She interrupted him quietly. “Let’s celebrate. Let’s go to the cabin this weekend. We haven’t been there in months. The road will soon be impassable and we won’t be able to go again until spring.”
“This weekend?” He looked dubious.
“Yes — we’ll have a second honeymoon. We could find each other again.”
“Have you lost me? Or have I lost you?” he asked in his old teasing voice. “Okay, honey, if you want a second honeymoon you’ll have it. But I’ll have to cancel two meetings on Saturday. How about putting it off for a week or two?”
“No,” she said firmly.
He was too triumphant at the thought of the successful Toronto deal to argue; so on Friday they drove up to the cabin.
It was just as they had left it. No one ever came near the place. There was a pile of wood in the snow by the ax. The wood was not too wet and they quickly made a smoky fire to warm the little room.
She bounced on the squeaky brass bed a few times, and gazed about her happily. All the old warmth and affection began to return. Perhaps here they would find what they had lost. Perhaps here he would look at her again, not through her. Perhaps here he would once again be interested, if only for a weekend, in her, in her life, in her love — and forget the business world which consumed him. Yes, she was ready to settle for a weekend.
He gazed into the fireplace, at the crackling blue and orange flames. There was a distant, even wistful look on his face. She watched him tenderly, feeling the old love for that tired worn face. She sat opposite him in the shabby old chair that they had bought together in a country junk shop, and had loaded hysterically onto the pickup that he had driven in those days. The front seat was so loaded with their gear that she had ridden the whole day to the cabin seated on that chair in the back of the truck amid a clutter of second-hand household goods.
How funny that had been! Everyone on the road had turned to look, laugh, and wave. And when they arrived at the cabin after an unbelievably bumpy trip — over miles of isolated dirt roads with low overhanging branches that clawed at her face and battered the truck — she had jumped into his waiting arms. Happily he had carried her to the threshold, where he discovered he had to drop her unceremoniously in order to get at the key which was hanging on a rusty nail. They had laughed together until they couldn’t stand up, but they had clung to each other for support. Yes, clung to each other...
She was deep in nostalgia. He lifted his head and gazed at her. She gazed back into his eyes, trying to guess his thoughts. Were they as far away as hers? He started to speak, and she leaned forward, a slight smile on her lips.
“You know—” he began wistfully.
“What?” she interrupted flirtatiously.
“—Central American Tobacco has just merged with Amalgamated Biscuit.”
She buried the bloodstained ax in the snow and went back to sit by the fire — to lose herself in nostalgia before she had to go look for the shovel.
The Hot Rock
by James McKimmey
A sharp, chilling wind blew fog across London. The portly man, wearing a dark duster-length overcoat with a fur collar and a homburg fitted squarely on his bald head, closed the door of his small shop on Chandos Place and locked it. When he had escorted the mink-clad woman into the waiting cab, the fog had obliterated the gold lettering on the door of the shop, which read: Henry Thornwall Esq., Jeweler.
Henry leaned forward, patting an inside pocket to make certain that he had not, in the tension of what they were doing, forgotten his examining glass, then gave the driver an address near the Thames. He leaned back with a sigh.
Street lamps flashed against the face of his companion. She looked young from a distance, but on closer examination it was obvious that she was middle-aged, heavily made up, rich, and, right now, very excited.
She put a hand on Henry’s plump wrist, squeezing fingers glittering with rings. “How dangerous is this, Henry?”
Henry shook his head, “I wish I knew. Madam. It’s not my... ah... accustomed... well, you know.”
“I know,” she said softly, a waver in her voice. “But the Sional, Henry!”
“Shhh.” He looked ahead at the driver.
“For twenty thousand pounds!” She tapped her large purse. “And it’s worth double that!”
“Shhh, shhh,” went Henry.
The cab moved ahead, the driver making his way through the murk as though by magic. Henry leaned sideways and put his mouth close to her ear. “It’s all happened so quickly. Tell me again what he said on the telephone.”
“He whispered, Henry,” she said softly.
“Yes, quite,” Henry nodded. “What did he whisper, then?”
“That he had the Sional Diamond and would sell it to me for twenty thousand pounds if I would meet him at the address you’ve given the driver — with the money.”
Henry nodded again. “And that name he gave himself?”
“The Cockroach.” She shuddered. “I said I’d do what he asked if I were allowed to bring you to examine the stone. But why do you suppose he has chosen me, Henry?”
Henry shrugged. “Mrs. Peter Sterling-Bahr?”
“I suppose it’s obvious, isn’t it? Peter would die if he knew. But he won’t find out. He never pays any attention to my money. Unless something happens that...”
Henry put a hand into the right pocket of his coat and pulled out a small chrome-plated pistol. It reflected lights they were passing as he checked it.
“Henry!” the woman said.
Henry returned the pistol to his pocket. “Chaps like this... I don’t know. They whisper so you can’t get a good chance at their accent so you might know something that way. They constantly run underground like sewer rats. I, well, thought it might prove comforting.”
The woman touched Henry’s hand again. “I never thought of you as being so heroic, Henry. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
“Madam,” Henry said gently. He smiled. Then the smile disappeared. “And we are here, I’m afraid.”
They moved toward an old warehouse in the wind-driven fog as the cab’s taillights abruptly disappeared.
“Shouldn’t we have kept him?” Mrs. Peter Sterling-Bahr asked.
“I shouldn’t think so,” Henry said. “His license may already have been observed. We wouldn’t want you followed to the hotel where you’re going to put it, you know.”
“Of course. Oh, Henry,” she said, hugging his arm, “what would I do without you?”
“Let’s, ah, complete the business first. Madam. Then...” His voice trailed away as they stopped before a closed wooden door. Henry put his hand on the latch, paused, took a breath, then opened it. There was a yellow crack of light far across a large high-ceilinged room. Henry dug into the left-hand pocket of his coat and produced a small flashlight.
“You thought of everything, didn’t you, Henry?” the woman whispered.
“I rather hope so, anyway,” Henry said as they moved forward following the small beam of light.
“I’m trembling, Henry.”
He squeezed her hand.
They arrived at the door where light was escaping below on the dusty wooden floor. Again Henry took a breath, then turned the handle. They looked in at a small figure seated at an old desk beneath a naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling of a small room; long and greasy-looking hair with streaks of gray hung shoulder-length; metal-rimmed glasses with tinted lenses decorated a face that looked surprisingly boyish; the suit was wide-shouldered, gray and pin-striped; delicate hands rested on either side of a wide-brimmed fedora placed on the desk.