RENDEZVOUS IN BLACK (26 page)

Mrs. Bachman did her usual crowing over him, but he silenced her with whispered instructions. "I have to be with her alone. There's something I want to talk to her about. Stay here at the foot of the stairs and see that none of them come near us."

She nodded, always willing to champion him against outsiders.

Martine was sitting reading a book with her fingers, her head tilted at a slight angle, almost as though she were listening instead of feeling.

She wore a yellow dress, a black ribbon drawn through its neckline, and just over her ear Mrs. Bachman (probably) had cocked a pert little yellow bow.

"Allen?" she said, as the threshold throbbed his footfall. And the sun came out in her face. Not on it, but within it, shining from the outside in.

"My little Marty," he half sobbed.

He held her to him first, good and tight, for a long time. Until she knew by that alone something must be wrong.

"What is it, Allen?" she coaxed. "What?" And caressed the outlines of his face with her knowledgeable fingertips that told her so mnuch.

"I'm going to have to frighten you a little."

She sat down in the chair once more, to brace herself, and he, without releasing the double clasp of her two hands within his, knelt beside her to bring their heads close so that they need not raise their voices.

"Are you leaving me? Am I going to be all alone in the dark?"

"Never; not so long as I live. That's a pledge I gave myself years ago, and it'll never be taken back."

"Then what--?"

"There's--there's someone trying to take you from me ."

"In what way? How can they?"

"In what way could they? 'What is the only way? Think."

"Death," she breathed, appalled.

"In that way," he admitted. "That's the way. The only way they could."

She thrust her face violently forward and hid it against his bosom; pulling at the revers of his coat, at his shirt-front, as if to draw them still closer about her and hide herself further still. Her breathing was quick and frightened, and though he held his arms tightly about her and tried to calm her, he could feel her shivering in spite of that.

"No," he kept pleading over and over, with the automatic intonation one uses in a terrified child. "No. No. No."

"Even in the dark, life is better than--not living. Why must they try to--take even that little away from me?"

"No. No. No," was all he could say.

"What have I ever done to anyone?"

"It's what I've done, not you. And I never knew I'd done anything. But . . ."

"Who is it?" she asked presently.

"I don't know. They don't either. I've never seen him. They haven't either. Some man--no, some murderous thing that once was a man. Some diseased affliction that needs a mercy death. He must be that; who else could hurt Martine?"

Presently she grew a little calmer; still lay there with her face upon his breast, but grew a little calmer. He left her side then, for just a moment; a glass stopper gave a chord-like pluck; then he came back again.

"Drink this. And then I want you to listen to me very carefully."

"What is it?"

"Just a thimbleful of brandy."

He held the minute draught to her lips.

"Now listen to me very carefully. I'm going to whisper in your ear. I don't want anyone to hear. Wait, I'm going to lock the door first."

He went over and turned the key. Then he unfolded a pocket handkerchief and hung it from the knob, so that even the little slit of vision the keyhole might have offered was blocked.

Then he came back to her again, crouched down on one knee beside her and put his lips close to her ear.

She began to nod her head presently.

"Yes, I do," she murmured. "I trust you with my life. You are my life."

Again she nodded while his whispering continued.

"Yes, I will. I'll do just as you say. Whatever it is. No, I'm not afraid. Not with you ."

His own voice rose a trifle, presently, as the secret message reached its conclusion. A scattered word or two became audible.

"Our only chance. . . . No one . . . Not a word to anyone . . . Not even Mrs. B."

And then at last he kissed her. On the forehead, on the eyelids, finally on the lips, in dedication to their resolve, whatever it was.

"They won't have you, love," he said fervently. "They won't harm you. I'll put the whole wide world between them and us."

She combed her hair carefully. She could do that herself. And strangely enough, she always did it standing directly before the mirror. From old habit. Though for her there was no mirror.

Then she went to the chair where Mrs. Bachman had laid out her things. By feeling, she knew it was the black wool dress Mrs. B. had selected for her to wear today. Her fingers told her. This was no marvel, this was elementary. She knew the weave, she knew the self covered buttons, she knew the sleeves, the collar. She knew all her clothes by heart--by finger-touch--of course. She only had to take the word of another in one respect: the color. Mrs. B. had told her this one was black. She put it on.

She was dressed now. She could have even put on lipstick if she had wanted to, and made a good job of it. But she never used lipstick. She went to the room door-- without a hesitant step--opened it, and went out. She found her way unerringly to the breakfast table, to her own chair at that table, and drawing it out, sat down to the breakfast Mrs. B. had ready for her on the table.

She could do all these things.

She reached, found her orange-juice glass, raised it to her lips. Mrs. B. left all containers of liquids only two-thirds filled for her; there was less danger of her spilling them that way. That was the only concession either one of them made to her disability. It was a matter of pride, to the two of them alike.

She found her toast and buttered it herself. Mrs. B. filled her coffee-cup for her (but this was even done for people with sight), but she added the sugar and cream for herself. A delicate sense of weight and balance aided her in the two latter procedures. Uncanny as it seemed, she could tell fairly accurately how much a spoon held; whether it was heaped or leveled; how much was emptied over the spoilt of a pitcher, in the latter case by the downward pull of it in her hand.

They chatted desultorily as they did every other day. Mrs. B. read to her from the morning paper. Then breakfast was finished.

He'd located (after a great deal of trouble) and bought for her a unique clock that softly chimed off each hour with the appropriate number of strokes. It followed the European, and military, time system, progressing up to twenty-four for the post-meridian hours instead of falling back to one again. It did this quite cleverly by giving a double stroke instead of a single one for each hour-count past twelve. Thus the time required to count was not greatly increased. Its uniqueness lay in the fact that it was not a grandfather clock, but a mantel clock that could be carried, even by her, from room to room at will.

It struck off ten times now. She counted. Then--as if this had been a cue prompting her--she said to Mrs. B., "I'd like to take a walk. I'd like some fresh air. Let's do it now instead of waiting for this afternoon."

"Why, of course, dear," Mrs. B. agreed readily. She must have glanced from the window; there was a tiny spaced pause. "It is a beautiful sunny day out."

"I know," Martine said simply. "I can tell." She could. Without having to glance from a window.

They separated, to make their several preparations apart. She went into her bedroom alone, went to the closet, took out her jewel case. Several rings she knotted into a handkerchief and thrust into her handbag. The Tiffany pearls he had given her, she put around her throat. The neckline of her dress, which was rather high, effectively concealed them. She took out one more thing. The rest, a number of clasps, brooches and bracelets, she left in the case. She found time to pencil a hasty little note: "These are for you, Edith dear. Preserve this slip carefully, it's a form of will." And put that in with them, closed the case up, and thrust it away.

The one remaining thing she'd taken out, she had to have help with, couldn't manage alone. It had a complicated safety catch. He'd given her it too, of course. Therefore it had a sentimental, though no longer a utilitarian, value to her. It also had a tremendous intrinsic value, but this did not enter into it as far as she was concerned.

She called Mrs. B. in. "Will you fasten this for me?"

"Why, you're wearing your diamond wristwatch!" Mrs. B. gasped.

"I want to look nice," Martine said quietly. "It's such a nice day. It's that kind of a day."

She could have broken it up into its component stones and scattered these along the sidewalk one by one, like pebbles, as she walked. and Mrs. B. would still have let her have her way; they both knew it.

They left the house together, Martine's hand tucked under her escort's. Two well-dressed women, one young, one mature; you could not have told that one was sightless. And if you had, you might even have mistaken the elder one, with her glasses, for the disabled of the two.

Mrs. B. said quietly, "Good morning."

There was no answer, but when a hat is raised, it makes no sound.

Then, within a few paces, Mrs. B. said again, "Good morning." And again there was no sound.

But to the rearward of them now, from this point on, came a soft double tread, like an echo, a smothered bass accompaniment, to their own.

"Where are we?" Martine said presently.

"Around the corner. We're boxing the block."

"Let's--let's go somewhere special. There's only cement and dusty stone here. Let's walk along the outside of the park. From Seventieth, in the downtown direction."

Mrs. B. didn't demur.

Presently Martine spoke again. "Are we there now?" Then answered her own question. "Yes, we are. I can smell the grass and the leaves of the trees. Isn't it sweet and fresh?"

Mrs. B. inhaled enjoyably.

Martine lowered her voice a shade. "Are they still behind us?"

There was another of those spaced pauses. Mrs. B. had turned her head. "Oh, yes. They should be, you know."

"I know they should," Martine answered dryly.

She spoke again after awhile. "Tell me when we get near the statue of Lafayette."

"We're near there now."

"Are you sure we're walking in the downtown direction, the same way that the traffic is going?"

"Why, of course, dear." Mrs. B. was amused. "Why would I want to mislead you?"

She asked another question. "Is it twelve yet?"

A spaced pause. "About three to."

"Here comes the statue," Martine said. "We're in front of it now, I can tell. The pavement has changed. It's smoother, ornamental flagstones all around the base."

Suddenly she said, "Let's walk along the outside edge of the curb."

"That's not safe, dear. Cars come along, and they're liable to graze us."

"Let me do it." Then she said, " Please ." That word, from her, that Mrs. B. could never resist.

They shifted over; Martine took the outside position. Mrs. B. must have glanced back. "They're motioning us to stay further in," she reported.

Martine tightened her hold on her arm playfully, in secret conspiracy. "Let's pretend we don't understand. They can't make us if we don't want to, can they?"

"No, I don't suppose so," agreed Mrs. B. dubiously. "But why don't we want to?"

"I want to try something," Martine said. "When I was a little girl, there was a game I used to love to play. A way of walking. I used to love to walk along the exact rim of the curb, and balance, and see if I could keep from stepping down into the gutter."

"Not here, dear."

"Yes, here. I want to remember that feeling, from when I was a child. You're right beside me. What can happen? Look, I'll hold onto your hand."

A male voice said suddenly, from directly behind them, "What's she doing?" One of the plainclothesmen must have closed in.

Mrs. B's maternal instinct was aroused. "Leave her alone, can't you?" she retorted brusquely. "Don't watch her like a hawk every minute."

"Make them keep back," Martine urged in a plaintive undertone.

"Go on back with your friend," Mrs. B. ordered none too gently. "Stop treading on our heels."

The slight aura of tobacco breath and flintiness of personality that had interjected itself into their own immediate atmosphere (noticeable to Martine alone) was withdrawn again. It had been almost extra-sensory, anyway.

"Is it twelve yet? I'll stop at twelve," she promised.

"Just like a child," said Mrs. B. with a tear in her voice. "One minute to."

"I've only missed my footing once," she gloated. "I'm still good at it after all these years. And now my heels are high, and I have no--" She didn't finish it. She seldom used the word "eyes" any more.

"Your hand is shaking, dear," Mrs. B. noticed.

"That's because my whole body is shaking, trying to keep my balance. It must be twelve to the minute now." Suddenly she said in a hurried voice, as if the one thing had some connection with the other, "I love you very much; you've been like my own mother to me; always believe that, I love you very much."