, disarming. He seemed to thaw all at once but it was mere external radiance. There was still the mouth, the icy brain beneath the suddenly warm face. "Where is the lieutenant tonight, Mrs. Travis? Could he join us?"
    "He didn't come to the island with me. He was on duty."
    "A shame." His voice leaked fatherly kindness. It was stark travesty; anyone would have known; even Kathie should have known. The legend of the ravening wolf with careless lamb's wool hung on his haunches was being enacted before their very eyes.
    "And your week-end vacation must be enjoyed alone?" She wasn't alone; she had Kew and the trembling Sergei, "I am so anxious to meet Lieutenant Travis. He is the naval radio expert, is he not?"
    There was no necessity for Griselda to stiffen, to wish to warn the girl to tell this man nothing, no matter how harmless it seemed. For Kathie wasn't interested. She said, "I guess so."
    The major tried again. "He was a friend of Mannie Martin,