K. (A Crime Thriller Novel). Mary Roberts Rinehart

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ other afternoon. Closer to her than the hospital was life in the raw that night.

      So, even here, on this quiet street in this distant city, there was to be no peace. Max Wilson just across the way! It—it was ironic. Was there no place where a man could lose himself? He would have to move on again, of course.

      But that, it seemed, was just what he could not do. For:

      “I want to ask you to do something, and I hope you'll be quite frank,” said Sidney.

      “Anything that I can do—”

      “It's this. If you are comfortable, and—and like the room and all that, I wish you'd stay.” She hurried on: “If I could feel that mother had a dependable person like you in the house, it would all be easier.”

      Dependable! That stung.

      “But—forgive my asking; I'm really interested—can your mother manage? You'll get practically no money during your training.”

      “I've thought of that. A friend of mine, Christine Lorenz, is going to be married. Her people are wealthy, but she'll have nothing but what Palmer makes. She'd like to have the parlor and the sitting room behind. They wouldn't interfere with you at all,” she added hastily. “Christine's father would build a little balcony at the side for them, a sort of porch, and they'd sit there in the evenings.”

      Behind Sidney's carefully practical tone the man read appeal. Never before had he realized how narrow the girl's world had been. The Street, with but one dimension, bounded it! In her perplexity, she was appealing to him who was practically a stranger.

      And he knew then that he must do the thing she asked. He, who had fled so long, could roam no more. Here on the Street, with its menace just across, he must live, that she might work. In his world, men had worked that women might live in certain places, certain ways. This girl was going out to earn her living, and he would stay to make it possible. But no hint of all this was in his voice.

      “I shall stay, of course,” he said gravely. “I—this is the nearest thing to home that I've known for a long time. I want you to know that.”

      So they moved their puppets about, Anna and Harriet, Christine and her husband-to-be, Dr. Ed, even Tillie and the Rosenfelds; shifted and placed them, and, planning, obeyed inevitable law.

      “Christine shall come, then,” said Sidney forsooth, “and we will throw out a balcony.”

      So they planned, calmly ignorant that poor Christine's story and Tillie's and Johnny Rosenfeld's and all the others' were already written among the things that are, and the things that shall be hereafter.

      “You are very good to me,” said Sidney.

      When she rose, K. Le Moyne sprang to his feet.

      Anna had noticed that he always rose when she entered his room,—with fresh towels on Katie's day out, for instance,—and she liked him for it. Years ago, the men she had known had shown this courtesy to their women; but the Street regarded such things as affectation.

      “I wonder if you would do me another favor? I'm afraid you'll take to avoiding me, if I keep on.”

      “I don't think you need fear that.”

      “This stupid story about Joe Drummond—I'm not saying I'll never marry him, but I'm certainly not engaged. Now and then, when you are taking your evening walks, if you would ask me to walk with you—”

      K. looked rather dazed.

      “I can't imagine anything pleasanter; but I wish you'd explain just how—”

      Sidney smiled at him. As he stood on the lowest step, their eyes were almost level.

      “If I walk with you, they'll know I'm not engaged to Joe,” she said, with engaging directness.

      The house was quiet. He waited in the lower hall until she had reached the top of the staircase. For some curious reason, in the time to come, that was the way Sidney always remembered K. Le Moyne—standing in the little hall, one hand upstretched to shut off the gas overhead, and his eyes on hers above.

      “Good-night,” said K. Le Moyne. And all the things he had put out of his life were in his voice.

      Chapter IV

       Table of Contents

      On the morning after Sidney had invited K. Le Moyne to take her to walk, Max Wilson came down to breakfast rather late. Dr. Ed had breakfasted an hour before, and had already attended, with much profanity on the part of the patient, to a boil on the back of Mr. Rosenfeld's neck.

      “Better change your laundry,” cheerfully advised Dr. Ed, cutting a strip of adhesive plaster. “Your neck's irritated from your white collars.”

      Rosenfeld eyed him suspiciously, but, possessing a sense of humor also, he grinned.

      “It ain't my everyday things that bother me,” he replied. “It's my blankety-blank dress suit. But if a man wants to be tony—”

      “Tony” was not of the Street, but of its environs. Harriet was “tony” because she walked with her elbows in and her head up. Dr. Max was “tony” because he breakfasted late, and had a man come once a week and take away his clothes to be pressed. He was “tony,” too, because he had brought back from Europe narrow-shouldered English-cut clothes, when the Street was still padding its shoulders. Even K. would have been classed with these others, for the stick that he carried on his walks, for the fact that his shabby gray coat was as unmistakably foreign in cut as Dr. Max's, had the neighborhood so much as known him by sight. But K., so far, had remained in humble obscurity, and, outside of Mrs. McKee's, was known only as the Pages' roomer.

      Mr. Rosenfeld buttoned up the blue flannel shirt which, with a pair of Dr. Ed's cast-off trousers, was his only wear; and fished in his pocket.

      “How much, Doc?”

      “Two dollars,” said Dr. Ed briskly.

      “Holy cats! For one jab of a knife! My old woman works a day and a half for two dollars.”

      “I guess it's worth two dollars to you to be able to sleep on your back.” He was imperturbably straightening his small glass table. He knew Rosenfeld. “If you don't like my price, I'll lend you the knife the next time, and you can let your wife attend to you.”

      Rosenfeld drew out a silver dollar, and followed it reluctantly with a limp and dejected dollar bill.

      “There are times,” he said, “when, if you'd put me and the missus and a knife in the same room, you wouldn't have much left but the knife.”

      Dr. Ed waited until he had made his stiff-necked exit. Then he took the two dollars, and, putting the money into an envelope, indorsed it in his illegible hand. He heard his brother's step on the stairs, and Dr. Ed made haste to put away the last vestiges of his little operation.

      Ed's lapses from surgical cleanliness were a sore trial to the younger man, fresh from the clinics of Europe. In his downtown office, to which he would presently СКАЧАТЬ