“Your belief in me is built on mine in you. If mine’s unjustified, so is yours. So let me ask you a question first: were you lying when you said, ‘I don’t want to be evil’?”
“Oh, I don’t. I don’t.”
“Well, then,” I said with an air of finality, as if that settled it. “Now if you want to get off the junk, off we’ll get you.”
“How—how long will it take?”
“Say a week, to be safe. Maybe less.”
“Do you mean that? No longer than that?”
“That’s all for the part that counts. You’ll have to take care of yourself for some time after, till your system’s hitting on all eight again, but you’ll be off the junk.”
“Will I suffer—much?”
“A couple of bad days; but they won’t be as bad as you’ll think they are, and your father’s toughness will carry you through them.”
“If,” she said slowly, “I should find out in the middle of it that I can’t go through with it, can I—?”
“There’ll be nothing you can do about it,” I promised cheerfully. “You’ll stay in till you come out the other end.”
She shivered again and asked:
“When shall we start?”
“Day after tomorrow. Take your usual snort tomorrow, but don’t try to stock up. And don’t worry about it. It’ll be tougher on me than on you: I’ll have to put up with you.”
“And you’ll make allowances—you’ll understand—if I’m not always nice while I’m going through it? Even if I’m nasty?”
“I don’t know.” I didn’t want to encourage her to cut up on me. “I don’t think so much of niceness that can be turned into nastiness by a little grief.”
“Oh, but—” She stopped, wrinkled her forehead, said: “Can’t we send Mrs. Herman away? I don’t want to—I don’t want her looking at me.”
“I’ll get rid of her in the morning.”
“And if I’m—you won’t let anybody else see me—if I’m not—if I’m too terrible?”
“No,” I promised. “But look here: you’re preparing to put on a show for me. Stop thinking about that end of it. You’re going to behave. I don’t want a lot of monkey-business out of you.”
She laughed suddenly, asking:
“Will you beat me if I’m bad?”
I said she might still be young enough for a spanking to do her good.
XXI
Aaronia Haldorn
Mary Nunez arrived at half-past seven the next morning. Mickey Linehan drove Mrs. Herman to Quesada, leaving her there, returning with MacMan and a load of groceries.
MacMan was a square-built, stiff-backed ex-soldier. Ten years of the island had baked his tight-mouthed, solid-jawed, grim face a dark oak. He was the perfect soldier: he went where you sent him, stayed where you put him, and had no ideas of his own to keep him from doing exactly what you told him.
He gave me the druggist’s package. I took ten grains of morphine up to Gabrielle. She was eating breakfast in bed. Her eyes were watery, her face damp and grayish. When she saw the bindles in my hand she pushed her tray aside and held her hands out eagerly, wiggling her shoulders.
“Come back in five minutes?” she asked.
“You can take your jolt in front of me. I won’t blush.”
“But I would,” she said, and did.
I went out, shut the door, and leaned against it, hearing the crackle of paper and the clink of a spoon on the water-glass. Presently she called:
“All right.”
I went in again. A crumpled ball of white paper in the tray was all that remained of one bindle. The others weren’t in sight. She was leaning back against her pillows, eyes half closed, as comfortable as a cat full of goldfish. She smiled lazily at me and said:
“You’re a dear. Know what I’d like to do today? Take some lunch and go out on the water—spend the whole day floating in the sun.”
“That ought to be good for you. Take either Linehan or MacMan with you. You’re not to go out alone.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Ride up to Quesada, over to the county seat, maybe as far as the city.”
“Mayn’t I go with you?”
I shook my head, saying: “I’ve got work to do, and you’re supposed to be resting.”
She said, “Oh,” and reached for her coffee. I turned to the door. “The rest of the morphine.” She spoke over the edge of her cup. “You’ve put it in a safe place, where nobody will find it?”
“Yeah,” I said, grinning at her, patting my coat-pocket.
In Quesada I spent half an hour talking to Rolly and reading the San Francisco papers. They were beginning to poke at Andrews with hints and questions that stopped just short of libel. That was so much to the good. The deputy sheriff hadn’t anything to tell me.
I went over to the county seat. Vernon was in court. Twenty minutes of the sheriff’s conversation didn’t add anything to my education. I called up the agency and talked to the Old Man. He said Hubert Collinson, our client, had expressed some surprise at our continuing the operation, having supposed that Whidden’s death had cleared up the mystery of his son’s murder.
“Tell him it didn’t,” I said. “Eric’s murder was tied up with Gabrielle’s troubles, and we can’t get to the bottom of one except through the other. It’ll probably take another week. Collinson’s all right,” I assured the Old Man. “He’ll stand for it when it’s explained to him.”
The Old Man said, “I certainly hope so,” rather coldly, not enthusiastic over having five operatives at work on a job that the supposed client might not want to pay for.
I drove up to San Francisco, had dinner at the St. Germain, stopped at my rooms to collect another suit and a bagful of clean shirts and the like, and got back to the house in the cove a little after midnight. MacMan came out of the darkness while I was tucking the car—we were still using Fitzstephan’s—under the shed. He said nothing had happened in my absence. We went into the house
