The Irrepressible Peccadillo

was wrong, and I could have cited instances of recent happenings to support my opinion, but I didn’t feel like continuing the discussion. Having had the last word, to which she was welcome, she went back to her desk in the outer office, and a few minutes later I could hear the busy sound of her typewriter. The morning got going, much as other mornings had been getting going for something like seven years, and by ten-fifteen, at which time Millie took a break for coffee in the Hotel Carson coffee shop, I had consulted an elderly citizen about the terms of his will, conducted a long telephone conversation with an insurance investigator about the conditions of an accident in which a client of mine was involved, and had undertaken to get a waiver on the three-day waiting period for a young couple who had a good reason for wanting to get married in a hurry. When Millie returned at ten-forty, ten minutes late, I was doing some desk work on the defense of a local tavern owner who had been caught in his back room with his dice showing. It wasn’t much of a case, and there wasn’t much of a defense, except that the tavern owner was good to his mother, and this appeal was somewhat compromised by the fact that mother herself had been shooting craps in the back room when the cops moved in.

Millie came on directly into my office, and I could see at once by her glittering eyes that she had been stimulated during her absence by a hell of a lot more than caffeine.

“The most shocking thing has happened,” she said. “I heard all about it in the coffee shop.”

“Shocking things are happening all the time everywhere,” I said. “Fighting in Africa. Fighting in Laos. Firing squads in Cuba. Men in orbit here and there. The whole God-damn world in orbit. To what particularly shocking thing that you learned all about in the coffee shop are you referring?”

“Oh, well, I keep forgetting that you’re an important educated lawyer and are not interested in anything less than a world event.” She hooked half of her bottom on the edge of my desk and inspected the fingernails of her right hand. “This is only local, of course, but it might turn into some work for you. A fat fee, I mean. Judging from last month’s receipts, you could probably use it.”

“I’m intrigued. What local event that might turn into work?”

“You remember Beth Webb Thatcher? I think you used to know her.”

“You know damn well I used to know her. I used to go with her fairly regularly. In fact, exclusively. I used to think for a while that I was going to marry her, but I didn’t, and I’m glad. This is all ancient history.”

“Well, now she’s dead. This is modern history. In fact, as the saying goes, it’s current events. This morning a couple of kids went into Dreamer’s Park to play, and after a while they got around to playing in the old bandstand, and there she was. Beth. Dead. They ran home and told their parents, who called the cops, who went out there and discovered that someone had slipped a long, thin blade into her from behind, and she had died of it. Just imagine. All this was happening while an engineer was happening to me and nothing at all was happening to you.”

I thought I was prepared for it, but it made me sick. I guess I showed it, pallor or something, for Millie unhooked her bottom from the desk and came around and hooked it on the arm of my chair and put an arm around my shoulders. She made little repentant noises in her throat.

“I’m sorry, Gid,” she said. “I’m just a bitch, that’s what I am. I hope I get cancer of the tongue from smoking unfiltered cigarettes.”

“Think nothing of it,” I said. “It’s no more than the natural shock of learning that someone you once went with exclusively with the intention of marrying has died suddenly from having a long, thin blade slipped into her from behind.”

“You’re a good boss and an understanding fellow,” she said, “and I love you.”

“I’m all in favor of that,” I said. “If there’s anything I need at the moment it’s love.”

“Shall I lock the door?” she said.

“Well, no,” I said. “It’s platonic love I need.”

I went on sitting there, pale or something, and she went on sitting there beside me, hooked on the arm, with her arm around me. I was grateful for the arm, grateful for her bright red head and all the rest of her, and even grateful for Plato, who gave it a name and kept it decent.

“Who do you suppose did it?” she said.

“I don’t know. Local legend gives me a kind of reason, but I’m innocent. That’s all I know on short notice.”

“It may have been a nut of some kind. That’s always possible and frequently convenient.”

“I thought of that first thing.”

“What?”

“First thing after you told me.”

“That’s fast thinking, boss. It shows that reason can rise above emotion. If someone comes to trial for it, maybe you can get the case, and I can get a raise. A thing like this could make you famous. Another Clarence Darrow or somebody like that.”

“Sure. Think of all the human interest.”

“That’s what I mean. Young lawyer defends man charged with murder of old sweetie. Young lawyer’s sweetie, I mean. That will need revision, however. A young lawyer wouldn’t have an old sweetie, would he? A young lawyer would surely have a young sweetie.”

“This young lawyer doesn’t have any sweetie at all. This young lawyer has a wife.”

“So you do. And a damn nice one, too. I admit this reluctantly.”

“What else did you hear in the coffee shop?”

“Not much. Only that Beth came to town yesterday. Only that everyone is wondering why, and no one seems to know.”

“Also that everyone, by this time, knows that she and I had