I’ll have a cab in front of your place at seven.
Your own,
DeMarcopolo sat staring at the paper, holding it between thumb and forefinger, flapping it like a small, blue wing. Brill... Brill? Oh! Brill MacIver! That old fool — the publisher who...
He shook himself, or shuddered, then set the box down on the floor. He got up and took off his topcoat and draped it over the back of the chair, then sat down again. He put the box back on his lap. He didn’t skim it lightly now, though he didn’t know why. He went rapidly through the sheets.
He got to that scene between Furilla and young Harald. Harald had come into Furilla’s life “like a great storm” and, in a famous sequence, there had been a storm — a beaut. It built and built outside, glaring and crashing, silhouetting Harald against its lightning flashes as he climbed in her window. It built and built still more as he pressed closer and closer to Furilla, until, when he reached her, the clouds rolled and the thunder banged and, at last — zing! — a mighty flash burned down the boathouse.
Just here, a paper-clip separated some pages from the main manuscript. It was the scene when, next morning, Furilla awoke, alone, bruised, strangely disturbed, and considered what she was to do.
She rose, trembling, and ran to the mirror. A dream, a dream — surely it was a wonderful, terrible dream! But no — there in the smooth hollow between shoulder and neck, lay the mark of the beast. “Oh!” she cried, herself to her heart. “Oh wonderful, wonderful beast!
“Maserac!” she screamed.
The sound of her own voice frightened her. She cast about wildly, like a frightened animal, then ran to the wardrobe and threw on the lame hostess gown. When the old man opened the door, she stood like a pillar of gold, her hair, her eyes aflame.
“Maserac, Maserac, he loves me!” she sang.
And she told him, told him all of it, each syllable bringing her closer to the joy she knew he would feel for her, for her love, for the life she had begun with Harald. And, when she had finished, she ran to him, held his shoulders. “Maserac, isn’t it wonderful?”
“Isn’t it wonderful?” he repeated, and cold shock ran through her at the knell of his voice. “Poor, poor little bird!”
“What? Why do you say that, why?”
“Dear little Furilla, don’t you know that true love doesn’t come like a storm? It grows like a flower, unseen, until suddenly it’s there, blooming.”
She recoiled from him. “I... I thought you’d be glad for me, for Harald and me. I love him, love him, do you hear? And I’m glad, glad!”
Lance deMarcopolo sat quite still, his eyes on the manuscript but not doing anything. He remembered the scene, but that was not the way it had happened in the book.
He uttered a soft, pulled grunt and turned the page. Under it, lay a pink flimsy with some single-spaced typescript on it. He knew that Ellie used pink second-sheets for her correspondence, white for her work. This must be the copy of a letter to somebody, and perhaps he — but before he could have any doubts about it, his quick eye had taken it in.
Hennigar, Hennigar. Hobart Hennigar — it’s like music. Oh Hobie, Hobie, I’ve been thinking of you, missing you, though it’s been only an hour now, thinking about the wonderful love we have, the wonderful life we shall share. Hurry back to me, my darling. I do love you so.
I do love you so. A numb place existed suddenly in the pit of Lance’s stomach. He did not permit himself to think. He went on to the next sheet — an original, typed with a heavy hand and a pale ribbon on a piece of business stationery with the letterhead torn off.
Got your note. Been thinking, too, especially since I got it. You can’t be serious, Ellie. Don’t tell me you fell for that guff I was handing you. I don’t know what you thought, but I thought I was kidding, talking like those knights-in-armour in your lousy novel. Charades, you know. As for what else happened, why not? Fun’s fun.
I’m sorry if this hurts you, but I can’t get myself tangled up in anything like this right now, or ever, and it’s only right to tell you so, once and for all. I have to say it again — you can’t be serious! Or — do you really believe people do things like in your book? H.
I shouldn’t, thought deMarcopolo in panic. This has nothing to do with... But he went on to the next one — another pink carbon.
Brill, dear, I’ll just leave this where you’ll find it when you get there, I can’t face you now. I’m going back to town. I wish I were dead. I needn’t be dead, I’ve been killed, killed! Last night, while you were in the city, Hobart Hennigar did what you tried to warn me about — now I know, now I understand, when it’s too late, I found out this afternoon.
Brill, he talked to me the way I’ve always dreamed a man should talk to a woman. He was... I thought he was so wonderful, and before I knew it, it was too late. And now I know what he really is, it was all a game to him, and he tells me he thought it was all a game to me, too. I despise myself, Brill, dear, but Hennigar — oh! If I were a man, I’d kill him, for he’s murdered a most precious part of me. Ellie.
Next was an imprinted office memo, headed Office of the Publisher. Typed by a firm, even hand, were a few lines, which deMarcopolo read without hesitation.
Ellie, come back. I’ve got to talk to you about this. Don’t worry. It will be all right. But come back — you worry me.
DeMarcopolo shook his head rapidly, like a man swimming up out of unconsciousness, and then went back to his reading. Again, it was manuscript. Same scene, but — oh...!
She rose, trembling, and ran to the mirror. A dream, a dream, surely it was a terrible, terrible dream! But no — there in the smooth hollow between shoulder and neck, lay the mark of the beast. Oh! she cried, herself to her heart. Oh beast, wicked, brutal beast!
“Maserac!” she screamed.
The sound of her own voice frightened her. She cast about wildly, like a frightened animal, then ran to the wardrobe and threw on the gold lame hostess gown. When the old man opened the door, she stood like a pillar of fire, her hair, her eyes aflame.
“Maserac, Maserac, he’s killed me!”
And she told him, told him all of it, each syllable tom from her, agonising, yet strangely eager, for each syllable brought her closer to the comfort, the strength, protection — all wrongs avenged — which she knew her dear friend would have for her. And, when at last she had finished, she ran to him, blind with tears, and grasped his shoulders.
“He ought to be killed, killed, for what he’s done!”
“It’s terrible, terrible!” Cold shock ran through her at the sound of his voice, for here was no anger, no protecting arm. Here was only an uneasy laugh. He said, “But — perhaps it isn’t so bad.”
“What? Why do you say that, why?”
“Dear little Furilla, I know it hurts — but it always hurts to learn something important. You have been safe with me — only when you turned away from me, did anything hurt you. How you know — now, thanks to him, you can turn to me, be with me, be safe forever, with never a new temptation or hurt.”