'You'll see,' Mr. Fishback's voice chased them, 'I know more words than you'll ever know, even if you live to be a hundred!'
They sped up the darkwood stairs, Mrs. Arquette in the fore muttering indignantly. Ellen followed her through a door adjacent to the head of the stairway.
The room was bright with flowered wallpaper. There was a green-covered bed, a dresser, easy chair, table... Mrs. Arquette, having snatched a book from the top of the dresser, stood by the window ruffling the pages. Ellen moved to the dresser and scanned the titles of the books ranked across its top.
A diary maybe. Any kind of notebook. Prize Stories of 1950. An Outline of History, Radio Announcer's Handbook of Pronunciation, The Brave Bulls, A History of American Jazz, Swann's Way, Elements of Psychology, Three Famous Murder Novels and A Sub-Treasury of American Humor.
'Oh, shoot,' said Mrs. Arquette. She stood with her forefinger pressed to the open dictionary. 'Fane,' she read, 'a temple; hence a church.' She slammed the book shut 'Where does he get words like that?' Ellen eased over to the table, where three envelopes were fanned out. Mrs. Arquette, putting the dictionary on the dresser, glanced at her. 'The one without a return address is yours, I guess.'
'Yes, it is,' Ellen said. The two letters with return address were from Newsweek and the National Broadcasting Company. Mrs. Arquette was at the door. 'Coming?'
'Yes,' Ellen said.
They trudged down the stairs and walked slowly into the kitchen, where Mr. Fishback was waiting. As soon as he observed Mrs. Arquette's dejection he burst into gleeful cackling. She gave him a dirty look. 'It means a church,' she said, slumping into her chair. He laughed some more. 'Oh, shut up and get on with the game,' Mrs. Arquette grumbled. Mr, Fishback turned over two letters.
Ellen took her purse from the coat-draped chair in which she had sat 'I guess I'll be going now,' she said dispiritedly.
'Going?' Mrs. Arquette looked up, the thin eyebrows arching. Ellen nodded.
'Well for goodness' sake, aren't you going to wait for Gordon?' Ellen went cold. Mrs. Arquette looked at the clock on the refrigerator next to the door. 'It's ten after two,' she said. 'His last class ended at two o'clock. He should be here any minute.' She couldn't speak. The image of Mrs. Arquette's upturned face swayed sickeningly. 'You... you told me he would be gone all day...' she strained out finally.
Mrs. Arquette looked injured. 'Why, I never told you no such thing! Why on earth you been sitting here if not waiting for him?'
'The telephone...'
The landlady's jaw dropped. 'Was that you? Around one o'clock?'
Ellen nodded helplessly.
'Well why didn't you tell me it was you? I thought it was one of those fool girls. Whenever someone calls and won't give a name I tell them he's gone for the day. Even if he's here. He told me to. He...' The expression of earnestness drained from Mrs. Arquette's face. The dull eyes, the thin-lipped mouth became grim, suspicious. 'If you thought he was out for the day,' she demanded slowly, 'then why did you come here at all?'
'I... I wanted to meet you. Gordon wrote so much...'
'Why were you asking all those questions?' Mrs. Arquette stood up.
Ellen reached for her coat Suddenly Mrs. Arquette was holding Ellen's arms, the long bony fingers clutching painfully. 'Let go of me... Please...'
'Why were you snooping in his room?' The horse-like face pressed close to Ellen's, the eyes swelling with anger, the rough skin red. 'What did you want in there? You take something while my back was turned?'
Behind Ellen, Mr. Fishback's chair scraped and his voice piped frightenedly 'Why'd she want to steal anything from her own cousin?'
'Who says she's his cousin?' Mrs. Arquette snapped.
Ellen worked futilely in her grasp. 'Please, you're hurting me...'
The pale eyes narrowed. 'And I don't think she's one of those damn girls looking for a souvenir or something either. Why was she asking all those questions?'
'I'm his cousin! I am!' Ellen tried to steady her voice. 'I want to go now. You can't keep me here. I'll see him later.'
'You'll see him now,' Mrs. Arquette said. 'You're staying here until Gordon comes.' She glanced over Ellen's shoulder. 'Mr. Fishback, get over by the back door.' She waited, her eyes following Mr. Fishback's slow passage, and then she released Ellen. Moving quickly to the front doorway, she blocked it, her arms folded across her chest. 'We'll find out what this is all about,' she said.
Ellen rubbed her arms where Mrs. Arquette's fingers had clamped them. She looked at the man and woman blocking the doors at either end of the kitchen; Mr. Fishback with his glass-magnified eyes blinking nervously; Mrs. Arquette standing grim, monolithic. 'You can't do this.' She retrieved her purse from the floor. She took her coat from the chair and put it over her arm. 'Let me out of here,' she said firmly. Neither of them moved.
They heard the front door slam and footsteps on the stairs. 'Gordon!' Mrs. Arquette shouted, 'Gordon!' The footsteps stopped. 'What is it, Mrs. Arquette?' The landlady turned and ran down the hallway.
Ellen faced Mr. Fishback. 'Please,' she implored, 'let me out of here. I didn't mean any harm.'
He shook his head slowly.
She stood motionless, hearing the excited rasping of Mrs. Arquette's voice far behind her. Footsteps approached and the voice grew louder. 'She kept asking all kinds of questions about what girls you were going out with last year, and she even tricked me into taking her to your room. She was looking at your books and the letters on your table...' Mrs. Arquette's voice suddenly flooded the kitchen. 'There she is!'
Ellen turned. Mrs. Arquette stood to the left of the table, one arm lifted, pointing accusation. Gant was in the doorway leaning against the jam, tall and spare in a pale-blue topcoat, books in one hand. He looked at her for a moment, then his lips curved a smile over his long jaw and one eyebrow lifted slightly.
He detached himself from the jamb and stepped into the room, putting his books on the refrigerator without taking his eyes from her. 'Why, Cousin Hester...' he marveled softly, his eyes flicking down then up again in considered appraisal. 'You've passed through adolescence magnificently...' He ambled around the table, placed his hands on Ellen's shoulders, and kissed her fondly on the cheek.
'You... you mean she really is your cousin?' Mrs. Arquette gasped.
'Arquette, my love,' said Gant, moving to Ellen's left, 'ours was a communal teething ring.' He patted Ellen's shoulder. 'Wasn't it, Hester?'
She eyed him crazily, her face flushed, her mouth slack. Her gaze moved to Mrs. Arquette at the left of the table, to the hallway beyond it, to the coat and purse in her hands... She darted to the right, sped around the table and through the door and down the hallway hearing Arquette's 'Running away!' and Gant's pursuing shout: 'She's from the psychotic side of the family!' Wrenching open the heavy front door, she fled from the house, her toes biting the concrete path. At the sidewalk she turned to the right and reined to swift bitter strides, wrestling into her tangled coat. Oh God, everything messed up! She clenched her teeth, feeling the hot pressure of tears behind her eyes. Gant caught up with her and matched her strides with long easy legs. She flung a fiery glance at the grinning face and then glared straight ahead, her whole being compressed with unreasoned fury at herself and him.
'Isn't there a secret word?' he asked. 'Aren't you supposed to press a message into my hand and whisper 'Southern Comfort' or something? Or is this the one where the heavy in the dark suit has been following you all day and you sought refuge in the nearest doorway? I like them equally well, so whichever it is...' She strode along in acid silence. 'You ever read the Saint stories? I used to. Old Simon Templar was always running into beautiful women with strange behavior patterns. Once one of them swam onto his yacht in the middle of the night. Said she was a channel swimmer gone astray, I believe. Turned out to be an insurance investigator.' He caught her arm. 'Cousin Hester, I have the most insatiable curiosity...'
She pulled her arm free. They had reached an intersecting avenue along the other side of which a taxi cruised. She waved and the cab began a U turn. 'It was a joke,' she said tightly. 'I'm sorry. I did it on a bet.'
'That's what the girl on the yacht told the Saint.' His face went serious. 'Fun is fun, but why all the questions about my sordid past?'
The cab pulled up. She tried to open the door but he braced his hand against it. 'Look here, cousin, don't be fooled by my disc jockey dialogue. I'm not kidding...'
'Please,' she moaned exhaustedly, tugging at the door handle. The cabbie appeared at the front window,
