Spawn of Hell by William Schoell Read Free Book Online

the phone all day.”
    “That I couldn’t say, sir. I’ll try and get in touch with them right now.”
    “All right. Thank you very much.”
    She hung up.
    He replaced the receiver on the hook, staring out at the park and the little girls, hearing but not listening to the music, not knowing quite what to do. How long would he have to sit up there, playing nursemaid? He felt terribly sorry for George, but there was nothing he could do to help him. He was shaken out of his reverie by a middle-aged woman tapping him on the shoulder. He made way for her so she could use the phone.
    Back at the apartment, he settled into the business of waiting.
     
    Three hours later, he was still waiting.
    He had made lunch, had two more cups of coffee, read four or five different art magazines for the fiftieth time, tried to start a paperback novel three times, all the while watching the steady rise and fall of George’s chest as he slept. But the phone, that damnable phone, never rang.
    And to think that he could have gone out, could have applied at several agencies, bought some new supplies. What wasted time! He had debated whether or not to call the Bartleys back, but figured that if the maid had reached them they would have rung him up by now. It was all very frustrating.
    He waited another hour. George began to toss and turn in his sleep, but showed no signs of waking. The man probably needed medical care. Perhaps it would be better to forget all about the Bartleys and their convention and take George to the nearest hospital. Assuming George would go of his own free will, which was unlikely. This whole business was a hot potato and was the last thing David needed right now.
    He dialed the Bartleys’ number again. This time there was no answer. What had the maid done—driven to Lancaster after them? He hung up, waited ten minutes, then called again. Still no answer. He let it ring a full twenty times in case the woman was hard of hearing. The Bartley cottage wasn’t all that big, assuming they still lived there. If they had hired a maid they might have been able to afford a new house, too. George had never seemed foolhardy enough to run from affluence, though.
    He was hungry again. He made himself a light supper of canned peas and corned beef hash. He thought of waking George, but wasn’t in the mood for his company, the soulful stares, the cryptic words, the haunted eyes. He already felt guilty about calling his parents. But what else could he have done?
    He turned on the TV set, keeping the volume low so as not to disturb his visitor. The I Love Lucy rerun was half over when the commercial came on. The commercial. The one that had eluded him last night. He had wondered where he’d seen that woman before—the one at Peg O’ Hearts—and now he knew.
    It was a commercial for Exclusiva Cosmetics. She was the Exclusiva woman! She looked different in this particular ad—there was a whole series of them—with her hair done up, and her body tucked into tight-fitting jeans and a white blouse; an odd combination of tomboy and glamor girl. “I wear Exclusiva—and nothing else,” she purred, looking at the camera with a combination of arrogance and sensuality. There were shots of her dancing at a disco, dining in a fancy restaurant, walking down the city streets hand in hand with a male model, wearing her Exclusiva wherever she went. That certain quality she had, a humanity beneath the artifice, came through even in her ads. As the music came up, the screen showed a closeup of her beautiful face. Creamy, flawless cheeks, full lips, large blue eyes, a slightly turned-up nose. Her head was not exactly round, but not narrow either. She did not have the gaunt look of other models. “In my Exclusiva,” she said confidently (the camera pulled in for a tight closeup now, her lips shining provocatively), “I’m exclusively yours.”
    How many men—and quite a few women—wished she was saying those very same words to them? David