The Follower by Patrick Quentin Read Free Book Online Page B

busy and …’
    He shrugged an end to the sentence. Suddenly there were tears in her eyes, one glistening drop at the edge of each eye. ‘Swine,’ she said.
    In a dry, academic way he felt sorry for her. He even felt faintly guilty.
    But — not now.
    He said: ‘Have you seen Ellie?’
    ‘The former and celebrated Miss Eleanor Ross? As a matter of fact, I have.’
    ‘When?’
    ‘About four — no, five days ago.’
    ‘Did she say anything about going away?’
    ‘Yes, she did.’
    ‘Did she tell you where?’
    Arlene shook her head.
    ‘You’re sure?’
    She just said she was so tired of the terrible, terrible climate and was going to flee away to the sun. Really, she said, why do all these foolish people insist on rotting away in these dreary New York winters?’
    ‘That’s all she said?’
    ‘What do you expect her to have done? Given me a map with little flags stuck in it marking every rest room she’d hit between here and Topeka, Kansas?’
    Careful to seem casual, he asked, ‘Has anyone else been here asking for her?’
    Arlene was quick. She always had been. That was a dangerous question, but he had to make sure that Victor hadn’t got on to this lead.
    She said: ‘Why should anyone ask me about her? I’m no intimate friend. I’m just a face-fixer.’
    She was dry-eyed now and watching him quizzically. At least she was trying to be quizzical, but the emotion was still pent-up in her ready to break out. He could tell that.
    She smiled brightly. ‘So she’s walked out on you, glamour boy. The two-month wonder wedding.’
    He wouldn’t get angry. There wasn’t any point. ‘I got back from Venezuela early. I told you. I should have cabled.’
    ‘You certainly should have cabled. Homecoming husbands should always cable — particularly the husband of the former and celebrated Miss Eleanor Ross.’
    ‘Just what the hell do you mean by that?’
    Arlene glanced over her shoulder at the glass doors. The receptionist had not come back. She sat down on the arm of a chair. Her hips bulged. An incongruous memory came of her twelve years ago at the Knights of Pythias Ball at Providence High School Auditorium in her sister’s evening gown — pretty as a candy stick.
    With sudden heat she blurted: ‘You’d better watch out for that wife of yours.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘Yes, it’s about time somebody told you.’
    ‘Told me what?’
    ‘The truth. She’s tangled up with a crummy bunch, the worst bunch in New York, drunks, million-dollar bums, gamblers, hopheads.’
    ‘Who’d you expect her to pal around with? The Busy Bee Needlework Club of Passaic?’
    Arlene clutched at his arm. ‘Why did you marry her, Mark? She’s a tramp. You know that. Just a junior miss tramp. And because she tramped out of the Social Register you were smitten. Haven’t you any sense?’
    He felt an uprush of anger, but he checked it. This was just Arlene’s spite showing. He’d thrown her over. He hadn’t been nice about it. Okay. He had this coming to him.
    ‘Know what she’s been doing?’ Arlene’s voice was hard now with an undercurrent of hysterical triumph. ‘Almost from the moment you went away she’s been up at the Lorton Club all the time. I’ve got a friend who’s a hat-check girl there. She told me. Running around all the time with Victor D’Iorio. He’s the lowest, most vicious character in New York. He’s not just a racketeer, a gambler; he peddles dope; he … She’s been at the Lorton Club all the time.’
    ‘So she’s been at the Lorton Club all the time.’
    ‘Don’t you understand anything, Mark?’ Arlene was crying now. The mascara was smudging under her eyes. ‘Victor’s Ellie’s sort of person. She belongs in that bunch of stinking rich degenerates that hang around Victor. You think she really loves you? Don’t make me laugh. She just had a mood. She thought she was tired of all that filth. She thought she wanted to get away from Victor and all those characters. How wonderful to marry a