The Two Timers Read Free Page A

years before I met you."

"I know you've been around, sweetie -- I've always been too tactful to

mention it, that's all."

"Thank you. Well, at least you won't have the embarrassment of being

seen in public with me tonight."

Hearing the hopelessness creep into her voice, Breton felt a flicker

of malicious glee. "How are you planning to get there? Did you bring

any money?"

She hesitated, then held out her hand. "Give me something for taxi fare,

Jack."

"Not a chance. I'm childish -- remember? We're going home." He savored

her helplessness for a moment, somehow extracting revenge for his own

cruelty, then the whole thing fell apart in his hands. This is bad,

he thought, even for me. So I arrive late at a party with my face and

hands all black -- a balanced person would see that as a chance to do

an Al Jolson act. Let her ask me just once more and I'll give in and

we'll go to the party.

Instead, Kate uttered one short, sharp word -- filling him with wounded

dismay -- and walked away down the street past blazing store windows. With

her silvered wrap drawn tight over the flimsy dress, and long legs slimmed

even further by needle-heeled sandals, she looked like an idealized

screen version of a gangster's moll. For a moment he seemed to see the

physical presence of her more clearly than ever before, as though some

long-unused focusing mechanism had been operated behind his eyes. The

ambient brilliance from the stores projected Kate solidly into his mind,

jewel-sharp, and he saw -- with the wonder of a brand new discovery --

the tiny blue vein behind each of her knees. Breton was overwhelmed by

a pang of sheer affection. You can't let Kate walk through the city at

night looking like that, a voice told him urgently, but the alternative

was to crawl after her, to knuckle under. He hesitated, then turned in

the opposite direction, numbed with self-disgust, swearing bitterly.

It was almost two hours later when the police cruiser pulled up outside

the house.

Breton, who had been standing at the window, ran heavy-footed to the door

and dragged it open. There were two detectives, with darkly hostile eyes,

and a backdrop of blue uniformed figures.

One of the detectives flashed a badge. "Mr. John Breton?"

Breton nodded, unable to speak. I'm sorry Kate, he thought, so sorry --

come back and we'll go to the party. But at the same time an incredible

thing was happening. He could feel a sense of relief growing in one

deeply hidden corner of his mind. If she's dead, she's dead. If she's

dead, it's all over. If she's dead, I'm free. . . .

"I'm Lieutenant Convery. Homicide. Do you mind answering a few questions?"

"No," Breton said dully. "You'd better come in." He led the way into the

living room, and had to make an effort to prevent himself straightening

cushions like a nervous housewife.

"You don't seem surprised to see us, Mr. Breton," Convery said slowly.

He had a broad, sunburned face and a tiny nose which made scarcely any

division between widely spaced blue eyes.

"What do you want, Lieutenant?"

"Do you own a rifle, Mr. Breton?"

"Ah . . . yes." Breton was thunderstruck.

"Do you mind getting it?"

"Look," Breton said loudly. "What's going on?"

Convery's eyes were bright, watchful. "One of the patrolmen will go with

you while you get the rifle."

Breton shrugged and led the way down into his basement workshop. He sensed

the patrolman's tenseness as they stepped off the wooden stair onto the

concrete floor, so he halted and pointed at the tall cupboard in which

he stored a jumble of large tools, fishing rods, archery equipment and

his rifle. The patrolman shouldered quickly past him, opened the doors

and dragged out the rifle. He had to disengage the sling, which had

snagged a fishing reel.

Back in the living room, Convery took the rifle and rubbed a fingertip

in the fine coating of dust which lay over the stock. "You don't use

this much?"

"No. The last time was a couple of years ago.