Puzzle for Pilgrims by Patrick Quentin Read Free Book Online

too—Marietta. I went to them both and I told them what I know. I told them I’d go to the police tomorrow if Martin didn’t come back.” She turned from profile to face me with a smile that was sure of itself and sure of my delighted approval. “That’s my plan. That’s what I want you to know. I’m going to the police tomorrow if Martin doesn’t come back.”
    It was then that I began to despise this little disturbed girl. I despised her for the pleasure she took in her own infantile craftiness and for the stupidity of her malice. She said she loved her husband. She didn’t, of course. I knew Iris was right now. He was just another thing she had bought, and the losing of it galled her vanity. She said she wanted him back and yet, to get him back, she was prepared to do something that would cement his hatred of her into a permanent mold. She made no sense. Nothing made sense about her except a desire to destroy, blind as an owl’s eyes in the sunlight. But because I despised her, I didn’t minimize the potential danger in her. Martin wouldn’t go back. She would go to the police. All hell would break loose—unless I could do something.
    I crossed to the couch and sat down beside her. With the white throat and the small head, tilted backwards by the mass of hair, she had a strange sensuality which didn’t excite me but which made me aware of its existence.
    I said, “You think Martin will come back tomorrow?”
    “If he’s scared enough.”
    “And that’ll satisfy you, having him back on those terms?”
    “Yes,” she said and to me there was something almost obscene in the monosyllable.
    “And if he’s not scared enough?”
    She laughed. “Oh, he may try to kill me. So may Marietta.” She leaned toward me, her thin fingers gripping my wrist. The laughter was out of her eyes now, and there was something else there that was almost excitement. “I mean that, you know. It’s true. What I’ve done, it’s dangerous. Because they’re utterly unscrupulous, both of them. I can send them to jail. They know that. And I haven’t changed my will yet. I’ve left everything to Martin. They know that too. Oh, yes, they may try and kill me. So may Iris. She’s so hot for him, so eaten up with him. If she knew she couldn’t get him any other way…”
    To me, that seemed the very apogee of fake.
    In my distaste I forgot to handle her.
    I said, “Have you ever been kicked very hard in the pants?”
    Her wide eyes blinked up at me. “Kicked? Me?”
    “Don’t you see what you’re doing. Haven’t you the faintest idea about yourself?”
    “Have I?” Her eyes were still excited. Something about their expression brought back memories of her jumping up from her seat at the bullfight, clapping her little hands, staring at the gay, festooned banderillas flapping like deplumed feathers out of the bull’s bleeding back. “Have I? Tell me, Peter, tell me about me.”
    “It’s quite elementary.”
    “Is it? Is it? What am I?” Her face was almost touching my shoulder. “What am I?”
    “Principally,” I said, “you’re a bitch. A classic example of a rich bitch. You bought a poor man who didn’t want you, because you smelled a bargain genius. You lost him. And once you’d lost him, you became nothing—just another piece of unwanted woman. You can’t bear being off the center of the stage. You had to get back. And because you hadn’t any legitimate reason to get back, you had to do it by mean little ruses, threats, scenes, wielding feeble little whips, trying to destroy people’s happiness, fiddling with danger like a child playing with firecrackers. You don’t want Martin. You just want attention. And a lousy job you’re making of it. In the last half hour, you’ve been the heartbroken wife, the avenging fury, and now—the potential murderee. That’s too many roles. You want me to think you’re interesting. I don’t. I think you’re a goddam bore. If I were you, know what I’d do?”
    She