inside, calling, “Helen?”
It was hot and sticky inside the littered living-room. Here was every evidence of not only poverty, but of a woman’s impoverished spirit. Shayne glanced around the room with hard, unsympathetic eyes. He called Helen again, louder.
Helen Kincaid appeared in the stucco archway leading into the dining-room. She wore a gingham dress and a rumpled apron. Her eyes were black and enormous in a pale, perspiring face, and she patted stringy locks of moist dark hair back into place with a hand reddened from recent immersion in hot water.
She said, “It’s you, Michael,” in a tired, flat monotone. Shayne nodded.
“Have you heard from Larry yet?”
“No. Nothing since the telegram I told you about this morning.” She came close to him with fright showing in her eyes. “Is anything wrong, Michael?”
Shayne’s big hands caught her elbows roughly and he looked down into her eyes.
“What makes you ask that?”
“Because—he acted so strangely last night. He—oh, why did you quarrel with him!”
Shayne’s hands dropped to his side. He turned back into the living-room and slumped into a chair upholstered in faded needlepoint.
“Tell me how he acted. I want to know everything he did and said last evening.”
Helen Kincaid sat in a low rocker in front of Shayne, but she didn’t look at him. Her profile was sharp, and her whole expression was one of dissatisfaction, almost of shrewishness. She looked to be a few years older than her husband, and gave the impression that she had long ago given up trying to retain her youthful loveliness.
“He came in raving about you,” she told him listlessly. “Said you had let him down—turned against him. He was furious when I reminded him of all the things you’d done for us. He had some big deal on that he was awfully secretive about. He called somebody and made an appointment for eleven o’clock, then stamped out about nine o’clock saying he was going to give you one last chance to prove your friendship.”
“And you haven’t seen him since?”
“No. The telephone woke me up this morning. A telegram from Larry in Jacksonville.”
She stared past Shayne vacuously for a moment, a picture of dejection and hopelessness. Then she turned listless eyes upon him and asked, “What’s wrong, Michael? Why did you quarrel with Larry?”
“Didn’t he tell you?”
Helen Kincaid’s expression took on a spark of interest at the harsh tone of Shayne’s voice. She studied him with a puzzled frown, said, “No. He didn’t tell me anything. He never does—any more.”
“Didn’t he accuse you of being in love with me?”
She was startled. Panic showed in her big dark eyes. Sharp teeth caught her underlip tightly.
“He—he said something silly like that.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him it was too late for that,” she cried with sudden passion. “I told him I might have married you long ago, but I made a mistake and chose him instead.”
“For which,” said Shayne fervently, “I thank God.” Tears welled into her eyes and ran down her pale cheeks. She started to speak, but Shayne said harshly, “Don’t waste your cheap tears on me. I’m not interested. I admit I was taken in by your pretty face five years ago—just as you took Larry in. You’re no damned good, Helen. Any girl who lets circumstances rob her of her pride and ambition at twenty-six was no good to start with. You’ve nagged at Larry about money until he’s reached the state he’s in today. Whatever happened to him, you’ll be to blame. And stop your darned sniveling.”
“Wh-a-at,” she sobbed, “has happened?”
“I don’t know.”
Shayne lit a cigarette, got up and paced around the room, his features twisted into a frown of furious concentration.
Helen’s sobbing gradually subsided and she dabbed at her face with a corner of her apron.
“You—hate me, don’t you?” she faltered.
“No. I don’t waste energy hating people. I
It was hot and sticky inside the littered living-room. Here was every evidence of not only poverty, but of a woman’s impoverished spirit. Shayne glanced around the room with hard, unsympathetic eyes. He called Helen again, louder.
Helen Kincaid appeared in the stucco archway leading into the dining-room. She wore a gingham dress and a rumpled apron. Her eyes were black and enormous in a pale, perspiring face, and she patted stringy locks of moist dark hair back into place with a hand reddened from recent immersion in hot water.
She said, “It’s you, Michael,” in a tired, flat monotone. Shayne nodded.
“Have you heard from Larry yet?”
“No. Nothing since the telegram I told you about this morning.” She came close to him with fright showing in her eyes. “Is anything wrong, Michael?”
Shayne’s big hands caught her elbows roughly and he looked down into her eyes.
“What makes you ask that?”
“Because—he acted so strangely last night. He—oh, why did you quarrel with him!”
Shayne’s hands dropped to his side. He turned back into the living-room and slumped into a chair upholstered in faded needlepoint.
“Tell me how he acted. I want to know everything he did and said last evening.”
Helen Kincaid sat in a low rocker in front of Shayne, but she didn’t look at him. Her profile was sharp, and her whole expression was one of dissatisfaction, almost of shrewishness. She looked to be a few years older than her husband, and gave the impression that she had long ago given up trying to retain her youthful loveliness.
“He came in raving about you,” she told him listlessly. “Said you had let him down—turned against him. He was furious when I reminded him of all the things you’d done for us. He had some big deal on that he was awfully secretive about. He called somebody and made an appointment for eleven o’clock, then stamped out about nine o’clock saying he was going to give you one last chance to prove your friendship.”
“And you haven’t seen him since?”
“No. The telephone woke me up this morning. A telegram from Larry in Jacksonville.”
She stared past Shayne vacuously for a moment, a picture of dejection and hopelessness. Then she turned listless eyes upon him and asked, “What’s wrong, Michael? Why did you quarrel with Larry?”
“Didn’t he tell you?”
Helen Kincaid’s expression took on a spark of interest at the harsh tone of Shayne’s voice. She studied him with a puzzled frown, said, “No. He didn’t tell me anything. He never does—any more.”
“Didn’t he accuse you of being in love with me?”
She was startled. Panic showed in her big dark eyes. Sharp teeth caught her underlip tightly.
“He—he said something silly like that.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him it was too late for that,” she cried with sudden passion. “I told him I might have married you long ago, but I made a mistake and chose him instead.”
“For which,” said Shayne fervently, “I thank God.” Tears welled into her eyes and ran down her pale cheeks. She started to speak, but Shayne said harshly, “Don’t waste your cheap tears on me. I’m not interested. I admit I was taken in by your pretty face five years ago—just as you took Larry in. You’re no damned good, Helen. Any girl who lets circumstances rob her of her pride and ambition at twenty-six was no good to start with. You’ve nagged at Larry about money until he’s reached the state he’s in today. Whatever happened to him, you’ll be to blame. And stop your darned sniveling.”
“Wh-a-at,” she sobbed, “has happened?”
“I don’t know.”
Shayne lit a cigarette, got up and paced around the room, his features twisted into a frown of furious concentration.
Helen’s sobbing gradually subsided and she dabbed at her face with a corner of her apron.
“You—hate me, don’t you?” she faltered.
“No. I don’t waste energy hating people. I
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