aisles apprehensively.
She smiled again. “But they haven’t.”
Carr turned wondering eyes on her. Something of the charming willfulness of the night before last seemed to have returned to her. He felt an answering spirit rising in himself.
And it did seem the height of silliness to worry about breaking library regulations just after you’d escaped a messy death a dozen times—and were about to hear the most important story in the world.
“All right,” he said, “in that case let’s have a drink.” And he fished out of his pocket the unopened pint of whisky.
“Swell,” she said, her eyes brightening. “The fountain’s right there. I’ll get paper cups.”
CHAPTER XII
Of course if there’s someone you really love, you’ve got to tell them the secret. For love means sharing everything, even the horrors . . .
CARR LOWERED his cup, half emptied.
“Listen,” he said, “there’s someone coming.”
Jane seemed unconcerned. “Just a page.”
“How do you know? Besides, he’s coming this way.”
He hustled Jane to the next aisle.
They where there was less light. The footsteps grew louder, ringing on the glass.
“Let’s go farther back,” Carr whispered. “He might see us here.”
But Jane refused to budge. He peered over her shoulder. “Damn!” he breathed, “I forgot the bottle. He’s bound to spot it.”
Jane’s shoulders twitched.
The he turned out to be a she, Carr saw by patches through the gaps between the shelves. A she with sleek black hair cut in bangs across the forehead, and a tight, dark red dress. She walked past their aisle, stopped at the second one beyond. She looked up.
“Here we are, boys and girls,” they heard her say to herself in a loud bitter voice. “Oh, in six volumes, is it? Is that all he expects at closing time?” She scribbled briefly on a slip of paper she was carrying. “Sorry, Baldy, but—out! You’ll have to learn about the secrets of sex some other day.” And she returned the way she had come, humming “St. Louis Woman.” Carr recovered the bottle. “Quite a character,” he said with a smile. “I’m not sure but what she didn’t see us.” Jane gave him a look. Then she went to the next aisle and returned with a couple of stools. Carr pushed his topcoat back over some books. His face grew serious. For a moment they were silent. Then he said, “Well, I’m waiting.”
Jane moved nervously. “Let’s have another drink.”
Carr refilled their cups. Jane just held hers. It was shadowy where they were. She reached up and tugged a cord. Extra light spilled around them. There was another pause. Jane looked at him.
“You must think of my childhood,” she began, “as an empty, middle-class upbringing in a city apartment. You must think o» me as miserable and lonely, with a few girl-friends whom I thought silly and at the same time more knowing than I. And then my parents—familiar creatures I was terribly tied to, but with whom I had no real contact. They seemed to go unhappily through a daily routine as sterile as death.
“The whole world was an ugly mystery to me. I didn’t know what people were after, why they did the things they did, what secret rules they were obeying. I used to take long walks alone in the park, trying to figure it out.” She paused. “It was in the park that I first met the small dark man with glasses.
“No,” she corrected herself, frowning, “I didn’t exactly meet him. I just noticed him watching me. Usually from a distance—from another path, or across the lagoon, or through a crowd of people. He’d watch me and follow me for a way and then drift out of sight and maybe turn up again farther on.
“I pretended not to notice him. I knew that strange men who followed girls were not to be trusted. Though I don’t think I was ever frightened of him that way. He looked so small and respectful. Actually I suppose I was beginning to feel romantic about him.” She took a swallow of her drink.
Carr had
She smiled again. “But they haven’t.”
Carr turned wondering eyes on her. Something of the charming willfulness of the night before last seemed to have returned to her. He felt an answering spirit rising in himself.
And it did seem the height of silliness to worry about breaking library regulations just after you’d escaped a messy death a dozen times—and were about to hear the most important story in the world.
“All right,” he said, “in that case let’s have a drink.” And he fished out of his pocket the unopened pint of whisky.
“Swell,” she said, her eyes brightening. “The fountain’s right there. I’ll get paper cups.”
CHAPTER XII
Of course if there’s someone you really love, you’ve got to tell them the secret. For love means sharing everything, even the horrors . . .
CARR LOWERED his cup, half emptied.
“Listen,” he said, “there’s someone coming.”
Jane seemed unconcerned. “Just a page.”
“How do you know? Besides, he’s coming this way.”
He hustled Jane to the next aisle.
They where there was less light. The footsteps grew louder, ringing on the glass.
“Let’s go farther back,” Carr whispered. “He might see us here.”
But Jane refused to budge. He peered over her shoulder. “Damn!” he breathed, “I forgot the bottle. He’s bound to spot it.”
Jane’s shoulders twitched.
The he turned out to be a she, Carr saw by patches through the gaps between the shelves. A she with sleek black hair cut in bangs across the forehead, and a tight, dark red dress. She walked past their aisle, stopped at the second one beyond. She looked up.
“Here we are, boys and girls,” they heard her say to herself in a loud bitter voice. “Oh, in six volumes, is it? Is that all he expects at closing time?” She scribbled briefly on a slip of paper she was carrying. “Sorry, Baldy, but—out! You’ll have to learn about the secrets of sex some other day.” And she returned the way she had come, humming “St. Louis Woman.” Carr recovered the bottle. “Quite a character,” he said with a smile. “I’m not sure but what she didn’t see us.” Jane gave him a look. Then she went to the next aisle and returned with a couple of stools. Carr pushed his topcoat back over some books. His face grew serious. For a moment they were silent. Then he said, “Well, I’m waiting.”
Jane moved nervously. “Let’s have another drink.”
Carr refilled their cups. Jane just held hers. It was shadowy where they were. She reached up and tugged a cord. Extra light spilled around them. There was another pause. Jane looked at him.
“You must think of my childhood,” she began, “as an empty, middle-class upbringing in a city apartment. You must think o» me as miserable and lonely, with a few girl-friends whom I thought silly and at the same time more knowing than I. And then my parents—familiar creatures I was terribly tied to, but with whom I had no real contact. They seemed to go unhappily through a daily routine as sterile as death.
“The whole world was an ugly mystery to me. I didn’t know what people were after, why they did the things they did, what secret rules they were obeying. I used to take long walks alone in the park, trying to figure it out.” She paused. “It was in the park that I first met the small dark man with glasses.
“No,” she corrected herself, frowning, “I didn’t exactly meet him. I just noticed him watching me. Usually from a distance—from another path, or across the lagoon, or through a crowd of people. He’d watch me and follow me for a way and then drift out of sight and maybe turn up again farther on.
“I pretended not to notice him. I knew that strange men who followed girls were not to be trusted. Though I don’t think I was ever frightened of him that way. He looked so small and respectful. Actually I suppose I was beginning to feel romantic about him.” She took a swallow of her drink.
Carr had
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