A Spoonful of Luger (45 page)

But
then
—
what
of
Anne?

I
suddenly
banged
the
cup
and
saucer
down,
the
memory
haunting
me.
“I
was
a
fool,”
I
said
sharply.
“I
blame
myself.
Nobody
else.
I
was
old
enough
to
know
better.
If
I’d
been
a
youngster
there might
have
been
some
excuse.
But
it’d
gone
too
far,
Anne.
It
had
run
away
with
me.
Right
out
of
control.
All
I
knew
was
that
I
couldn’t
go
on
with
it.
Not
and
remember
seeing
you,
all
the
time,
in
my
mind.
The
way
you
smiled ... ”

“George!”
she
broke
in.
“You
don’t
have
to
go
on.”

“Don’t
I?”
I
turned
and
looked
at
her,
and
realized
that
I’d
got
to
my
feet.
“It’s
not
the
same
smile.
There’s
something
hard
in
it.
And
your
attitude
—
it’s
flippant
and ... and
shallow ... ”

“How
dare
you!”

“I
don’t
like
the
way
you
are.”

“How
dare
you
come
into
my
home ...
I
was
trying
to
be
friendly
and
put
it
all
behind
us ...
and
you
deliberately
insult
me.”

“Perhaps
I’m
seeing
only
what
I
want
to
see,”
I
said
apologetically.

There
was
blazing
anger
in
her
eyes,
but
as
I
watched
her
she
glanced
away,
glanced
back,
then
down
at
her
hands.

“I
try,”
she
whispered.
“I’ve
been
trying
so
hard.
But
I
didn’t
know
how
to
approach
you,
what
to
say,
how
to
say
it.
I’ve
felt ... ”
She
looked
up,
and
for
one
moment
recaptured
the
anger.
“ ...
damn
you,
George,
I
feel
as
though
you’re
watching
me,
every
second,
considering,
weighing
me
up.
How
can
I
be
natural?”

“But
what
is
natural,
Anne?”

She
ignored
that.
“What
did
you
mean
—
what
you
want
to
see?”

What
I
had
wanted
to
see
was
the
flaw
in
her
character,
the
duplicity.
I’d
been
hoping
that
experience
would
help
me
to
recognize
it
now,
behind
its
facade,
so
that
finally
I
could
dismiss
that
old
and
painful
episode
as
a
simple
error
of
judgment.
It
was
what
I
was
hoping
to
find,
in
order
finally
to
dismiss
the
self-disgust
that
had
been
haunting
me
for
ten
years.

“Somebody
who
could
be
a
dope
peddlar’s
wife,
know
it,
and
still
be
able
to
act
pleasant
and
relaxed ... and
human.”

She
was
searching
my
face,
not
believing
what
she
heard.

“Did
you
believe
that
at
the
time?”
she
whispered.

“I
don’t
know.
I
just
don’t
know.”

How
could
you
believe
that
of
somebody
you
were
madly
in
love
with?
I’d
come
to
that,
let
it
run
on
and
on,
until
I
couldn’t
control
it.
Then
the
time
had
come
when
the
trap
was
to
be
sprung.
I
was
instructed
to
slip
her
the
information.

I’d
pounded
the
pavement
again
that
night,
for
hours,
before
I
could
face
her.
But
she’d
welcomed
me
so
eagerly
and
openly
that
I’d
been
unable
to
go
through
with
it,
knowing
that
I’d
never
see
her
again,
and
that
her
memory
of
me
would
be
so
harsh.

So
I
had
deliberately
told
her
what
had
been
going
on,
what
her
husband
was
— just
as
I
would
if
I
assumed
she
wouldn’t
know
—
where
he
was
at
that
exact
moment,
and
how
we’d
meant
to
trap
him.
I
was
throwing
everything
into
that
moment,
on
the
assumption that
she
would
be
revolted,
and
would
perhaps
go
on
with
the
trap.

“You
must
have
thought
something,”
she
said
desperately.
“When
you
told
me.”

“I
thought
you
knew
nothing.”

“And
later?”

“The
moment
you
closed
the
door
behind
me
you
were
on
the
phone,”
I
said,
trying
to
keep
my
voice
normal.
“Warning
him.”

“I
didn’t
think
that
mattered.”

“Not
matter?”
Was
she
mad?

“He
was
my
husband.”
She
waved
her
arms
in
a
gesture
of
despair.
“There
wasn’t
time
to
consider
my
emotions.”

“And
then,”
I
cried
—
shouted,
I
think,
“when
he’d
got
clear,
when
you
knew
there
was
only
you
left ... ”
I
made
an
effort
to
moderate
my
voice.
“We
came
back
here,
after
we
knew
he’d
slipped
us.
The
place
was
dark
and
locked
up.
I
thought
at
first
you’d
had
your
own
escape
route
laid
on,
but
that
really
would
have
proved
it.”