Part 5 (2/2)
”Are you familiar with penitentiaries?”
”Not intimately. But I wasn't lying when I told you my father was a policeman.” A gray pinched expression touched her face. She covered it over with another smile. ”We do have things in common. Why don't you come along?”
”All right. I'll follow you. It will save you driving me back.”
”Wonderful.”
She drove as rapidly as she operated, with a jerky nervousness and a total disregard for the rules of the road. Fortunately the campus was almost empty of cars and people. Diminished by the foothills and by their own long shadows, the buildings resembled a movie lot which had shut down for the night.
She lived back of Foothill Drive in a hillside house made out of aluminum and gla.s.s and black enameled steel. The nearest rooftop floated among the scrub oaks a quarter of a mile down the slope. You could stand in the living room by the central fireplace and see the blue mountains rising up on one side, the gray ocean falling away on the other. The offsh.o.r.e fog was pus.h.i.+ng in to the land.
”Do you like my little eyrie?”
”Very much,”
”It isn't really mine, alas. I'm only renting at present, though I have hopes. Sit down. What will you drink? I'm going to have a tonic.”
”That will do nicely.”
The polished tile floor was almost bare of furniture. I strolled around the large room, pausing by one of the gla.s.s walls to look out. A wild pigeon lay on the patio with its iridescent neck broken. Its faint spreadeagled image outlined in dust showed where it had flown against the gla.s.s.
I sat on a rope chair which probably belonged on the patio. Helen Haggerty brought our drinks and disposed herself on a canvas chaise, where the sunlight would catch her hair again, and s.h.i.+ne on her polished brown legs.
”I'm really just camping for now,” she said. ”I haven't sent for my furniture, because I don't know if I want it around me any more. I may just leave it in storage and start all over, and to h.e.l.l with the history. Do you think that's a good idea, Curveball Lefty Lew?”
”Call me anything, I don't mind. I'd have to know the history.”
”Ha. You never will.” She looked at me sternly for a minute, and sipped her drink. ”You might as well call me Helen.”
”All right, Helen.”
”You make it sound so formal. I'm not a formal person, and neither are you. Why should we be formal with each other?”
”You live in a gla.s.s house, for one thing,” I said smiling. ”I take it you haven't been in it long.”
”A month. Less than a month. It seems longer. You're the first really interesting man I've met since I arrived here.”
I dodged the compliment. ”Where did you live before?”
”Here and there. There and here. We academic people are such nomads. It doesn't suit me. I'd like to settle down permanently. I'm getting old.”
”It doesn't show.”
”You're being gallant. Old for a woman, I mean. Men never grow old.”
Now that she had me where she apparently wanted me, she wasn't crowding so hard, but she was working. I wished that she would stop, because I liked her. I downed my drink. She brought me a second tonic with all the speed and efficiency of a c.o.c.ktail waitress. I couldn't get rid of the dismal feeling that each of us was there to use the other.
With the second tonic she let me look down her dress. She was smooth and brown as far as I could see. She arranged herself on the chaise with one hip up, so that I could admire the curve. The sun, in its final yellow fiareup before setting, took possession of the room.
”Shall I pull the drapes?” she said.
”Don't bother for me. It'll be down soon. You were going to tell me about Dolly Kincaid alias Dorothy Smith.”
”Was I?”
”You brought the subject of her up. I understand you're her academic counselor.”
”And that's why you're interested in me, n'est-ce pas7' Her tone was mocking.
”I was interested in you before I knew of your connection with Dolly.”
”Really?”
”Really. Here I am to prove it.”
”Here you are because I lured you with the magic words Dorothy Smith. What's she doing on this campus anyway?” She sounded almost jealous of the girl.
”I was sort of hoping you knew the answer to that.”
”Don't you?”
”Dolly gives confficting stories, probably derived from romantic fiction--”
”I don't think so,” she said. ”She's a romantic all right--one of these romantic idealists who are always a jump or two behind her unconscious mind. I ought to know, I used to be one myself. But I also think she has some real trouble--appalling trouble.”
”What was her story to you?”
”It was no story. It was the lousy truth. We'll come to it later on, if you're a good boy.” She stirred like an odalisque in the dying light, and recrossed her polished legs. ”How brave are you, Mr. Lew?”
”Men don't talk about how brave they are.”
”You're full of copybook maxims,” she said with some malice. ”I want a serious answer.”
”You could always try me.”
”I may at that. I have a use--I mean, I need a man.”
”Is that a proposal, or a business proposition, or are you thinking about some third party?”
”You're the man I have in mind. What would you say if I told you that I'm likely to be killed this weekend?”
”I'd advise you to go away for the weekend.”
She leaned sideways toward me. Her breast hardly sagged. ”Will you take me?”
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