Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [171]
“Jealous?” said Brighton.
“Of all the radium your girls get on their skin.”
“Oh, yes,” he answered, laughing aloud. “She would be green with—”
“She knows, sir,” said Samuels, drawing a gun.
No one spoke.
“Oh, my,” said Brighton. “What does she know, Samuels?”
“Everything.”
“Are you quite sure?” asked Brighton. “She said Mrs. Meloney would be jealous of our girls.”
“She was lying,” said Samuels, gun pointed at Colette.
Brighton shook his head in disappointment. “It’s useless to lie, Miss Rousseau. Samuels can always tell. How he knows is a mystery to me. I never have any idea myself. Samuels, would you please put your gun very close to Miss Rousseau?”
Samuels approached Colette from behind and pressed his gun against the small of her back. Brighton came to her, his body strangely large and poorly knit together. He touched the shiny nail of his little finger to her chin and gently angled her face to one side, so that he could better see her diamond-studded neck. Colette tried not to react.
“Look,” said Brighton appreciatively. “So clean.”
He stroked the underside of Colette’s jaw; he ran his fingernail down her breastbone; he cupped his palms and shaped them around the outside of her chest. Colette, horrified, remained immobile.
“Does she like it, Samuels?” asked Brighton. “I think she may be nervous. I wish I were better with facial expressions, Miss Rousseau. I have a great deal of trouble understanding them. If only Lyme were here. He has a relaxant that makes girls much more receptive to me. Have you ever been kissed, Miss Rousseau? On the mouth?”
Colette made no response.
“Can you make her answer?” Brighton asked Samuels.
Samuels thrust the gun harder into her spine.
“Yes, I’ve been kissed,” said Colette.
“But you’ve never—you’ve never—?”
Colette didn’t reply.
“No, don’t answer,” said Brighton. “You’re right not to. The words would dirty your lips. I’m sure you never have. You’re purity itself. Now, Miss Rousseau, I’m going to get started. I want to so very badly, and I no longer think we’re going to be married. I hope you don’t mind that Samuels sees us; just put him right out of your head. Please don’t make any violent movements. Samuels might shoot.”
Brighton leaned down, evidently to kiss her. Colette waited as long as she could bear it, even until Brighton’s mouth was actually upon her, before she thrust an elbow into Samuels’s stomach, pushed Brighton with all her strength—causing the ungainly man to fall to the floor—and bolted from the office. The factory floor was empty now; she rushed through it to the main door. But the doorknob wouldn’t turn; it was locked. Desperately, Colette looked around, and she saw something that gave her an idea. If she’d been able to run, she could have reached it in a moment. But a voice froze her.
“Stop where you are, Miss Rousseau,” ordered Brighton. “Please don’t make Samuels shoot you.”
Colette turned. “Miss McDonald worked here,” she said, “didn’t she?”
“You mean the one with that—thing on her neck?” said Brighton. “Yes, she did. A lovely girl. I thought for a time she might be my wife, before that hideousness grew on her.”
As Brighton and Samuels came nearer, Colette took a step back from them, along the wall, as if out of fear. “Radium got into her jaw,” said Colette. “You knew. You kept it a secret to sell your watches.”
“No, my dear,” replied Brighton earnestly. “I don’t care about the watches. It’s the radium itself. If the public were to learn that radium causes that sort of thing to grow on a girl’s neck, no one would want any radium products anymore. The price of radium would fall ninety percent—back to what it used to cost. For a mine-owning man like me, that would be a substantial loss. Very substantial.”
“Amelia worked here too,” said Colette, taking another step backward. “She was losing her teeth.”
“Yes. Most