Locked rooms - Laurie R. King [79]
“I only mean to say, she does not care for herself sufficiently. She has not been eating well, and sleeps briefly and restlessly. If you were to insist that she eat, and take exercise, and perhaps go so far as to swallow a sleeping draught . . .”
“Ah,” she said, her eyebrows descending with mingled relief and disappointment. “I was afraid you meant, oh jeepers, suicide or something.” She gave a merry little laugh, to illustrate that she was exaggerating, but for an instant Holmes was seized by the memory of Russell teetering over the shipboard rails, a thousand miles of empty ocean waiting to swallow her. He pushed down the image, and gave the young woman his most reassuring smile.
“Oh, she's far too sensible for that. No, just careless of herself. She needs a friend at the moment.”
“Sure, I can be that. It was nifty to meet Mary again—I remember her from when we were kids.” The thought startled Holmes a little, as he had never thought of his wife as any sort of a child, not even the day they'd met. But this young woman, just Russell's age, was still young in ways Russell had never been. She did not notice his momentary distraction, but continued on. “And her family—Mary's father was just a card, and her mother, gosh, she was amazing. Did you ever meet her?”
“I regret I did not have the pleasure.”
“No, that's right, Mary met you after the . . . afterwards. Well, don't you worry, Mr Holmes, we'll take good care of her.”
“‘We'?”
“Yes, I thought Donny—he's my boy-friend—might drive us down, if you don't mind? He's a very responsible boy, when he hasn't been drinking, anyway, and he never drinks when he's driving, honest.”
“Quite. Yes, that should be fine.” And if this relatively sensible child and her strong young escort with the bright blue motor weren't enough to keep Russell from harm, little would be. “And if I might ask one more favour: I believe Rus—Mary would be happiest if she did not know I'd been here. Collusion between husband and friend might prove . . . alienating.”
“Right-o,” she said cheerfully.
He stood up, taking her hand again, holding it for a moment so that he was bent over her almost like a courtier. Then he left, and Flo watched him go; he was, she thought, really pretty swell.
That, thought Holmes, took care of Sunday and Monday at the very least. Which left only the afternoon and evening to get through.
Walking towards the lawyer's office, Holmes noticed a news-agent's with a small sign in the window advising OUT-OF-DATE JOURNALS LOCATED. He wrote down Hammett's name, told the proprietor that he'd take anything the man could locate by the fellow, and was strolling up the street (for the seventh time) as Russell came out of Norbert's office, pulling on her gloves with little jerks of irritation.
“Holmes,” she said in surprise when she spotted him. “What are you doing here?”
“I was finished with my business, and thought I might accompany you on this fine afternoon.”
She looked at him sideways. “Holmes, I hope you don't mind, but I'd rather like to spend some time in the house on my own.”
“But of course, that was merely the direction in which I was headed. You remember the Italian café we ate at the other day? The owner happened to mention that his great-grandfather was a childhood friend of Paganini and had a sheaf of the composer's early attempts at music. I thought I might add a section on my monograph concerning childhood patterns of behaviour that extend into maturity.”
“Yes? I didn't know you had such a monograph in process; it sounds interesting.”
So they walked the mile in amicable discussion of the nonexistent monograph, and after Holmes had seen her safely into the house (using the excuse of seeing if the 'phone and electrical companies had done their duties) he went off, whistling a brisk tune the Italian had composed for violin.
At the end of the block, he paused to look back at the house that was holding his wife, in both senses of