“He’ll learn,” George said cheerfully. “Next time — or the time after.” There was a twisted smile on his lips as he glanced at Consuela, head buried in her arms.
George cantered back down the field, turned the big horse, and started forward again toward the jump. The great horse came with a rush, with all the power of a gigantic machine. Then just at the jump it made a supreme effort to do away with its tormentor. Instead of veering out, the horse leaped to the right, twisting and writhing in a wild effort to buck off the rider.
Not even half an inch of daylight showed between the rider and the leather of the saddle. The chain rose and fell — once, twice, a third time. The great black horse went down almost to its knees, shaking its bloody head like a punch-drunk fighter. George’s skillful hands on the reins lifted the horse up, and the animal stood for a moment, head lowered, shaking from nose to tail.
Then George once more guided him back along the fence toward the Thunderbird. The right side of the horse’s head was bloody, the right eye closed. The beautiful body was in a lather of sweat.
“Bet on the next one, Sibby?” George asked, his voice mocking. But while he spoke he patted the black shoulder in front of him gently.
Then down the field again. And once more the start toward the stone-wall jump. Faster and faster they came. Something must give, Sibby thought. Just before they reached the white painted wings the steel chain glittered again in the sunlight, but this time it did not strike the horse. It swished down beside the horse’s head without touching, and the magnificent animal jumped — like a creature headed for the moon. It seemed to Sibby that the horse cleared the jump with three feet to spare.
As George reined in his mount he leaned forward, almost cooing at the horse as he stroked and patted it. “Good boy! Good boy!”
He swung out of the saddle as he reached the Thunderbird. He was instantly concerned with the horse’s bleeding jaw and swollen eye. “You had to learn, boy,” he whispered. “We all have to learn.” He gave crisp instructions to the groom who trotted over to take the horse. Warm water — epsom salts — to be walked until he was dead cool even if it took all morning.
“I’ll attend to his feeding myself,” George told the groom.
Then he leaned on the fence and lit a cigarette. Consuela had not yet looked at him.
“Seem brutal to you, Sibby?” George asked, taking a deep drag on his cigarette.
“It worked,” Sibby said. His heart was beating against his ribs. As he had known all along, George was the perfect instrument for violence.
“He’ll jump over the top of Madison Square Garden come November,” George said. “He’s learned the facts of life and he’ll be none the worse for it. Well, children, have a nice picnic.”
Consuela started the car without once looking at her husband. Gravel spun under the wheels. She raced away down the winding country road, her eyes straight ahead.
“Not me!” she suddenly cried out. “Not me! Not ever!”
“He’s the soul of gentleness — after the fact,” Sibby observed, smiling to himself.
About twenty miles from the Conrad place Consuela turned off the highway onto a narrow dirt road. They came to a stop in cool pine woods, overlooking a jewel of a small lake. From somewhere in the woods Greg Foster appeared. A blond Viking, all muscle and animal vitality, Sibby thought. Foster scarcely acknowledged Consuela’s introduction. He was an eager man.
Consuela took one of the picnic baskets out of the car.
“Come back around four this afternoon, Sibby dear,” Consuela said. She was already leaning back in the curve of Foster’s arm.
“We’re grateful to you, Mr. Salazar,” Foster said.
“Think nothing of it,” Sibby said, and slid behind the wheel of the Thunderbird.
When Sibby returned to the pine woods at four o’clock, Consuela and Foster were ready for him. Their picnic basket was repacked. Sibby, looking at them, thought only a blind man could miss the fact that these two were lovers who had loved. He thought of George Conrad, the steel tire chain held ready in his powerful right hand...
“Tomorrow at the same time?” Foster pleaded.
“If Sibby will conspire with us,” Consuela said.
“Bless you, my children,” Sibby said.
Only tomorrow it would be different. Tomorrow, just before they left, Sibby would let George Conrad know where he could find his wife and her lover. “I don’t like to bear tales, George, but I really can’t be a party to this kind of deception.”
George would take care of the rest of it.
That evening at the Conrad’s was without tensions except those within Sibby himself. If George Conrad had the remotest idea of what the day had involved he gave no indication of it. Consuela was relaxed and lazy. She gave George an imaginary account of the territory she and Sibby were supposed to have covered on their picnic jaunt. George listened, politely disinterested.
Almost immediately after dinner George excused himself. He planned to be up early in the morning to take the black horse on a cross-country ride.
“Got to face him with every kind of jump the countryside offers,” he said. He gave Sibby a curt nod, and departed.
Consuela and Sibby remained for a while at the candlelit dining-room table, with black coffee and an excellent brandy. The candle flames produced an illusion of bright eagerness in Consuela’s blue eyes.
“Naughty girl,” Sibby said softly.
“Oh, Sibby!” The words were spoken on a sigh of contentment.
“He’ll kill you if he finds out,” Sibby said, nodding toward the door through which George had made his exit.
“He can only find out through you, Sibby dear,” she said. “You’re the perfect front.”
“It’s not particularly flattering to my manhood,” Sibby said.
“Oh, don’t be absurd, Sibby dear.” She moved in her chair, as though her body anticipated rather than remembered. “Would you think it very rude, Sibby, if I left you to your own devices? This child needs sleep — sleep — sleep.”
She wants to enjoy her anticipation alone, Sibby thought.
But early to bed was not Sibby’s dish. He had his own anticipating to do. Tomorrow he would be masterminding a new and deliciously thrilling experience.
Sibby poured himself another brandy and made his way to the library. Perhaps he could find something to read that would pass the time till he felt sleepy. But he could find nothing that would hold his attention. No book or magazine could possibly interest him as much as savoring the prospect of tomorrow.
There were French doors opening from the library onto a flagstone terrace. The hot August day had been followed by a cool starlit night, and Sibby carried his brandy out to the terrace and settled down in a comfortable wicker armchair.
He was just lighting a cigarette when he saw Consuela. She was moving quickly, almost stealthily, down across the lawn toward the stable. A wave of disgust crept over Sibby. An assignation in the stable — like a cheap peasant woman. Tasteless! Vulgar! He would have no regrets after all, Sibby told himself.
He watched her disappear into the stable. He felt a slight tremor go over his body. It might be worthwhile watching, he thought. It would remove any hesitation on his part for tomorrow’s plan.
He smoked his cigarette down to the end and reached over to put it out in the ashtray on the wicker side-table.
Then he saw George Conrad, moving purposefully across the lawn toward the stable. Ice congealed Sibby’s veins. George had stumbled on the truth. George would find Consuela and Greg and it would all be over before Sibby had a chance to mastermind his part of it.