The Two Timers Read Free

when Tougher had spent something like fifteen dollars

of his own money in bringing a can of gasoline to work every day and

sneaking it into the office janitor's car. Later Tougher had explained,

matter-of-factly, that he had wanted to study the janitor's reactions when

he discovered his car was apparently manufacturing gas instead of using it

up. Was that particular hoax on a par with "You have been living with my

wife for almost exactly nine years"? Breton was uncertain. He went back

along the mustard carpeted hall, automatically touching the wall with his

knuckles at every step to prevent any build-up of static in the dry air.

Kate kept her eyes averted as he entered the room, and Breton felt a

slight pang of guilt over his earlier sarcasm.

"That was Carl," he volunteered. "He's been working late."

She nodded disinterestedly, and his guilt instantaneously transformed

itself into resentment -- not even in the presence of friends would

she pretend to care anything about the business. That's the way, Kate,

he thought furiously, never ease up for a second. Live well off me,

but at the same time reserve the right to despise my work and everybody

connected with it.

Breton stared somberly at his wife and the Palfreys, who were now going

back through all the material Miriam had produced, and suddenly realized

he was beginning to sway slightly. He retrieved his drink, finished it

with one gulp and poured another. I keep on taking this sort of treatment

-- the old, familiar and repetitious anger patterns began to flow redly

on the surface of his mind -- but how much is a man supposed to take? I

have a wife who complains night and day because I spend too much time

at the office, but when I do take an evening off -- this is what I

get. Phony spiritualists and another king-sized dose of her damned,

stinking indifference. To think I wept -- yes sir, actually wept with

relief -- because she was safe that night they found her with Spiedel's

brains scattered through her hair. I didn't know it then, but Spiedel

was trying to do me a favor. I know it now, though. If only I could . . .

Breton chopped the thought off in alarm as he realized he was setting

himself up for a trip.

But he was too late.

Without getting smaller, the subdued orange lights and white-mortared

stone chimney of the living room began to recede into planetary, stellar,

galactic distances. He tried to speak, but the transparent overlay of

language was shifting across the face of reality, robbing nouns of their

significance, making predication impossible. Strange geometries imposed

themselves on the perspectives of the room, snapping him sickeningly from

pole to alien pole. A face in the group turned towards him -- a pale,

meaningless free-form -- man or woman, friend or enemy? Ponderously,

helplessly, over the edge we go. . . .

Breton slammed down the hood of the Buick so savagely that the big car

moved like a disturbed animal, rocking on its gleaming haunches. In the

darkness of its interior Kate was waiting, immobile, Madonna-like --

and because she showed no anger, his own became uncontrollable.

"The battery's dead. That settles it -- we can't go."

"Don't be silly, Jack." Kate got out of the car. "The Maguires are

expecting us -- we can phone for a taxi." Her party clothes were

completely inadequate against the night breezes of late October, and

she huddled in them with a kind of despairing dignity.

"Don't be so damned reasonable, Kate. We're an hour late already, and

I'm not going to a party with my hands like this. We're going back home."

"That's childish."

"Thank you." Breton locked up the car, carelessly smudging the pale blue

paintwork with oil from his hands. "Let's go."

"I'm going on to the Maguires," Kate said. "You can go home and sulk if

that's what you want."

"Don't be stupid. You can't go all the way over there by yourself."

"I can go by myself and I can get back by myself -- I did it all right

for