As he helped her down the steps leading from the Florida resort hotel to the beach, he sensed the stares from lounging bathers. She was ravishingly beautiful in the two-piece white swim suit with her wealth of thick black hair. He sensed their sudden pity, their embarrassment at knowing him. He hated it.

�I want to lie in the sun, darling,� she said.

She would never know how he felt. Tall, rangy, darkly tanned in khaki shorts, there was something haunted in Guy Dennison�s gaunt face.

�Did you bring a book?� she asked. �You could read to me again.�

�I brought one down when I set up the umbrella.�

�Which book, darling?�

�One I�ve been reading to you � about Alaska.� He watched grimly as she stretched out on the blanket, and stared up at the sun she couldn�t see. The bandages across her eyes were the smallest Doctor Allmyre could devise. She wore large dark glasses over the bandages and they only showed around the edges. But anybody could tell.

He sprawled beside her. They were a yard from the cool shade of the big red beach umbrella. He wished to hell they were beneath it, in the canvas chairs.

�The Gulf must be beautiful today,� she said.

�Uh-huh,� he said. �Real calm.�

He watched a girl, far down the beach, picking up shells and throwing them into the water. A few feet away a young sunburned couple sipped frosted drinks.

It had been six lousy months since Rome chanced to enter his workroom in the garage up in Quebec. Metal working was his hobby. He�d been grinding brass for a lamp on a wheel. Rome leaned over, laughing, and received an abrupt, deadly shower of white-hot brass filings in both eyes. There followed a series of ticklish operations.

�It�ll be months before we can take the bandages off for good,� the doctor told them. �But I must warn you. If they come off before that time, she�ll probably see fine for an hour or so. Only it won�t last. There will be nothing we can do then � ever. Why don�t you two take a vacation...?�

The doctor had showed Guy how to apply fresh bandages in a dark room. It was hellish to think about.

Nothing was the same any more. She always read a great deal. Now he had to read to her all the time. Morning, afternoon, evening, and bedtime.

�Guy? Couldn�t I go in the water?�

�Up to you,� he said. �If you like, of course.�

�It troubles you. We won�t bother.�

He held his breath. �Don�t talk like that.�

�I can�t help my imagination,� she said. �I�m sorry.� Fumbling, she touched his arm. �I�m sorry, Guy.�

It shouldn�t hit him the way it did. He heard it too much lately. He started to comfort her, then every muscle in his body went taut and the sensation of abrupt panic sent sweat beading at every pore.

A girl in a Bikini bathing suit stood out there by the water, staring at him. She carried a white terry-cloth robe and a small alligator purse with a long strap. It was the same girl he�d noticed down the beach, throwing shells in the water.

It was one girl he never wanted to see again. Not since that night four days ago. But there were too many people around for him to do anything, motion her away. They all knew him and his wife.

The girl moved toward him, her golden hair shimmering in the violent sunlight. Her body was full, lithe, soft, and she smiled at him.

Her name was Janine Bonney. She was maybe nineteen, and beautiful in a way that got a man where it was tender.

He looked at her, shaking his head slightly.

She gave a tiny nod, then began writing in the sand four feet from his side with a crimson-tipped toe.

�BAR�� she wrote. �NOW.�

She glanced once at him to see if he got it, then crossed it out with a single flourish of her foot, and moved lithely off toward the steps.

He looked quickly around to see if anyone had noticed. Don�t be stupid, he thought. They noticed.

�Wish I could walk around like that,� Rome said.

�Like what?�

�That woman who just went by.�

�I didn�t see any woman. Only an old man.�

�It sounded like a woman. They walk different from men.� She sighed. �One thing, I can�t watch you ogling all the naked female flesh around here.�

He forced a laugh. �Why ogle with you right here?�

�Don�t kid me,� she said. �Men are all alike.�

He checked to see if she were smiling. She was. It was all right. Lately she�d shown touches of an evil jealous streak he�d never before noticed.

It scared him a little.

He could never afford scandal. He had plenty of money, but every cent depended on his leading an unsullied existence; staying married till death. His crazy alcoholic father had seen to that before he died. One slip and he would lose everything.

Every time he got on the subject, he began to scheme. He couldn�t help himself. He no longer loved Rome. Rome was a bore. It grew worse daily. It ate into him like a raw, seething acid, and never let him be.

There was even that chance she would never see again � ever. What then!

He would have to make some excuse so he could go up to the bar and see what Janine wanted. He�d have to get rid of the girl for good. She was a lush and cooperative package, but she threatened a luxurious life.

He told himself to relax. Rome didn�t know Janine.

�Baby,� he said. �I�m going to run up to our rooms � get my sunglasses.�

�You could use mine,� she said. �It�s really very silly, my wearing sunglasses.�

�They wouldn�t fit.� He eyed the bottle of suntan lotion on the far edge of the blanket. �I�ll get the sun-tan lotion, too. Sun�s fierce today.�

He stood up, scooped the small bottle of oil into his palm, tossed it on one of the beach chairs, just in case.

�Don�t wander around, now,� he said softly.

She made a small sound which wasn�t quite a laugh.

Somebody slapped his shoulder. He reacted anxiously, startled. It was Steve Larkin, half tight. Larkin was a red-haired six-footer who apparently did little but lush it up, tell jokes, and hunt women. He wore a white shirt and gray flannels. Larkin had seen him leave Janine�s motel the morning after they�d been drinking.

�Gonna make another night of it, hey?� Larkin said.

�Just leaving,� Guy said, thinking I can�t leave!

�Guy doesn�t feel well, Steve,� Janine said.

�Darn shame,� Larkin said, trailing whisky fumes.

�Look, Steve,� Janine said. �See you later, huh? There�s something I want to discuss with Guy.�

Larkin frowned. �I�m deeply hurt,� he said. �But don�t you two run out on me.� He whacked them both on the shoulder and left the bar.

Guy rose unsteadily from the stool.

�Better wait,� Janine said. �You haven�t seen the pictures yet.�

The cramp around his heart tightened.

�You know,� she said. �Pix. Snaps. Photos. They�re real nice of us, too. You and me. I�m sure you�d like to see �em � maybe you�d want �em all for yourself, even.�

�What are you trying to do?� His voice was hoarse.

�Maybe you�d better come over tonight, �stead of tomorrow, huh? I�ll show you the pictures. Maybe you�d like to come over, anyway. It�s okay with me. I like you, Hungry � really, I do.�

He turned sharply and walked blindly off. He heard her soft laughter following him.

He found Rome where he had left her. Where else could she go? He stood there a moment, with everything swarming through him, like heavy sludge.

�You�ve been gone awfully long,� Rome said.

He winced. She was sitting up with her hands clasped around her knees. He began to hate her all the more. If he were free, he�d be able to handle this, somehow.

�I was thirsty � stopped for a beer.�

�Get your sunglasses?� she asked.

�Yeah. Sure.� Now, she�ll ask me for them, he thought. Ask to try them on. He should have picked them up. �The oil, too,� he said. He snatched the bottle of lotion off the canvas beach chair.

�Guy? I�d really like to go in the water.�

�Okay.�

�Just wading, of course.� She put her head down, took her lower lip between her teeth, then laughed with short bitterness. �Think of it. Me � wading!�

She had been an expert swimmer and had taken several trophies, both here and abroad. He knew it troubled her.

He said, �Wouldn�t you rather go in after lunch?�

�Let�s go in now.�

If she made him stay out here all afternoon, he�d go mad. He dropped the bottle of sun-tan lotion, held her arm, pulled her to her feet.

She came against him, put her arms around him. It embarrassed him. What if people saw � people who had just seen him with the blonde?

�Guy,� she said. �I�ll never let you go � ever!� There was something savage about it. �I love you more than you�ll ever realize.� She paused. �Kiss me!�

�Not here, Rome.�

Her lips were already against his, and there was something savage about the kiss, too, and the hard pressure of her body. Then she turned away.

He walked her to the water. He really wanted to run down the beach to Janine�s motel; make her talk � wring the damned truth out of her.

They started into the water, close together. The fact that they had once been extremely happy together seemed outlandish and impossible.

�Is the color like the Mediterranean?�

Would she never cease? Who in hell cared what color the goddamned water was? It was wet, wasn�t it?

The water was up to their chests.

�It�s delicious,� she gasped. �Look, I can float.�

�Be careful, Rome.�

She was a short distance away. He watched her.

�Guy,� she said quietly. �I�m going to swim.�

�Cut it out. You know what Allmyre said.�

�My eyes are closed. Here, you hold my glasses,� Her hair was already soaked. �Don�t try to stop me, Guy!�

He dove for her, grabbed her arm just in time.

�What�s got into you?� he said curtly. He felt her go limp under his hands. He felt her resignation.

�All right,� she said. �We�ll go back to the beach. I�ll lie in the sun like a good girl.�

She was getting out of hand. He held her tightly and they returned to the blanket. He felt the stares of people around them. And right then, it struck him.

She�s becoming bitter, he thought. She doesn�t seem to care. What will my life be, with a blind woman?

Yes � he could get her out there in the water and urge her to swim. Tell her it was all right, so long as she kept her eyes closed. Tell her he�d been wrong. It wouldn�t hurt anything. He would swim beside her. Get her far out in the Gulf and keep her headed out and tell her she was swimming toward shore. Then, once out far enough so people on the shore couldn�t see � he�d put her head under water and hold it there until...

The bathers on the beach must have seen them today, heard Rome insist he let her swim. He would say he�d been unable to stop her. She was an expert swimmer; that could be checked. Despondent, she�d gotten away from him.

He would be free � free of the damnable position his father had left him in. Free to fight Janine Bonney, or sleep with her. He�d be able to live again.

The biting inclusion in his father�s will held only during his marriage. He was supposed to marry but once. In case of divorce, he would lose the inheritance, and the entire monies would revert to charity. He�d only been left the money because he�d managed to marry before his father�s death, and soft-soap him into believing he�d turned over a new leaf. Rome had been full of fun and laughter... no more � he hated every moment.

His father had become a heavy boozer toward the end, and didn�t want his only son to end up the same.

If Rome died, the money would be his. The old man hadn�t figured he would kill her.

But if a breath of scandal touched the Dennison name, he would lose the money, too. The lawyers would fix that.

�Guy?� Rome said. �I�ll never try that again. Don�t worry. I don�t know what came over me.�

He couldn�t trust his voice.

�I�m sorry, if I frightened you,� she said softly.

He stared at her. What if he couldn�t talk her into it? What if she meant what she said; that she wouldn�t try swimming again... never go near the water? He couldn�t drag her across the beach and throw her in.

He�d have to talk with Janine � make sure.

He thought back to that night; sneaking out when Rome was asleep, meeting Larkin, drinking, then Larkin introducing him to Janine � and waking on the strange bed the next morning, when Janine showed from another room, carrying a coffee pot. He started dressing.

�Fixing some breakfast, honey,� she said. �Stick around.� She had on a white Spanish mantilla, draped over her shoulders. That was all she wore � that and a smile and the coffee pot.

�I�ve got to go. I�ll see you.�

She came to the door with him, was rubbing him good-by, when Steve Larkin drove past in his car.

Steve ran him back to the hotel.

�You liked Bunny, eh? She�s quite a kid.�

He sneaked in just as Rome awakened. He told her he�d got up bright and early to see the sunrise.

�I slept like a log,� she said. �I sleep an awful lot these days.�

You telling me, he thought. �It�s the air,� he said. �It does that to you.�

He had figured he would never see the blonde again.

Now, this afternoon, like all afternoons, he had to read to Rome while she lay in bed. The book about Alaska. He saw no possible way to break from her long enough to see Janine. He felt nervous and ill. He read monotonously, his thoughts a blocked moiling of fear and worry.

He wanted to tell Rome her lipstick was cockeyed, but didn�t. He wasn�t sure how she would react. It was sloppy. He supposed she would eventually cease wearing lipstick.

Beneath the light white dressing gown she wore, her shape was as lush and exciting as ever.

�Guy?� Rome said. �Come over here beside me.�

He laid the book open on the end table and sat beside her. She took his hands fiercely and pulled him down to her.

All he could think was, What am I going to do?

�This life is boring to me, too, darling. But I can�t do anything about it,� she said.

�Stop talking like that, Rome.�

He ran his hands through her hair, forcing himself to be gentle. She had taken a shower, but her hair was still stiff from the salt water. It irritated him, like everything else about her. Abruptly, he recalled his hands running through Janine�s hair � soft, fine, cool. Hot blood rushed and throbbed in his head.

�Bet you�d like to get out,� she said. �Have fun.�

He sat up perspiring. �Of course not.�

�You�d say that, anyway.�

The room was quiet for a time and he listened to her breathe. He felt curiously afraid of her just then, and was unable to imagine why.

�Kiss me, Guy.�

He kissed her, suddenly conscious of the lipstick.

�You can read a little more, now. Then I think I�ll take a nap.� She stroked his damp hands. �Guy, my darling � I don�t know what I�d ever do without you.�

�You�ll never have to do without me.�

He picked up the book, closing it accidentally, and returned to the chair. He was so worried he couldn�t recall where they had left off. She finally told him.

�Well, Hungry � you finally showed.�

Janine wore yellow shorts and halter. He had to admit that she looked lovely. Inside she was a devil.

There was a bedroom and modernistically furnished living room and kitchenette. A beige rug covered the floor and soft music filtered through the partially closed bedroom door.

�All right,� he said. �Let�s get on with it.�

�You�re terribly brusque, Hungry. Care for a drink?�

He shook his head, watching her.

�I have some excellent scotch,� she said.

�No doubt.�

She shrugged, opened a cupboard above a small bar separating the kitchenette from the living area. Turning, she held a black automatic in her hand.

�I know how to use this,� she said. �Just in case.�

He watched her lay the gun on the bar and draw something else from the cupboard. She turned, smiling.

�These photographs,� she said, flapping the packet against her thigh. �You try to destroy them, it won�t hurt. I have the negatives. Developed �em myself.�

He reached and snatched them from her, filed quickly through them. They were expert. They were also obvious, like a black burn in the center of a white linen tablecloth. Whoever had taken them stood by the bedroom window, outside. Eight in all, they weren�t blurred. Janine and he lay on the bed with a bottle, naked.

�This is good of me, here,� she said, leaning close to point with a crimson-tipped finger. �Of course, my hair�s sort of messed up � but what could you expect? And both of us are nice and sharp and clear.� She paused. �Look � you can even read the label on the bottle.�

He wanted to strangle her. She was calm, matter-of-fact. As if they were looking at the family album.

He had the impulse to tear them up, eat them � he hurled them showering across the couch. Everywhere he looked he saw himself and Janine, naked on the bed.

�Don�t you like the pictures, Hungry?�

He grabbed her arm, shook her back and forth. He hurled her away as he had the pictures. She tripped and sprawled violently across the couch, her hair shimmering in a vicious snarl under the indirect lighting.

�Steve!� she cried, coming to her knees.

Guy turned swiftly. Steve Larkin entered the room, the bedroom door whipping back against the wall. Larkin�s face was red, eyes inflamed. Guy dove at him. Larkin stepped in and swung a savage right that rushed in a blur toward Guy�s face.

He felt the sodden impact. The rock-hard shock threw him dizzily back against the couch on top of Janine. She squealed, squirming, and Larkin sprang at him, pulled him up by the shirt front and slammed him again. This time it was the left eye.

�The gun!� Janine gasped.

Guy spun to his feet, ready for Larkin. But the other man had snatched the gun from atop the bar. Guy sank back on die couch. Larkin breathed heavily, then put the gun back on the bar.

�I�ll bruise,� Janine whispered. �He marked me, damn him!�

�Shut up,� Larkin said. �You couldn�t do like I asked, could you? Always got to dress it up. You�re a fool, Bunny�� Reaching out, he slapped her face hard.

�Steve,� she said. �Don�t act like that.�

Larkin breathed heavily. �You�d foul things up fine, all right.� He smeared sweat from his face. �Suppose he got the gun � you can�t trust a guy like him. Damn you, Bunny � I�d like to...�

�You�re drunk, Steve!�

�Not half drunk enough. Sometime, by God, I will be!�

�You two are a great pair,� Guy said. His left eye was swelling, the pain ricocheting inside his skull.

�Sure,� Larkin said. �We work by flat rate. We want a hundred thousand. That�s what buys the pictures � and the negatives.�

It awed him. For a moment, he almost laughed.

�You�ll pay, Hungry, m�boy.�

A hundred thousand dollars for eight photographs. They were mad.

�My face is swelling,� Janine said.

Larkin�s voice was nasty. �You been ripe for it.�

She rose, took two hesitant steps toward the man. �You can�t talk to me like that, you big pig!�

�No?� he said brightly. He lunged toward her, slammed his hand against the other side of her face. She smashed against the wall.

Larkin mopped more sweat off his brow. �Now your face�ll really have something to swell about.�

She sobbed in her throat, turned and rushed into the bedroom. The door slammed.

Larkin stared at the door, then came over to Guy.

�About that hundred grand,� he said.

�How could I get hold of that much money?�

�Don�t give me any sob stuff. Wire your New York bank. We know all about you, Dennison. You�ll pay. You know damned well you�ve got to � right?�

They watched each other.

�You talk like a long-playing record when you�re loaded,� Larkin said. �Of course, we helped you along with a dash of chloral in your drink to numb you up � then a needle. You jabbered your head off.�

They had him pinned to the mat. He saw no way out. He didn�t have a hundred thousand dollars to throw away � there were no more millions; that was gone long ago. His father had left debts, he�d made more. Most of his money was tied up in stocks, which gave him a healthy income. It would mean selling some of them, making the lawyers suspicious.

Guy rose unsteadily from the couch, walked past Larkin to the door.

�Okay,� Larkin said. �There�s no hurry. Tomorrow night, you�ll give us the word. Right here, same time as tonight. Either that, or we give you the business.�

Guy looked at the man. Larkin was grinning. �Newspapers?� Larkin said. �Stuff like that?�

Guy said nothing. He walked outside, and started down toward the beach. He moved like a sleepwalker � or maybe a Zombie, because he felt dead all over.

Back in his room, he donned pajamas, then switched on the light and started for Rome�s room, to check. He stopped short. He�d left a long row of sandy footprints from his door, across the maroon carpet. He brushed them patiently away, and it made him feel better.

In the bathroom, he inspected his eye. By morning it would be a technicolor extravaganza. He bathed it in cold water. It didn�t help. He went in and checked on Rome. She was sleeping deeply, as always.

He thought of her swimming far out into the Gulf, directionless, tiring � until she drowned.

He returned to his bed, stretched out. One hundred thousand dollars... a one hundred thousand dollar piece.

He lay there straining, smothering the black laughter with his hand over his mouth.

Dawn came and he finally slept. He dreamed � of water, death � and darkness.

They sat on the beach the next day under the umbrella in the canvas chairs. Rome was really in the sun, but he was in the shade. He would have shriveled up and died in the sun like the carcasses of dead fish that floated onto the beach � to be meticulously gathered up by their tails and taken quickly away in a paper towel by one of the colored houseboys.

Dead fish did not exist here.

Everybody had gawped openly at his colorful eye.

�Guy? I asked you something. What�s the matter?�

�Just a headache, is all.�

�You seem to have a lot of them lately, Guy.�

He wanted to yell, get stinking drunk, anything but sit here and listen to her inane chatter. It was killing him by degrees. Next, she�d want him to read to her. About Alaska. Eskimo villages. Sea lions...

�I can listen to the radio, anyway,� she said. �I can�t see anything. I never used to listen to the radio. I used to laugh at those soap-operas � but, you know something? They hook you. They really do, Guy. It�s getting so I can�t bear to miss some of them. I suppose it sounds funny. I never realized I�d like them.�

He groaned inwardly. He could see them in years to come, sitting around the goddamned radio, commenting critically on the witty dialogue in the soap-operas.

He could feel her own pitiful condition, her self-pity, clawing out with steel fingers, snarling him along with her in their inevitable web of slow mental stagnation and soul destruction.

Or, worse still: �You watch the TV, darling, and I�ll listen and you can tell me what�s happening.�

They sat there. Neither spoke for some time.

He finally said, �Rome? What say we take a dip?�

The meaning behind the words was orgasmic to him, tossing him wildly up on a violent thrill of crazy exaltation. He hung there, cresting.

�Now, Guy?�

He hung there, savagely suspended, his fingers rigid in the sands beside the chair, a voice screaming monstrously in his head, Say yes, say yes, say yes!

�I must tell you something, Guy � a secret.�

He continued to hang there, every muscle taut, his body a bent spring of emotion.

�I�m never going swimming again,� she said.

He collapsed. His fists dug into the sand. He hurled it showering before him, listening to her words as she spoke on, through a strange red fog.

She spoke softly. �Yesterday, I tried something very foolish, Guy. I was despondent. I wanted to � well, I was actually thinking about suicide, darling. I�m over it now.� She found his arm, gripping it with her fingers, her face strained toward him. �I didn�t want to be a burden to you. I was being selfish. I know you love me as I love you. I realized I frightened you. You�ll never have to worry again. I swore to myself, I would never go into the water again, Guy � never.�

He had a very slim hold on himself now. �Isn�t... isn�t that rather drastic?�

�Anyway � that�s how it is.�

He patted her hand. He hoped she didn�t feel how tense he was. �I really wouldn�t worry, then,� he said. �So you could go swimming. We�ll go together. I�ll be right with you � every minute. And � I promise, I won�t worry.� The last words nearly choked him.

�No, Guy. I know you�re trying to make me feel better. But I�ll never go into the water again.�

He knew she meant it. He lay back with his eyes tightly closed. He lay that way for some time.

The chance was gone. Time was running out, trickling away, like the sands washed by the Gulf.

Opening his eyes, he saw Janine, wearing the orange Bikini. He closed his eyes, sitting in a dark stupor.

�Hello, there, Hungry!�

It nearly jerked him out of the chair. He snapped his eyes open. She stood before him, flaunting herself.

�Hello,� he said weakly.

She winked at him, then moved off. She had a terrific walk, and every eye on the nearby beach followed her.

All except Rome.

�Who was that, Guy?�

He didn�t know what to say. �One of the maids,� he said. �The one cleaned up our rooms this morning.�

�Oh. Did she call you that � Hungry?�

�I guess so. Odd, isn�t it?� Every pore in his body dripped perspiration. �Said something this morning, about my looking hungry, or something.�

�I see,� Rome said. �Is she pretty?�

�Hardly.� He forced a laugh. It sounded forced. �Anyway, she�s not my type.� He rushed madly on without the slightest idea of where he was going, like a car out of control on icy pavement. �Besides � she�s a colored maid.�

�She didn�t sound it.�

�That�s because everybody down here talks with an accent. You�re used to it.�

He was out of breath. It was one hell of an experience. He was drenched as if he�d been swimming. He felt he was dying. He had to have a drink � immediately.

He made an excuse and headed for the bar.

Janine met him at the steps. He wanted to shout at her, find out why she had pulled such a crazy stunt as to speak to him down there. But they were in full view of everybody. They walked up the steps toward the hotel bar and her plump hip brushed against him.

�Gee, Hungry � it was like your wife looked at me.�

�Well, she didn�t.� He turned and grasped her arms. �Why did you do that? Everybody saw you � she�s not deaf!�

Janine didn�t smile. �So you wouldn�t forget what can happen. It was my idea � and I don�t want a drink.�

�I�ve got to talk with you, Janine!�

�Nuts.�

He was desperate. �Bunny!�

She fluffed her hair and smiled. �Tonight, honey � tonight. Maybe tonight I�ll be real nice to you.� She laughed softly and moved back down the steps, her hips bunching suggestively, her hair golden and glorious in the sun. He went to the bar, then returned to Rome.

�Did you enjoy your beer, Guy?�

�Oh, yeah. Fine.�

�Did she have on a bathing suit, Guy?�

�Who?�

�The girl who called you hungry?�

�The maid, you mean? For God�s sake, no. She had on some sort of a white uniform.�

Diabolically, he would have liked to describe Janine Bonney to her. How luscious and succulent Janine was, with her ripe body bared and bulging around the scant Bikini.

Thinking desperately, he wondered if he could get Janine alone and torture her into giving up the negatives. But then he�d have to kill her to shut her up. He realized he was thinking about killing as if it were the easiest thing in the world. He laughed to himself. He had the nerve to think of killing somebody. But that was as far as it went.

All you have to do is call the police, he thought. Larkin and Janine would be off his neck. Then � the ramifications. The morning papers after they talked. He began to laugh. He couldn�t stop. He roared aloud, shaking the canvas chair, his head flung back.

�Let me in on it, will you?� Rome said soberly.

�An old joke I happened to remember,� he gasped.

�Tell me, Guy!� She was smiling, excited.

�For God�s sake, Rome � lay off me!�

It shocked her. �Yes,� she said. �All right.�

On the way back to the hotel, he mumbled words of endearment to her. She was strangely quiet.

Well, tonight he would see Janine and Larkin, tell them getting the money would take some time. But he would pay them off, burn the prints and negatives. It was the only way. He became elated thinking about it.

He would have a little money left. Properly invested, he would make out. Maybe Rome would be okay, her old self, after she took off the bandages.

He chilled � suppose they retained certain negatives, kept them to bleed him slowly. No � he dismissed the thought.

Pay them. He would even have a drink with them. �Here�s hell!� he would say. �Here�s to crime, you blackguards!� Toasting the one hundred thousand. Let them have it. It was high time one of the Dennison tribe got to work and made some money, instead of spending.

In the back of his mind he knew it was all hogwash. But he kept saying the words in a kind of deadly rote.

That night, stepping into the darkness of eleven o�clock, he realized he was late. He had taken no chances. Rome was sound asleep, snoring softly.

A shadow detached itself from a tall hedge of Australian pine. It was Janine. She came up to him, wearing a white dress that rustled as she moved.

�Shhhhhhh!� he warned.

�Listen, Hungry,� she said, gripping his arm. �I thought I�d come and meet you. Steve�s pretty high � rampaging around. I�m a little frightened.�

�Tough.�

�Anyway,� she said. �Let�s go to my place. Steve�ll be along later. You got the money with you, honey?�

He didn�t answer. Make the witch wait.

�Just imagine what people will say when they see those pictures! You and li�tle me, all alone, like that!�

They moved down along the beach.

�Suppose I killed you, Janine � right now. I could, you know? The way I feel? Who would ever know?�

She laughed. �Don�t worry. I�ve got insurance. That�s why I can like you and everything, all at the same time.�

She excited him. She was a witch, out to ruin him, yet, kind of nice as witches went. He was a typical Dennison; lusting after the very woman who would toss him to the dogs. He didn�t see how he could possibly get a hundred thousand dollars� worth. He put his arm around her, felt the lush movement of her hip.

They reached her apartment, went inside. Soft light suffused the room. She moved to the cupboard, and he saw the automatic lying there. She brought out the pictures.

�We can look at the pictures till Steve gets here. He wants to transact the business. We�ll have fun, huh?�

Abruptly, he saw her for what she was. She was really sneering at him � laughing at him.

�How about a drink?� he said.

�Sorry � I�m afraid we�re all out. Steve said he�d bring something. Let�s sit down and look at the pictures, honey.� Her voice was full of insinuation.

A thought occurred to him. He became excited.

�Listen,� he said, desperately trying to keep the urgency out of his voice. �I�ll go buy a bottle. Then we can have a drink, just you and me � and look at the pictures � and wait for Steve?�

She winked slyly. �I�ll change into something more comfortable. There�s a liquor store just down the road.�

�Maybe we�d better make the most of what we have, eh?�

She banged the packet of pictures against her thigh. All he could think was� Get her plastered and get those negatives and prints from her. Her lips were very red, her eyes a deep, exciting blue.

�I�ll hurry,� he said, turning toward the door.

The liquor store was farther down the road than he�d figured. He had no car. Getting her plastered would be a pleasure. He wasn�t fool enough to think she actually went for him � but she was the type would try to get back at Larkin for how he�d acted toward her. She would probably do anything. Still, he was a rich man. It maybe built her ego, just being with him.

He would promise her anything � really feed her a line � maybe even try and get her to cross Larkin. Get her helpless drunk.

It was the big chance. If he could get the negatives, they�d be stopped. He saw the lights ahead: DAD�S LIQUORS.

Moments later, returning along the highway shoulder, he uncapped the fifth of whisky and took two stiff belts.

He stopped on the road in front of the motel. A motorcycle cop was sitting astride his glinting machine, joking with a man by the office.

Guy detoured around the back of the half-circle of buildings, edging among palms and azalea bushes. Pausing, he took another slug of whisky. He felt good.

It didn�t last. The instant he opened the door to Janine�s apartment, he knew something was wrong.

Clothes were strewn in a running heap, leading from the open bedroom door. The living room was brightly lighted. Tables and chairs were overturned. The cupboard doors flapped open. The rear door in the kitchen stood open, and he could see the Gulf of Mexico shining out there.

�Janine?� he called softly.

No answer.

�Bunny?� he called.

Leaving the front door open, he set the bottle on the floor, moved across the room. He stopped short.

Janine lay sprawled on the beige carpet, clothed in nothing hut torn, sheer black panties and bra. Her features were just barely recognizable.

She was dead. Her skull had been shattered. Her beautiful blonde hair soaked now in rich dark blood that still pulsed from fresh wounds. The small black automatic lay on the floor beside her.

It was obvious. Larkin had returned, bitter with drink. He�d caught her getting ready for Guy. She�d probably defied Larkin. Larkin had lost his head, killed her, battered her to death with the blood-stained gun.

The photographs � the negatives...

He sprang to the cupboard. Nothing there. He began a frantic search of the living room, the bedroom. He was lost unless he found those pictures.

Larkin had them � of course.

The apartment was a shambles. He kept searching, inspecting every drawer, every piece of clothing, behind mirrors, in the lavatory water tank, the medicine chest.

They were gone. He was back where he had started, only now there was murder on his hands.

A woman screamed. He ducked past the body of the girl toward the kitchen door. He saw the woman standing at the open front door, pointing at the body, screaming.

He rushed through the door, turned to the right and ran full tilt into Steve Larkin. Larkin was drunk.

�Dennison!� Larkin gasped. �She�s dead, you hear?�

Guy swung hard at the man�s face. His fist caught a shoulder and he swung again, sinking it to the wrist in Larkin�s solar-plexus. He followed it with a bright left cross that splattered against the big man�s face.

Larkin reeled backward. Guy leaped past him. He knew he had to get away � back to Rome � the hotel.

�Stop!� Larkin yelled, running after him.

Guy stumbled toward the beach across loose sand.

�Halt!� somebody called loudly. �Halt!�

His feet hit the hard-packed sand of the beach. He heard Larkin curse, then two shots. Then another shot.

Guy sprawled flat, panting, and peered back over the edge of a low bank. The motel was flooded with light.

�Got him,� somebody said. �It�s him, all right. He�s covered with her blood. Look at his hands.�

�Oh, Lord!� a woman said. �And I must�ve been right next door when it happened. I knew there was something wrong about them. I heard him beating up on her. I told Howard, I said...�

�All right, lady � move along, now.�

Guy watched, fighting for breath. They hadn�t seen him. But what matter? He had to go up there and search Larkin�s pockets. The negatives would be on Larkin. He had to act fast, because if Larkin were dead, the first thing they would do was search him.

He sobbed to himself as he returned up past the palms, along the other side of the motel. He walked in the entrance, making it real jaunty. People hurried from doorways, moving toward the far end of the motel.

Nearing Janine�s door, he stopped a man.

�What�s up?� Guy said.

�Murder,� the man said. �But they got the killer. Her husband � he�s dead. What a mess!�

He went on. People had formed a circle around the body. It lay in the sand-spurs and dry grass behind the motel. Guy squeezed through the circle until he stood at the inner edge of people.

The patrolman he�d seen out front on the motorcycle knelt beside Larkin�s body. He was a young cop, the bill of his cap glinting above a scowl.

�All right,� the cop said. �Clear it out, now � he�s dead, isn�t that enough?�

A woman said, �Well, I like that!�

The cop turned to a man. �Where�s a phone?�

So far the patrolman hadn�t gone through Larkin�s pockets. There was still time.

He had to have those negatives. He shoved over by the cop, knelt beside him, his heart tightening with panic.

�Who was he?� he asked.

He could have bitten his own tongue off. It would send the cop for Larkin�s wallet.

�Who the hell are you,� the cop said. �What you want?�

Desperation seized him. �Nothing,� he said. His voice was strained. �I was just�� He looked at his hands, standing up. �Just wondering who he was, that�s all.�

The cop stared at him, frowning.

Guy shrugged and backed through the crowd. There was nothing to be done. Larkin had the pictures on him somewhere � or maybe hidden. They would be found. They might even think he, Guy Dennison, had killed Janine.

There was the woman who had looked through the door.

Had she seen him? Could she describe him?

He began to run hack toward the hotel, remembering Rome. Suppose the police looked him up? How could he explain it to Rome?

He ran along the beach, now, running fast.

They would go away, leave tonight. He�d make some excuse to her. Something she would believe.

They would have to leave tonight.

Tomorrow the papers would be full of it. They wouldn�t print the pictures, but the stories would be there. They would fly to New York tonight, and he�d draw all the money out of the bank tomorrow morning. That way he�d have the money � whatever he could get in cash, anyway.

Then let the story burst � damn them.

He would worry about Rome later. She would have her sight back. Maybe it wouldn�t be so bad. The money, though. That was what counted. He had only hours to achieve the thing. All he had to do was be in New York when the banks opened tomorrow morning.

He really knew fear now.

�You awake, Rome?�

�Yes.�

She had moved when he looked through the connecting doors, rolled over on the bed. The lights were out, but there was enough light from the night outside through the windows to reveal her shape. He had changed into his pajamas, removed the sand he�d carried in onto the rug, washed his face and hands.

�Big rumpus outside,� he said. He would have to tell her some of the truth. His legs were shaky. His breathing was still labored. �Heard a racket. Everybody running down the highway � bell-hop said there was a murder.�

�No!�

�All kinds of excitement. Can�t you sleep?�

�I�m not sleepy, just now.�

Somehow he had to broach the subject of leaving, right away; induce her to see things his way.

�Listen, Rome.� He stepped toward the bed. �I�ve an idea � something I want to ask you.�

�No, Guy. I know what you want to ask.�

He hesitated. �What do you mean?�

�You want us to leave here � tonight. Isn�t that so? I think I understand how your mind works.�

He stared at her through the darkness. A slow finger of sweat trickled from beneath his left arm. He dragged a hand across his face.

His voice was hoarse. �I don�t get you.�

�You get me perfectly, Guy. So damned perfectly.� Her voice rose slightly, became more shrill. �I know about that girl, Guy � Janine Bonney. I know about Larkin. I know she�s lying dead in that motel � murdered.�

�Wait!� He cut her off sharply, moved for the light switch, flipped it on. The room flooded with overhead light. He had to see her, watch her expression.

�Well, Guy?�

It struck him like a brick across the face.

Rome was fully clothed, wearing a dark skirt and blouse, and leather sandals.

There were no bandages on her eyes. No dark glasses � nothing. Just her eyes � big and brown, shining in the light. Blinking at him. Clear and normal.

�Do I startle you, darling?�

He stared at her, more awed than shocked.

�Doctor Allmyre was right,� she said softly, lying there. �I could see fine, the minute I took off the bandages. Really, it was inspiring. Not at all difficult to follow you and the girl down to her motel. Then, I watched you go for the liquor, Guy.�

He heard himself croak, �What are you trying to say?�

She spoke harshly. �I killed her, you fool! I�m strong, you know that. I was a long distance swimmer. My arms are strong! I beat that bitch till she told me where the pictures and negatives were. When I got them, I killed her. I enjoyed every minute of it � every minute!� She ceased, breathing heavily. �I knew all about you. Everything � from the first night you slept with her. I�m not a damned fool, Guy.�

His gaze lowered. He saw the sandy footprints leading across the rug from her private outside door. Just like his had been. Her footprints. It was true.

Her voice was soft now, composed. �I told you no one else would ever have you � that you would never leave me. You never will leave me, not now.�

He whispered. �What are you going to do?�

�Do? Nothing � what should I do?�

�The negatives?�

�They�re my security, Guy � a woman should have security � in case you ever have ideas again. Like wanting me to go swimming, or something like that. Do you think I didn�t know what you wanted to happen? You�re stupid, and obvious, darling � but, of course, I�ll keep you around. It�s old hat, Guy, but � if I die, there�s a certain person who will open a certain envelope. Think about that.�

He kept watching her and she said nothing. It was then he suddenly realized she wasn�t looking straight at him. Her gaze was a shade off to the side. He moved quietly to the right, and she did not move her eyes at all � smiling, now, and staring at a spot of nothing on the wall.

�Rome��

�Yes, Guy?�

Her eyes were vacant, sightless. They looked normal � they looked like eyes. But Rome wasn�t seeing anything. It was a loud scream inside his head; the soap-operas, the TV, the horror of years to come.

He stumbled to the bed, then halted.

She heard the sound of his movement and looked directly at him. Hell tore through him. Those eyes looked so normal � yet...

�I almost have it down pat already,� she said. �Yes, Guy � Allmyre was right. My sight started to fade on the way back here. I lost it completely, just as I reached the door. It lasted quite a while. But I�ll never see again � I know that now. It�s perfectly black out there. But you�re here with me � in the dark, Guy. I�m blind � stone blind.�

He stood there, rooted to the floor like a strange kind of tree. He stared at her mouth, and for the first time noticed that her lipstick was on cockeyed.

�You�ll be my eyes, won�t you, darling?�

He could not speak.

�Guy?�

�What?�

�I know it�s late, but I�m not at all sleepy. I�d like you to read to me. The book�s right there on the nightstand � the one about Alaska. That�s so interesting! Page one hundred, darling. An easy number to remember, but you might have forgotten. If you please?�

He continued to stand there for a time.

Then, slowly, he walked over to the nightstand, picked up the book, and opened it.

The fishing camp was down a rutted dirt road, about five hundred yards off the highway. Marchand had never been there before. It wasn�t quite the way he had visualized it; not rundown and dirty, at all. It was really quite a place, well kept and prosperous looking, and Marchand could see how, living here, having a business like that, a man who wasn�t too ambitious, didn�t want too much out of life, the outdoor type who liked boats and water and people who went in for fishing, could be quite happy with it.

First there was a small, store-like building, with a sign over it that said you could buy all kinds of bait and rent tackle there and that they served food, beer and soft drinks. Behind that, closer to the water, was the house. It was a fairly new, modern looking house, in the $15,000 class. At the lake�s edge there was a small pier and a half dozen trim, freshly painted small boats suitable for rowing or attaching an outboard.

Marchand parked the shiny new Cad Eldorado convertible near the store and settled back comfortably in the seat to wait. He�d gotten out here a little early, about fifteen minutes before Gladys had told him to be there.

In a few minutes a girl came out of the store, walked toward the car. She was barefoot and she wore jeans and a blue work shirt, the tails of it out and tied in a knot in front, baring her midriff and accentuating the most beautiful development Marchand had ever seen on a woman. He could hardly believe his eyes as he watched her walk toward the car. The jeans fitted her long, finely carved legs as though she�d been born in them.

For a moment, Marchand was almost afraid to look at her face. She had to be a hag in the face department, he told himself; there had to be some catch to a girl with a body like that being stuck way out here in the sticks.

But there wasn�t. Under a smartly coiffed cap of sun-glistening, mahogany red, softly waved hair, was the most strikingly beautiful face Marchand had ever seen. The eyes were widely set and unbelievably dark and liquid looking under their long, thick, spiked lashes. The brows were delicately winged. Under a small, saucily tilted nose, her mouth was full and moistly pouting, made for kissing.

Just before she reached the car, she smiled and her teeth were tiny and so even and white the smile almost blinded Marchand. He had had his share of lovely women in his twenty-seven years, showgirls and models some of them, but he�d never had one hit him like this at first sight. He thought it had something to do with the clean, wholesome, unspoiled look about her. Whatever it was, she had him flipping. He felt himself flushing and getting nervous and full in the throat like some silly school boy.

�Hi,� she said. �Mrs. Marchand is still out on the lake but I imagine they�ll be in pretty soon. You can wait out here or come on inside, if you like and have some coffee or a beer or something.� Her voice was low and throaty, yet completely feminine.

Somehow, Marchand got words out without stammering, without his voice breaking with emotion; he never knew how.

�So you�re a mind reader, as well as being beautiful,� he said.

She laughed. �Not exactly. I recognized the car.� She was close to it now and she trailed her fingers, lightly, lovingly along the glittering chrome trim. �How could I miss?�

�You like this buggy, huh?�

She shook her head, wonderingly. �It�s almost too much to believe that people own things like this.� Then she looked up at him. �I didn�t know Mrs. Marchand had a son.�

�She doesn�t.� He grinned crookedly at her. �I happen to be her husband.�

�Oh!� She looked quickly away, flustered. �I... I�m sorry.�

�Forget it. It happens all the time. It�s what I get for marrying a woman almost twice my age.�

�Mrs. Marchand�s very nice,� she said. �She�s sweet.�

�Yeah?�

�Well, I think she is. She�s very nice to us.�

�You old man Foster�s daughter or do you just work here?�

�I�m his daughter. I�m Nila. I�m just home during the summer. I go to State.�

�Oh.�

�Oh, college is all right.�

�Sure, except with a girl like you, it�s a waste of time.�

�What do you mean a girl like me?� her eyes flashed. �Just because my father runs a fishing camp here in Florida doesn�t mean I intend to spend my life here, either, just because he goes for it.�

�I didn�t mean that,� he said. �What I meant was, a girl with your looks doesn�t need a fancy education to make out. You should be in New York or Chicago or L.A., right now, knocking down fifty an hour as a model, maybe working in TV, even the movies.�

�Uh-huh,� she said. �Listen, Mr. Marchand, girls with good features and a nice shape are a dime a dozen in those places. I know what the score is. Maybe if I had a lot of money to pay for a big time photographer for glamor shots, for a press agent, for the works in a high priced beauty salon once a week, for the kind of clothes it takes, for a top voice and drama coach. Without those things it�d be a rat race just like anything else.�

�You shouldn�t have any trouble getting somebody to finance you.�

�That�s a nice, polite word for it,� she said. She saw him staring at the bulging front of her blouse. Her voice froze a little. �You mean somebody like you, Mr. Marchand?�

He looked up at her eyes again. They stared right back at him, steadily, almost defiantly. �Ray,� he said.

�What?�

�My first name. Ray. Never mind the Mr. Marchand bit. I feel old enough, being married to a woman like Gladys, without that.�

�Well, Ray, then,� she said. �I�m sorry, Ray, but sometimes I get a little tired of guys coming in here and giving me the dumb little country girl treatment.�

�Include me out of that group. I wasn�t speaking for myself. Hell, Nila, I haven�t got a cent of my own. My wife�s the one with the rocks.�

She started to say something but then, from the lake, there came faintly the sound of an outboard motor. They both looked out toward the lake and saw a boat, about a quarter mile out, heading in.

�Here comes your wife, now. I�ll see you. I�d better get back inside. My father likes to have hot coffee waiting for him when he gets back.�

He watched her walk away from the car. The view was even better from the back. Because the swing of her full-rounded, tight-jeaned hips was natural and not overdone, it was twice as provocative. Watching her, Marchand felt his pulse begin to pound and his head felt hot and swollen with the blood beating through it.

�Nila!� he called out.

She stopped and half turned around, the partway twist of her body accentuating its ripely curved beauty.

�I�ll be out here again,� he told her. �I think I could get to like this fishing routine. I�d need a guide to take me out in a boat, though; I�m a real square landlubber. You ever available?�

�Sometimes,� she said and went on into the store.

Through the windshield of the car he watched his wife, Gladys, and old man Foster, who owned the camp, tie-up the boat. Then Gladys, carrying a string of several bass, all of them over three pounds, and a couple of plump crappies, walked up from the dock. Behind her, carrying the outboard motor, was Pops Foster.

They made a good pair, those two, Marchand decided, his wife, a little plumpish but generally well preserved for a woman in her fifties and Foster, about the same age but not looking it with his big, lean, rawboned body; except for the iron gray hair at the temples and a ruggedly lined face. He watched Gladys look back at Foster and jabber something so that both of them laughed.

�What the hell have they got to be so damned happy about?� he asked. �Two thirds of their dull lives already shot and they gambol about, yakking and yokking it up like school kids. Just because they�ve been out in a dinky boat for a few hours, throwing out a silly plug and reeling it in; out and in and if they�re lucky, a couple of stupid, slimy, smelly fish get suckered into snapping at the thing? Is that it? I don�t get it... Now, maybe a fishing party, out on the Gulf, in a fifty foot cabin cruiser, with lots of good booze and a couple of dollies along...�

Gladys came up to the car and said, �Hi, Sweetie,� and took the fish around to put in the trunk compartment. Then she came back and got into the car next to him.

�Been waiting long?� she said.

�Hours,� he lied.

�I�m sorry. I didn�t realize we were late, but Floyd � Mr. Foster � he got to telling me about going for muskies up in Michigan and the time just went by.�

She leaned toward him, one hand on his shoulder, her lips puckered. �You were sweet to get the car fixed and run out here for me. Give Momma a kiss.�

He was looking past her bent-forward head toward the Fishing Camp store and he saw Nila standing there talking to her father, only Nila was looking toward the car, at him and Gladys and she could see inside, he knew.

�Oh, come on,� he told Gladys. �Act your age, will you?�

She looked up and saw the direction of his gaze and turned and looked the same way. �Oh, I see,� she said. �You�ve met Nila. Cute-looking child, isn�t she?�

�Yes,� he said. �She�s a walking, breathing doll. She�s got me nuts, just looking at her.�

Gladys laughed, heartily. �You!� she said. �I should have known you�d really go for that. I meant to tell you about her and watch you come out here, sniffing around, just for kicks.�

�What do you mean?�

�Look, Buster, Nila Foster isn�t one of those Tampa B-girls or peelers you�re so fond of. You not only wouldn�t get to first base; you wouldn�t even get a turn at bat, with her. That�s strictly hands off, honey, if I�ve ever seen it and it�s going to stay that way until some court clerk hands her the piece of paper that gives her the right to some guy�s name.�

�Is that so? You know what I think, Gladys?� he said. She was getting under his skin so that he had to control his voice. �I think you�re just trying to discourage me because you�re afraid I might really go for something like that. Then you�d lose me.�

Gladys stretched her plumpish, dungareed legs out under the dash and lit a cigarette. She blew smoke. �Ray,� she said, �I thought we understood each other better than that. I couldn�t lose you for a million babes like Nila; not for more than an hour at a time. You know why, don�t you?�

�No, I don�t. I know that you think you know why. How do you know I�m not sick and tired of being a rich old woman�s husband? How do you know I don�t want out?�

�Now, Ray, dear,� she said, as though reproving a child. �You know not many things make me sore, but you�re starting to get close. How would you like your allowance cut off for a week again?�

He told her what she could do with her allowance and smashed down on the gas pedal. The big Cad leaped forward like a live thing. In no time the speedometer was registering over ninety.

Sitting a little rigidly, now, Gladys said: �Wouldn�t it be nice and convenient for you if we had an accident at this speed? That is, if I were the only one killed.�

Gradually he slowed the car and neither of them said anything for a while. Then Gladys said: �Okay, honey, you win. I feel too good to fight, any more. Maybe you�re right and you�ll bowl Nila right over with your beautiful looks and flashy line. Okay?�

He didn�t say anything.

�Only I still doubt it,� she went on, �because if the old man even catches you sniffing around her, he�ll kill you. He�s already thrown a drunk fisherman who asked Nila for a date, into the lake. Anyhow, she�s the serious type, honey, not interested in just a fast hassle. It would take too much of your time.�

He still didn�t answer.

�But give a whirl, doll, if it�ll make you happy,� she said. �You know me, not a jealous bone in my big old body and, anyhow, we had it understood that you could have your little outside parties, so long as you�re discreet and don�t get too serious about anyone. Okay?�

There was no answer. Marchand didn�t speak again all the way home. When they got to the house, he left the car in the drive and got out, without waiting for Gladys and went on inside by himself. He went straight to the room that had been turned over to him as a studio. He set up a clean canvas. For a number of hours he painted furiously, without stopping. When he finished, exhausted, he stepped back and examined what he had done. It was a rough but effective full length portrait of Nila Foster, as he had last seen her, half turned around to look back at him.

He saw immediately that he�d captured some alive quality that he�d never been able to put on canvas before. At the same time that it awed him a little, it brought out all the fury and frustration in him.

�Christ, what�s the matter with me?� he said. �Blowing my stack over some dumb kid in a hick fishing camp!�

He slapped a brush into the oils and started splashing paint haphazardly over the portrait until it was obliterated. Then he went over and flung himself face down on the studio couch, breathing as though he�d just run a long, long way.

He lay there, thinking about Nila and the things Gladys had told him about her and the way it was with him and Gladys.

When he�d married her three years before, Gladys had been considered a hopeless alcoholic. He figured he had it made. In a few years she�d either drink herself to death or fall, have some kind of an accident and he�d be set for life. Even if it took ten years, he figured he could stand it. Then a crazy thing happened, as it sometimes does with alcoholics. She just quit drinking. Nothing spectacular happened to make her do it; she just suddenly seemed to wake up to what she was doing to herself and decided it was ridiculous. She had a little trouble sticking with it the first year but after that it didn�t seem to bother her at all. It only bothered Marchand.

Then, a year ago, they�d come to Florida for a vacation and Gladys had fallen in love with the place and they�d settled here permanently and she�d gone off on this outdoor life, fresh water fishing kick. It didn�t bother her that Marchand didn�t share her enthusiasm. He had his painting, she said.

That was another thing. Marchand had thought that with financial security, not having to worry about working for a living, being able to devote full time to it that he�d develop the real talent he was certain he had. But that hadn�t happened. If anything, his work deteriorated, became even less imaginative.

He lay there thinking about that and how different it would be, with a woman like Nila Foster. When he awoke, it was morning...

At three o�clock that next afternoon, he could no longer stand it. Gladys was going into town to shop and Marchand got out his Corvette and headed out for Foster�s Fishing Camp. Before he could get out of the car, Nila saw him and came out of the store. He watched her walk toward him. Today, she was wearing a dress, a summer cotton frock that was even more maddening than the outfit she�d worn the day before, though it only hinted at, instead of displaying, the lushness of her figure.

�I told you I�d be back,� he said.

She acted flustered, almost scared. �What is it?� she said. �Why are you here?�

He raised his brows in surprise. �Why, to see you of course. Why else?�

She glanced behind her, out over the lake. �Listen, my father knows you�re a married man and your wife�s one of his best customers. You�d better get out of here.�

�Where is he?�

�Out on the lake, around the bend, netting minnows. But he�s liable to come back any minute.�

He grinned. �What are you so upset about? I just tell him I want to go fishing and I want you as a guide and I�ve come to make an appointment.�

�Are you crazy?� she said. �He wouldn�t let me go out on that lake with a strange man.�

�Oh, come on, honey. You�re over twenty-one, aren�t you? How eighteenth century can you get?�

�You don�t know my father.�

�From what you�re telling me I don�t even want to.�

She glanced apprehensively over her shoulder again. She stamped her foot petulantly. �Will you please go away. Please. Right now, before you get me into trouble.� She sounded close to crying.

He reached out of the car and caught her wrist. She tried to yank it away once and then let it stay in his grasp. Her flesh felt very smooth and warm and through his fingertips he could feel her pulse racing.

�There�s got to be some time I can see you. When he isn�t here, maybe? He can�t be here all the time.�

She shook her head, frantically and tried to pull free from his grip again. Then, her voice desperate, she said: �If I tell you, will you go, now?�

�Sure.�

�Well, Mondays. Mondays there isn�t much business anyway, after the weekend and we close down. He has a man come in to clean the boats and the dock, work on the motors and he usually goes into town to buy new equipment. Come back Monday.�

He let her wrist slip from his hand, then and without another word, without looking at him again, she turned and ran back to the store, disappeared inside.

Trembling, his heart pumping as though after some great exertion, Marchand somehow managed to start up the car and swing around and drive back to the highway. All the way home he sang into the wind rushing past the windshield of the sports car, at the top of his lungs. He hadn�t done anything like that since he was a kid of sixteen.

That night for the first time in months he was really, genuinely pleasant with Gladys. He took her out to dinner and then to a movie in town. He didn�t see much of the movie, though. He kept thinking about Nila, what it was going to be like with her; he kept going over every wonderful, delightful detail of what it was going to be like, again and again...

The coming Monday, it wasn�t anything like he had dreamed it would be. It was the worst day he�d ever spent in his life, for a while.

She was there, all right, and her father wasn�t. The only other person at the Camp was a Negro, working on the boats and Nila told Marchand not to worry about him, that he couldn�t get her in trouble with her father because the Negro was deaf and dumb.

She was wearing white sharkskin shorts, the kind, buckled at the sides so tightly that the edge of the material bites into the flesh and so snug all around that a man wonders how the girl ever got into them and why they don�t split with her slightest movement. And for the first time Marchand really saw her legs. They were tanned not too darkly, so that they looked burnt but were the color of a Malayan woman�s. The thighs and calves were in perfect proportion. No muscles or tendons showed and yet there was not the slightest flabbiness either; just taut-skinned fullness, roundness. Her waist was so tiny it cut in sharply from the arch of her hips.

The first moment he looked at her that day, Marchand just stood there shaking his head, an awed expression on his face. She gave a short, slightly self-conscious laugh but he knew that his obvious admiration pleased her.

For a few moments they talked the meaningless, fencing, preliminary small-talk of strangers and then Nila said: �We can go out in a boat, if you�d like. I�ve figured out a way so that we won�t be caught even if my father should come back a little early.�

�Swell,� Marchand said. �What�s the bit?�

She told him that at the far end of the lake there was a small strip of beach to land a boat and a path leading from it to a side road. She had already towed a boat up there and left it. Now, if they drove up to that path in Marchand�s car, when he was ready to leave, she�d drop him off at the strip of beach again and come back alone in the boat. She said that she often went out on the lake alone, when her father was away and he wouldn�t think anything about it.

On the dirt road, near the almost unnoticeable-from-a-distance path that led to the lake, they got out of his Corvette and started through a dense stand of jackpine and punk trees and live oak, dripping with moss. Fallen needles were a soft carpet under their feet and the Florida summer heat was softened to an almost-coolness. Walking behind Nila, Marchand felt as though the two of them, here, were all alone in the world and always had been and would be and the excitement of that was almost unbearable to him.

Several times he stopped her and moved close but it didn�t do him any good. She didn�t make a big routine out of it. She just looked at him, softly and whispered: �No, Ray! Please, no. Please?� And so he let her alone. If anybody had ever told him anything like that could happen, he would have gone into convulsions of laughter.

They went out onto the lake in the boat and just drifted. They were in a large cove cut off from sight from the main part of the lake and the houses and fishing camps around it. There was nothing but the thick, high breeze-waved reeds around the shore and here and there a tangle of dead tree branches reaching gnarled and twisted, out of the water and herons and cranes standing in the shallows, patiently, waiting for minnows. The sun was hot on them but the over-the-water breeze kept them from perspiring. And they sat, she at one end of the boat, he at the other and talked.

He told her about the way it was and had been with himself and Gladys. She told him how it had been very rough for her and her father and it had been only in recent years that they�d had any kind of comforts. Pops Foster had started his camp with a couple of broken down old boats and a crude shanty, with only one room.

�That�s why I�m sticking through college,� she said. �I don�t know how, but I�m going to get a lot of money, somehow, for my father and me. Maybe I�ll marry somebody with money; maybe I�ll figure some way to make it. I might even try it the way you said, Ray, going to New York or California. I�ve been thinking about it since you mentioned it.�

They talked a lot and then came the time when there seemed nothing else to talk about and suddenly he got up and moved to her end of the boat and sat beside her. �Nila,� he said, very quietly, �Why won�t you let me kiss you? You know how bad I want to, don�t you? You know how it is with me, don�t you, how it�s been since the first second I saw you? Girls always do.�

She turned her head away. She didn�t answer.

�It�s the same with you, too, isn�t it?� he said. �Guys know, too... And you want me to kiss you, so why won�t you let me? I�ve never asked before, Nila, but I knew I had to with you. You�ll let me, won�t you?�

�No, Ray,� she said.

�Why not? There isn�t any reason, really, not any good enough reason.�

�Yes, there is. Once I kiss you, Ray, I�ll be finished; you could do anything you wanted to me or with me. I can�t have that. You�re married, Ray. I�ve always done everything all at once and big and for keeps. When I love a man, it�s going to be that way, too. And it can�t be that way with us, Ray, don�t you see?�

�No,� he said. �All I see is that we�ve got to have each other or we�ll both go crazy.�

It became something he couldn�t control then; the hot beautiful nearness of her was too much for him.

She fought him and the strength of her surprised him. It also made him that much more desperate and determined to have her. When both of them fell to the floor of the boat, she stopped struggling quite so hard. Then, a moment later, so suddenly it surprised him, her furious writhing and twisting was no longer against what he was trying to do but with it, helping him.

His head was in her lap and she was finger-combing his thick, touseled black hair. He said: �I don�t know, Nila. I just don�t know. Don�t think I haven�t thought about it, before I met you, even. I�ve wanted out for a long time, now but there just isn�t any way. Sure, I could probably get some kind of a divorce but I wouldn�t get any real loot out of it. I�d be lucky if I even got her to pay the costs. She�s a stubborn old gal and if she got really riled-up, which she would, she�d fight me all the way.�

Nila didn�t say anything.

After a while Marchand said: �I don�t expect you to understand. Anybody who hasn�t really had a lot of money, couldn�t possibly. You don�t know how wonderful it is, honey. Christ, I could never go back to being poor again. Not ever.�

She sighed. �I don�t blame you. I guess I do understand and I wouldn�t want you to, even. If we did it that way, you�d be miserable in a few weeks and then I would, too. Remember I told you I want money, too.�

�Aw, hell,� he said. �We�ll think of something. We�ll work something out.� He reached up to pull her head down to kiss him.

She pulled away. �Will we, Ray? I don�t think so. I think it�s pretty hopeless. I�m not sorry for what happened this afternoon. I�m glad. But it�s not going to happen again. I�m not going to see you any more, Ray. This was crazy and it was wonderful while it was happening, but it�s over now. I mean that.�

He protested, argued, but it did no good. She remained adamant and finally she had to leave and he walked back through the pine-scented, cool, silent woods alone to his car.

The next week was hell for Marchand. He fought it every way he could; he got drunk; he went over to Tampa and blew his whole week�s $400 allowance from Gladys on a whole roomful of B-girls; he fought with Gladys constantly, but none of it did any good. He thought of Nila all the time, when he ate, when he drank, even when he slept. And as Monday came closer, he knew that no matter what, he had to see her again.

Monday afternoon, he drove out to the camp and he almost went insane when he found that Nila wasn�t there. He finally learned, through the gesticulations of the deaf and dumb Negro, working on the boats, that Nila had taken one of them and gone out on the lake. Then, after much futile motioning and trying to convey his idea, unsuccessfully, he finally got through to the Negro that he�d pay him to fix a motor on one of the boats and let him go out. The Negro said no, until he saw the twenty dollar bill Marchand held out.

Marchand found her, lying on the small strip of sandy beach, in the cove, where they�d rendezvoused the week before. She must have heard the sound of the motor coming toward shore, but she never looked up. Even when Marchand beached the boat and walked over to her and kneeled beside her, she didn�t look up. She lay with her eyes closed. She was wearing a strapless black bathing suit, zipped down one side.

Marchand said: �Why weren�t you there, Nila? Why did you do that to me? I almost went crazy when you weren�t there.�

She didn�t answer for a moment and he watched the deep rise and fall of the slopes of her breasts, overflowing the top of the swimsuit, showing an edge of whiteness against the tan. Then she said:

�I was afraid to be there. I guess I knew you�d come and I knew I wouldn�t be able to refuse you, yet I couldn�t see you again.�

�You are seeing me, though. Right now.�

�Yes,� she said. �Even with my eyes closed. The way I�ve been seeing you all week.�

He lowered his face against her throat and fastened on a small pulse beating there. His hand fumbled for and found the zipper of the suit. �Nila, Nila, Nila,� he whispered...

The idea came to him, afterward, when Nila wanted them to go swimming off the little beach and he had to admit to her that he�d never learned to swim. She stared at him, amazed, as though she�d never heard of such a thing. He was a little embarrassed about it. Almost defensively, he said:

�Hell, lots of people can�t, Nila.�

�I suppose,� she said. �I guess I�ve just never met any of them before.�

�You�ve met one other,� he said. �My wife. Gladys can�t swim a stroke, either.�

�She can�t?� Nila said. Then a strange, dreamy look came into her eyes and suddenly she turned her face away. �Oh,� she said. �That was terrible, awful! I... don�t know what�s come over me.�

�What?� he said. �What are you talking about?�

�What I was thinking.� She still couldn�t look at him.

�What was it?�

�About your wife. It � was a terrible thing to think of, Ray, but I... well, I just couldn�t seem to help it. Forget about it, please, will you? I don�t even want to talk about it.�

�Maybe we should talk about it.� He took hold of her shoulders, his fingers digging in. �What were you thinking about Gladys, Nila? Something about the fact that she can�t swim? You were thinking about her going out on the lake, all the time, weren�t you? You were thinking how convenient it would be if something would happen; if a storm would come up and the boat would turn over and sink or something, weren�t you?�

�No, Ray!� she said. �No, no, I wasn�t.�

�Yes, you were.� He was talking almost breathlessly now and his mind seemed to be going wild. He was suddenly full of a weird excitement.

�All right.� She turned back to face him and her lower lip protruded a little, defiantly. �It was wrong, of course, but maybe I was. Maybe I was even wishing it would happen, but it won�t, of course.�

�You mean because your father is always out there in the boat with her. Is that what you mean?�

�Of course. He�s a very powerful swimmer.�

�Yeah,� Marchand said. He turned away from her and began pacing up and down the beach. Then he came back and stood in front of her. �But your father doesn�t have to be out there in the boat with her from now on. Why couldn�t I suddenly decide to take up fishing? Why couldn�t I start going out there in the boat with her?�

She pulled back away from him, her eyes very large and frightened looking, her mouth O�d. �Ray!� she gasped. �What are we talking about? Are we out of our minds or something? We�ve got to stop talking like this.�

�Do we? She could fall out of the boat, couldn�t she? If I happened to rock it at the wrong time or something? The lake is pretty deep, isn�t it, in places?�

She nodded. �Out in the middle, it�s very deep. But this is silly, Ray. It�s just crazy talk. Even if it wasn�t, it would be stupid. It would be so obvious. They�d get you for it, Ray. After all, the circumstances would be suspicious, you so much younger than Gladys and she�s so wealthy. It would look awfully bad, Ray.�

�Why, for Christ�s sake?� he said. �It would be an accident.�

�They�d wonder why you couldn�t save her. You could reach out an oar to her. Then there are those two seat cushions, you know, the ones the law says have to be there, one to a person. They�re life preservers, you know, filled with cork or kapok or something. All you�d have to do would be to throw her one of those.�

�Yeah,� he said. �You�re right, I�m afraid.�

She moved into his arms and she was trembling all over, now. �Ray, Ray, we�ve got to stop this. We can�t do anything like that and you know it. You know it!�

�Wait a minute,� he said. �The life preservers, those cushions. You�ve given me the answer.�

She looked up at him, her eyes still frightened.

�Don�t you see, honey,� he said. �It�s a natural. I don�t push her, at all. The boat tips over. I tip it. But before I do, I get hold of her cushion, as well as my own, on some pretext. When we�re both in the water, I�ll shove the boat away so she can�t hold onto it. I�ll have both cushions... Later, I�ll tell them that one of the cushions just floated out of reach when the boat tipped over. I�ll tell them I tried to get to her but she went down before I could reach her. With me not being able to swim, either, it�s a natural. That day, before we go out, I�ll make some kidding remark to your father about neither one of us being able to swim.�

She pressed her whole body against him, now, her fingernails digging into his shoulder blades. �Oh, no, Ray, no!� she whispered. �Please, no, Ray. Stop it! Stop it!�

�Stop it?� He felt filled with a vicious, terrible exhilaration, the way he imagined it would feel to be soaring on some narcotic. �You can�t stop something like this, Nila. It was meant to be � the whole thing. Don�t you see?�

�No,� she said again but there was less spirit in the protest, this time.

�Nila, you know how much she�s worth?�

She shook her head.

�Over three quarters of a million dollars. Do you have any idea what it�s like to have that kind of money?�

�But � would you get it, Ray, if��

�Of course. She has no living relatives, not even distant ones. And she�s never made a will. Her lawyer�s got after her about it a number of times but she just treats it as a joke. She says she�s nowhere near ready to die. You don�t know her. She won�t even admit to herself that she�s beginning to get old. Not seriously.�

�You�d never get away with it, Ray.�

�You�re crazy; it can�t miss. Now I�m on the right track, all the little pieces are beginning to fall into place. You�ll be on shore, watching that day. You�ll see the whole thing. She stood up, we�ll tell them and leaned over too far, to pull in a fish and, when she lost her balance, started to fall, she grabbed the edge of the boat and capsized it.�

�It�ll still look funny, Ray. I mean, you�re suddenly going out with her like that, when you�ve never cared anything about fishing.�

�I�ve thought of that, too, Nila. That�s easy. It won�t happen the first time I go out with her. Sure, I�ll suddenly decide to take up fishing, to be more companionable to my wife, but what�s wrong with that? Especially if the accident doesn�t happen until we�ve already been out on the lake together three or four times. We�ll make it the fourth trip, definitely.�

�But suppose, even though you do go out with her, fishing, she still insists on taking my father along as a guide?�

�All right. If she wants him to go along the first time or two, okay. I let him. But then I just tell her I don�t want him along any more; I just want the two of us to be alone for a change.�

She rubbed her mouth softly against his shoulder. �I don�t know, Ray. It�s such a horrible thing to do, to even think about.�

�Look,� he told her. �Dreaming about getting rich, getting that kind of money by working hard for it, through a lucky break or something, is kid stuff. It�s pipe-dream stuff. It never happens. You�ve got to have the guts and cold nerve to pull something big, to go after the money, to let nothing stop you. You think we�ll ever get it any other way � either of us?�

She stepped back away from him and closed her eyes and put the back of her hand against her forehead.

�All right, Ray. All right. But don�t let�s talk about it any more. I feel a little sick and my head�s starting to hurt. We can�t rush right into it, anyhow. Let�s think it over for a week.�

�All right, honey,� he said. He smiled, faintly. He was pretty sure he�d sold her. Any thinking she did about it from now on, would be the right way.

That night he started right in, priming Gladys, so that she wouldn�t be suspicious, later. He bought a paperback book about fresh water angling, at a drug store. He asked Gladys a lot of questions about the sport.

She looked at him curiously, said: �What�s the pitch, lover? This is out of character for you.�

�Maybe I�m just getting smart,� he said. �I�ve been thinking a lot about it. I figure there must be something to this fishing gimmick, so many millions of people seem to get a charge out of it. I don�t want to miss anything, but how�ll I know, if I don�t look into it a little.�

She shook her head, wonderingly. �For the first time since I met you, you really surprise me; you�ve caught me off guard. Well, you won�t last long at it, that�s one sure thing. You just aren�t the type, Handsome � even though there isn�t supposed to be any type.�

�Well, I figure a little sunshine and fresh air and mild exercise might be good for me, too. I feel pretty edgy and kind of rundown, these days. No interest in anything, even my painting, you know. Maybe it would be like a kind of therapy.�

�Maybe,� she said. �You�ll try it once, probably, and that�ll be it.�

Two days later, Marchand went fishing with his wife. Gladys bought a spinning outfit and some plugs for him from Nila, in the little store. Nila scarcely looked at him, all the time and he knew for sure, then, that she was going along with him.

Pops Foster went out with them, that first time. Marchand was surprised to find that he was a likeable old guy, who knew how to handle a boat and seemed to have an uncanny instinct about where they�d find fish. He had a laconic, dry sense of humor, too, Marchand learned and seemed to be surprisingly intelligent in a shrewd, native sort of way. Following Foster�s advice, carefully, Marchand landed his first fish, a three and a half pound bass, on his fourth cast. In a little less than three hours they had taken their limit and in spite of himself, Marchand was excited and happy about the expedition. He didn�t have to fake it.

On the way back, Foster watched Marchand examining the catch and said: �Reckon the bug�s bitten your mister pretty hard, Miz Marchand. You probably won�t be able to keep him away from the lake, from now on.�

Gladys chuckled. �If I hadn�t seen it, I wouldn�t have believed it. But the real test�ll be when we spend a few hours out here some day, one of those bad days, and don�t even get a strike. That separates the men from the ribbon clerks in this sport.�

Marchand just grinned at them.

That night, in bed, he thought about all that had happened. But by then he�d forgotten the excitement of the sport, itself. Another, greater excitement seized him. The first big step had been taken. And both Gladys and old man Foster had been sold on his enthusiasm. There would be no cause for suspicion on that score. He wished he could see Nila alone for five minutes, just to tell her how well it was going. But he knew that wouldn�t be wise. It would be best to stay completely away from her from now until it was all over and probably even for some time after that. It might even be best if they waited until the end of the summer and she started back to College, before he saw her again. It would probably look bad for him to go back to the lake where his wife had drowned. Just thinking about waiting that long before he could hold Nila�s hot young writhing body close to his own again almost made him sick; made him feel empty and depressed. But he would have to be patient.

Two days later, Gladys was ready to go fishing again. She didn�t seem surprised that Marchand volunteered to go with her.

She just shrugged and said: �After today, you�ll probably have had it. We probably won�t have much luck. There�s quite a wind and the lake will be plenty choppy. But we�ll see.�

They got out to Foster�s camp about three o�clock in the afternoon. There was no sun; the sky was completely overcast and a stiff wind was blowing off the lake. On the way out, Marchand had suggested that this time they go out alone. He said that he wanted to see what he could do by himself, without a guide supervising his every move. Gladys didn�t seem too surprised and offered almost no protest.

Both old man Foster and his daughter, Nila, were on the dock, when Marchand and his wife shoved off, with Gladys sitting in the stern, operating the outboard. Just before they did so, Gladys shouted over the roar of the motor: �Floyd, keep your fingers crossed that we don�t run into a snag and bust a hole in this scow. Neither one of us can swim, you know.�

Floyd Foster showed his big strong teeth in a grin and shouted back: �You won�t be in any danger. A lot of the lake is shallow. Anyhow, you�ve got those cushion life preservers.�

Then the motor roared louder and they eased away from the dock. Gladys increased throttle as they cleared the narrow canal leading into the dock and got out onto the lake proper. Out on the water the wind was stiffer than ever and as the 15 horse motor revved up to full speed, the lake�s choppy whitecaps slapped viciously against the raised prow, as though determined to pound the little craft to pieces.

When Marchand saw that instead of following the shore line toward one of the coves where they�d fished the last time, Gladys was heading straight out toward the deep center of the lake, his heart began to wallop crazily against his ribs.

Cupping his hands about his mouth to be heard over the shriek of the wind and the roar of the motor, he shouted: �Where are we going?�

�Out in the middle,� Gladys shouted back. �When it�s windy and choppy like this, the fish often stay out in deep water. We�ll give it a try out there for half an hour, anyhow, using deep-running plugs. Okay?�

He shook his head. The excitement in him was beginning to get unbearable. Everything was setting it up for today. If he had the nerve to take advantage of it, he wouldn�t have to wait for two more trips. It could be today. He remembered Gladys� remark to Foster about them not being able to swim. She was steering. Foster would remember that, tell the police that, so they�d know it was Gladys� idea to go out into the deep middle of the water. It was made to order for him, today. All he had to do now was find the final courage to go through with it.

In another few minutes, they were in dead center of the lake and Gladys cut the motor. When they drifted to a stop, heading into the wind, Gladys threw out the stern anchor.

�Hurry up and get that bow anchor in, too, honey-bunch,� she told Marchand. �So we won�t keep swinging around.�

He watched her, standing up there in the stern, leaning way over, easing the heavy anchor down into the water. Something inside of him, shouted: �Now! Now! You�ve got a perfect opportunity and the longer you wait the more lively you are to lose your nerve. A thing like this, you do fast, at the first big chance and the less thinking about it, the better.�

Then he glanced back toward the shore and his heart felt as though it had dropped into his stomach. Two figures were still standing on the dock, watching them out here. Nila and her father. They would both see what he did if he did it now. He couldn�t do it, now.

�Goddamn that old goat,� he thought. �Why can�t he stop gawping and go back about his business?�

Angrily, he reached down and picked up the chained cinder-block that was used as the bow anchor, squatting a little, to put the strain of the weight on his legs instead of his back. He didn�t ease the anchor into the water the way Gladys had. In his temper, he heaved it in with a great splash that sloughed water over him and into the boat. At the same time, the effort to heave the heavy block and the sudden release of its weight, made him lurch, almost lose his balance. He had just recovered it and was about to turn around when he felt something digging into the small of his back. He twisted his head, yelling in protest.

Unbelievingly, he saw Gladys holding an oar, the blade of which she�d set against the middle of his spine and now her face was twisted partly in an evil grin and partly from the strain of her effort as she shoved against the oar with all her might.

Marchand felt himself being thrust ludicrously off balance, his arms, flailing. He felt the sound of his own screaming being whipped away from his mouth by the strong wind as he went headlong over the side of the boat.

Just before he hit the water, he twisted and saw Gladys still standing in the boat, clutching one of the cushion life preservers against her chest and hurling the other one out of the boat on the opposite side from him.

He hit the water and had a momentary surprised awareness that it wasn�t cold; it was actually luke warm, near the surface. He went under and a quantity of the brackish tasting water rushed into his mouth before he could close it, choking him, making his eyes feel as though they would pop. He thrashed violently and finally surfaced. When his head broke into the air, he coughed out water and tried to gulp in air. He was looking squarely at the boat, swung around so that it was almost ten yards away from him, now and saw Gladys, holding the cushion-preserver against her chest with one hand and clutching the gunwale of the small boat with the other, while she stood, furiously rocking the boat, trying to capsize it. Marchand was starting to go down again, when he saw the boat go over, saw Gladys pitch into the water, still clutching the life preserver, a good twenty feet away from him.

As Marchand started to sink again, he flailed frantically, trying to force himself toward her. But the effort only made him seem to sink faster.

The last thing Marchand thought was what a prize fish he had been. Just like a stupid, greedy, unsuspecting bass, he�d gone for the lure they�d thrown in front of him � Nila. And now that it was too late, Marchand could see how a woman like Gladys could get tired of him and fall for a man like Floyd Foster, her own age, her own type.

The fact that he knew now, for sure, that Nila had been in on it from the first moment, had suckered him so beautifully from beginning to end, was a blow so sickening that he almost welcomed the big, swelling, swelling blackness that was filling his head to bursting.

I was back in New York City, back in Greenwich Village, and nothing seemed to have changed in the quiet street where I had lived. None of the old houses had been torn down to make room for sleek apartment buildings. At the corner the cluttered Italian grocery still defied the supermarkets, and a few doors farther Ritchie�s restaurant lingered on in its basement.

I paused at Ritchie�s to peer into one of the barred windows jutting up above the sidewalk. It was early afternoon and the sun was bright, but inside was perpetual gloom, and the candles stuck into wax-encrusted bottles on the wooden tables were lit. Perhaps the same bottles, grown fat with their wax drippings in the ten years since I used to bring Eve here for antipasto and very dry wine.

I crossed the street. That was no longer easy to do. I had to sidle between parked cars. This, then, was the big change in the street and, in a way, in our civilization � the number of cars. In my time, few of us in Greenwich Village had been able to afford a car. Or had needed one or had wanted one. Now both curbs were crammed with those gleaming, chromed, finned monsters. I crossed the street and there was the house in which I had lived.

Its narrow red-brick front had that look of aging gracefully it had had for most of its sixty or seventy years. And as if I had been away for no more than a day, George, the janitor, sat on the stoop lighting his corncob pipe.

The same pipe, perhaps. The same wizened face. Except that the wispy hair had completely disappeared at the top and the rest had turned gray.

�Hello, George,� I said.

His hand froze above the bowl of the pipe, and a breeze blew the match out.

�You look like...� he said. �You ain�t...�

�I am,� I said.

He struck another match. This time he got his light. He puffed, never taking his eyes from me, and after a minute he said, �I thought you was up for life.�

�I suppose they figured that ten years was long enough.� I looked over his head at the front door that had always been white and always dirty. �I�d like my old apartment back, George.�

He sniffed derisively. �You hear of the housing shortage where you were, Mr. Coulter?�

�I�ve heard of it. I�ve also heard that the way to get an apartment is to bribe the superintendent.�

I was flattering him. He was a janitor, that was all, of this house and several others on the street. But he would have influence with the landlord.

�People live there,� he said. �A writer and his missus.�

�Has he money?�

�Writers,� he sneered. �Like artists. Always broke.�

That was a dig at me, that mention of artists.

�If I induce them to move,� I said, �can I have the apartment?�

He shrugged. But he rose to his feet and a covetous gleam jumped into his vein-streaked eyes. �Like you said yourself, Mr. Coulter, it will cost you. I don�t guess you got rich up in Sing Sing.�

�As a matter of fact, I did,� I said. �Not exactly rich, but I made a little money. Will two hundred dollars do?�

His manner turned respectful. �Well, now, Mr. Coulter. It�ll make the other tenants nervous having you live here. You know how it is � a man who...� He decided not to put into words what he had been about to say. He ran his tongue around the stem of his pipe and said, �Five hundred bucks. Remember I have to split with the agent.�

He was taking advantage of us, but I had expected that. �Agreed,� I said. �Now to persuade the tenants.� I started up the steps.

�How you gonna do that?� he called after me.

I said, �The same way I did you,� and went into the house.

There were six apartments, two on each floor. As I turned on the second floor landing, a door opened and a chubby little middle-aged woman came out. And again I had that sense of nothing having changed. Here was Louise Livingston Baker, the writer of very minor poetry, coming out of the same door to take a garbage pail down to the basement.

�Hello, Louise,� I said.

She had seen me, but she hadn�t really looked at me. At the sound of my voice, she jumped.

�Carl Coulter!� she whispered like a moan. And she put up the garbage pail as if to ward me off with it and backed toward the door.

I laughed. �I�m not a ghost, Louise.�

But that wasn�t what bothered her. She feared me because I was real. She kept backing toward her door, as if not daring to turn around, and I saw what the years had done to her. She had been a pretty little thing in her early thirties � a fragile Dresden doll type. Now she was plump and worn.

�Alexander!� she croaked, tearing open the door through which she had come.

Her husband appeared behind her. He said, �What�� and she ducked past him, the garbage pail swinging wildly, and he saw me in the hall.

�Hello, Alexander,� I said.

He came out. �Well, Carl,� he said and extended a pudgy hand.

Like his wife, he had put on a lot of weight. Most of his was around his middle. He was a musician � a cellist.

We shook hands and he said, �I�ve been reading about you in the papers � how you�ve been painting in... in��

�Prison. Say it. I�m not sensitive about it.�

He nodded. �And your paintings have been selling,� he went on. �You�ve become famous.�

�Not so very. But I suppose that helped get me out. I got out yesterday.�

�I read that too,� he said. �About the move to have you pardoned.� He looked away from me. �Well, I�m glad,� he muttered.

Past him I saw through the door his wife peering at us.

�Then Louise shouldn�t have been so startled to see me,� I said.

He stood frowning at nothing in particular, and there was a kind of stifling silence. I felt I had to say something, anything. �Are any of the other tenants still here?� I asked.

�Only Louise and I.� Alexander Baker looked up. �We�ve been doing fairly well too. I�m in the orchestra of a musical comedy that�s run three years and may run another. Louise had a book of verse published last winter.�

�Swell,� I said. And then there was no more to be said. �I�ll be seeing you, Alexander.�

I moved past him and started up the second flight of stairs. I felt him stare at my back and then I heard him go into his apartment. Halfway up the stairs I stopped.

Those old walls were thin and those two must have been standing near the door and I heard him say, �What was the matter with you, acting like that? I told you he was being pardoned.�

�I couldn�t help myself,� I heard her reply. �Seeing him suddenly in the hall, as if he�s never been away, I... I became terrified.�

�There�s no real harm in him.�

�Isn�t there?� she said. �Why did he come back? What does he want?�

�A compulsion, maybe,� Alexander said grimly. I continued up the stairs and went to the door at the rear. There I hesitated, listening to a typewriter clicking beyond the door. I had an impulse to turn and dash down the stairs and out to the street and never return. But that other impulse, the one that had brought me here, was stronger. I knocked.

A young woman opened the door. She was tall and slender, the way they grew them these days. Her hair was cut as if with an ax, which seemed to be the fashion, and she wore dungarees.

�Yes?� she said.

I looked past her. A young man was sitting at a typewriter. His hair was touseled and he had a harrassed expression and he also wore dungarees. A writer, George had said, though this studio apartment was better for an artist. He had stopped typing and was staring my way.

�What is it?� she said to me.

I roused. It was, as I had known it would be, a shock to be back here.

�I have a business proposition to discuss with you and your husband.�

�A salesman?� she said suspiciously.

�Not at all. I want to oiler you a thousand dollars to move out of this apartment.�

The young man rose from his typewriter and joined his wife at the door. �Did I hear you say a thousand dollars?�

�You did. May I come in and discuss my offer?�

�You bet!� he said.

I stepped into the room. That was what the apartment really was, a single large studio room, plus a bathroom and a kitchenette that occupied a shallow indentation in a wall and had no door. It was the same and not the same. The furniture was shabbier and the walls needed a coat of paint.

I kept my eyes away from that part of the room where at the high, wide north window I used to work and Eve used to pose for me.

�Let�s see if I follow you,� he was saying. �You�ll pay us a thousand dollars to move out of here?�

�Yes.�

�Why?�

�I�m an artist,� I said. �I lived here many years ago. For personal reasons I�d like to live here again.�

They looked at each other. I could see that he, at any rate, was greatly tempted. But she, it turned out, was the practical one of the family.

�Where could we find another apartment?� she said. �And it�s so expensive to move.�

�Very well,� I said. �Two thousand.�

I should have been more devious. Obviously he was ready to jump at my offer, but the way I had doubled the amount so quickly started something turning in her head. She put a hand on his arm to restrain him and watched my face. Then, as if a mechanism clicked, her eyes got wide.

�An artist,� she said. �What�s your name?�

If I did not tell them my name, George would, soon enough. They would find out no matter what. I hoped it would mean nothing to them.

�Carl Coulter,� I said.

She did not quite cringe away from me, but I think she would have if we had been alone together. Her hand tightened on her husband�s arm and something like horror spread in both their faces.

They knew, of course. George would have told all the tenants who had lived in this building after me. And Alexander and Louise Baker would have talked about it, too. For ten years it would have been a conversation piece among the tenants.

An artist used to live in the third floor rear studio. One afternoon he raped a model who was posing for him in the nude and then strangled her. His name�s Carl Coulter and he�s serving a life sentence in Sing Sing.

Those the bare outlines, and then the embellishments, repeated over and over throughout the years, told especially with gruesome relish to whoever occupied this apartment. And so these two young people now looked at me in a way that made me want to run and hide.

But I would not be deterred from what I had to do.

�Two thousand dollars,� I repeated.

The girl recovered. She even smiled a little.

�We�ll move for five thousand dollars,� she said.

She was the practical one of the two, all right. She guessed what demon was riding men and was out to cash in on her guess. I would have given her all she demanded � what did money mean?���but my funds were limited. So we haggled, my demon against her greed, and I think her husband was ashamed at profiting so greatly from a fellow man�s agony. He stood by morose and uneasy, saying nothing, while the girl and I came to terms. Thirty-five hundred dollars.

That settled, I made myself turn to the north window.

There on the floor, in the clean, sharp afternoon light, I had seen Eve for the last time, lying naked and broken and dead, and the marks of her fingernails had been on my hands and arms.

Ten years ago. But in a way it had started almost a year before that.

I was a high school art teacher in my home town in Indiana. I remember how I hated the job of trying to pound the essentials of perspective into bored young heads. I was a creator, not a teacher; I wanted to devote myself wholly to painting. My chance came when an aunt died and left me three thousand dollars. Not a fortune, but in the late 1940�s enough to live on for a year in reasonable comfort. So when the school term ended, I came east to New York.

I was twenty-six years old.

I worked hard and well in that top floor studio apartment in that faded red-brick house in Greenwich Village. And Andre Mierhof became interested in my paintings.

Andre Mierhof was an art dealer who liked to say that his business was investing in the future of young talent. His midtown gallery showed some of the best of the newcomers. Now and then he displayed one or two of my canvases. Not that he sold anything of mine.

Anyway, not that year.

�Have patience,� he used to tell me. He was a bean-pole of a man, with a purr in his voice and the suave manners of a... well, of an art dealer. �Sales may not come for years, or in your lifetime, or at all. An artist who is worth his salt paints because he has to. For the rest, he must have patience that may have to last forever.�

I had patience, but only a year�s worth. After that my money would be gone.

So I worked and had little time and thought for anything else. Including women. The only friends I made were the Bakers who lived in the apartment below.

Alexander Baker was an unsmiling, prematurely bald man in his middle thirties. He was a first-rate cellist who was not quite a genius, so he had to settle for any orchestra job he could get. Louise Livingston Baker was a fragile, twittering little woman who wrote sticky poetry about nature that was sometimes printed in the women�s magazines. I refer to her by all three of her names because she always did, even when she wasn�t signing it to a poem. As for Alexander, he was always called that, by her and everybody else � never Al or Alex, but the whole works. What I�m getting at is that they were rather stuffy people.

But I remember liking them well enough. My other neighbors were mostly faceless people for whom I had casual hellos on the stairs. The Bakers I would drop in on quite often, and two or three times a week Alexander would come up to my apartment to play chess.

Nine months of my year passed. I had arrived in New York the first week in July. Early in April Eve Staub came to my studio.

I remember it had rained that morning and had stopped in the afternoon and there was a clean freshness in the air that made you throw the windows open wide. I heard voices muttering outside my door and then there was a knock. George, the janitor, stood outside with a strange girl.

�Did you hire a model, Mr. Coulter?� he asked.

�No.�

The girl said, �The name Coulter sounds familiar, though I�m not sure that was the name on the slip of paper.�

She was young, hardly in her twenties, and quite pretty. That made her unusual as an artist�s model; few of them had any looks to speak of.

�What slip of paper?� I said.

�Mr. Mierhof wrote the name and address of an artist down for me. I lost the paper. I remembered the address but not the name.�

I laughed. �That�s Andre, all right, sending me a model without letting me know.�

�Then you don�t want me?� She was clearly disappointed.

�Of course I do.� There was something about her, a kind of wistfulness as she stood in the hall in flat heels and a short leather jacket, that made me very much want to paint her. Andre Mierhof, who knew everything, had known that she would have a special appeal for me. �Come in,� I said.

She took a few steps into the room and stopped and looked at paintings of mine on the walls. Some of them were nudes.

I turned to close the door, and George was leaning in and staring slack-faced at the nudes. Then he looked at the girl, and I could see his eyes imagining her posing for me, and he licked his lower lip.

I said, �Thanks for bringing her up, George,� and shut the door in his face.

The girl stood with her hands still in the pockets of her jacket. I asked her name and she told me it was Eve Staub, and I remember how she continued to stand there motionless as if waiting for something to happen.

�You can undress in the bathroom,� I told her. �There�s a robe on a hook.�

�You want me to pose in the nude?� she said.

�I would prefer it.�

She turned abruptly, but she moved slowly to the bathroom. I went to my easel and removed the canvas on which I had been painting a still life of flowers in a vase and tacked on sketch paper. I was all set for her when she came out in the blue-and-white flowered silk robe I had for models. She seemed to hesitate outside the bathroom door, then came toward me on bare feet with her head down.

�Please stand on that rug,� I said. �Assume any pose that occurs to you. I want to start with preliminary sketches.�

She stepped on the rug and stood approximately in the pose of a soldier at attention.

�Your robe,� I reminded her.

She muttered, �Of course,� and fumbled open the sash. Then she turned her head and seemed to be looking at something outside the window as she pulled the robe down over her shoulders and out of the arms and let it drop to the floor. She had a beautiful body, young and firm, every line of it clean and concise.

I sketched rapidly. I tore off the top sheet and scowled at it. She was too rigid and maybe too beautiful. I had made her seem as sleek and superficial as a woman in a beer advertisement.

�You�re not relaxed,� I told her.

�What do you want me to do?�

�Relax. Put one hand on your hair and the other on your hip. That�s a corny pose, but it may loosen you up. You�re�� I broke off as something occurred to me. �Is this the first time you�ve ever posed?�

�I�ve posed many times.�

�In the nude?�

�Oh, yes. At the Art Students� League. But lately they haven�t had much work for me. I�m lucky when I get a class a week.� She flushed. �The truth is I never posed like this for just one person.�

�Is there any difference between posing for a whole class and posing for me?�

�I guess there shouldn�t be.� She lowered her eyes � a very demure nude. �But I guess there is. When there�s a whole roomful of artists, it�s somehow more impersonal.�

�Look,� I said. �The relationship of artist and model is strictly impersonal no matter what the setting. You ought to know that.�

�Oh, I do.�

�Then why are you afraid of me?�

�I�m not afraid. Not really.�

�Just a little shy?�

She smiled, and she had a wonderful smile, with a lot of wistfulness in it. �I�m sure I�ll be all right now,� she said.

I resumed sketching.

After I had done a half a dozen sketches, she put on the robe and we had a break for tea. As we sat at the table, she told me a little about herself. She was a senior at New York University. She lived in Brooklyn with her parents. Her father was a garment cutter who was sacrificing greatly to send her through college. Several months ago she had started to pose at the League to earn some money on her own.

We returned to work for another hour. When she had dressed, I paid her the two dollars for the two hours.

�Will you come again tomorrow?� I said.

�I don�t think I can. I have a late class.�

�Can�t you find a couple of hours? I�m anxious to get started on an oil portrait.�

She considered and then said, �I can be here at seven-thirty and walk over to the school for my ten o�clock class. Will that be too early for you?�

�Not at all.�

I accompanied Eve to the door and she gave me her wistful smile and left.

I remember how afterward I sat down with the sketches I had done of her and looked at them for a long time. I was deciding on a pose for the oil portrait I would start tomorrow. But that wasn�t the only reason I looked at the sketches. I was looking at her.

That was the beginning, and from there on the end rushed at us.

There was hardly a day that Eve did not pose for me for a couple of hours and often longer. She never came on Sundays, so Saturdays were the only days when she would not have to rush in before or between or after her classes at N. Y. U. and rush out again after too short a time. She would stay a good part of every Saturday, and she would make lunch for us in the tiny kitchenette or we would go down to Ritchie�s basement restaurant and linger long over antipasto and wine before returning up to my studio to resume work.

I remember how completely wasted were the Sundays and the weekdays when for one reason or another she could not come. I could no longer work on anything else. I moped in the studio and took long walks along the river and waited for the next day.

April slipped by. I had finished two full-length portraits of her.

I remember the afternoon I started the third. I had her half-reclining on cushions � a classic Venus pose.

�Aren�t you getting tired of the same model?� she commented.

�Tired?� I said, picking up a piece of charcoal. �Why should I?�

�I�d think you�d want variety.�

�Cezanne painted the same bowl of fruit over and over. He had something new to say each time he did.�

Eve laughed. Her laughter was softly musical and completely relaxed. Reclining on the cushions in nothing but a string of beads, she was now wholly at ease with me.

�I�m not sure how to take being compared to a bowl of fruit,� she said. �Though I suppose to an artist they�re all the same � a woman or some fruit or a landscape.�

I opened my mouth to say something, but I didn�t say it. I sketched in her figure on the canvas.

April slipped by and it was May and I had finished the third painting of her. I remember I was putting it into a temporary frame, to hang on the wall with the other two, when Eve came dressed out of the bathroom and stood watching me.

�I suppose now you�re through with me,� she said.

Through with her! The thought frightened me.

�What do you mean?� I said.

�Well, you are finished. You won�t need me any more.�

�I have another in mind.� My voice got anxious. �You�ll keep coming, won�t you?�

�If you want me to. I can use the money.�

And I was spending a lot more on models � rather, on one model � than I had planned to. At this rate my funds would never last out the twelve months. But at the moment that was a small matter.

�Then I�ll see you tomorrow,� I said, going to the door with her.

�I�m afraid I can�t come tomorrow.�

Something like panic seized me. �But tomorrow�s Saturday.�

�I�m sorry. I have a date.�

�With a boy?�

�It�s a usual thing for girls to have dates with boys, isn�t it?�

It was a usual thing, but somehow it hadn�t occurred to me that she had any kind of life outside of college and her home and my studio. Maybe I hadn�t let that occur to me. I hated the boy, whoever he was.

�Can�t you break the date?�

She put her hand on the doorknob. �No, I can�t,� she said crisply. �Do you want me at three Monday afternoon?�

�Of course.�

Saturday, then, was a ruined and empty day, and so was Sunday. Then at last it was Monday afternoon, and I had good reason to remember clearly that day and the next.

Eve arrived at a few minutes after three. For this fourth painting I posed her seated in a chair, one arm draped over the back to give her torso a three-quarters perspective, and I stuck a rose in her hair. I hardly begun when there was a knock on the door. I was annoyed; anybody at the door, even if I did not admit him, caused complications. Because there was only that one room, she had to break her pose and go to the trouble of putting on her robe. When she had done so, I went to the door.

Andre Mierhof, impeccable in tweeds, stood in the hall.

�I haven�t heard from you in some time, Carl, so I thought I�d drop in and see how you are doing.� He stepped over the threshold and saw Eve coming toward us. �Ah, Miss Staub. I can see Carl finally got around to using you.�

They shook hands, and Eve said, �I haven�t had a chance to thank you for sending me to him. Mr. Coulter has been very generous.�

�Actually he should thank me. A model so lovely is by no means�� Andre Mierhof broke off. He was staring at the three portraits of Eve on the wall. �Ah!� he said, going close to them. He turned to me, smiling. �Generous, indeed. I see what she meant. You seem to be immersed in the subject, Carl.�

�Any objection?� I snapped.

�Who am I to object? An artist must choose his own subject, and you�ve done so well with this one.� He studied the paintings some more. �I like them. I like them very much. But I see you are working. Don�t let me disturb you.�

I didn�t say anything. Eve was lighting a cigarette.

�Go on, go on,� he said. �Certainly you don�t mind me watching you.�

�I don�t,� I said. �But there�s Miss Staub to be considered.�

�Nonsense!� he said. �I�ve observed Miss Staub posing before. I met her when I visited an artist friend � you know John Yake, don�t you?�� at his class at the Art Students� League, and she was posing. This is no different. Is it, Miss Staub?�

Eve merely crushed out her cigarette and strode over to the chair and removed the flowered silk robe and resumed the pose. She was a lot more at ease about it than she had been with me alone the first time. And Andre Mierhof seated himself halfway across the room and watched me and watched her.

I didn�t like it. Three was nothing wrong with him being there, but I didn�t like it. Irritation grew in me. After only a few minutes I turned from the easel and said, �That will be all for the day, Eve.�

She gave me a surprised look, but made no comment.

When she was dressed, I paid her for two full hours. She said good-by to Andre Mierhof and to me and the door closed behind her, and I stood scowling at his back. He was again studying those three paintings.

�Sorry,� I said, �but I couldn�t work with anybody watching me.�

�Was that the trouble?� He smiled his very smooth smile. �Carl, I�d like to show these three pictures in my gallery.�

�No.�

�What?� he said as if he couldn�t believe his ears.

�I said no.�

�I�ll buy them. As speculation.�

�I�m not ready to part with them.�

�Then sell me one.�

�No.�

He sighed. �I never quite get used to the idiosyncrasies of artists. No hard feelings, Carl. Any time you change your mind...�

�If I ever do,� I said, �I�ll let you know.�

I remember that before he left he took one more long look at the three nudes of Eve Staub.

That evening Alexander Baker came up to play chess, as he often did. He brought his wife with him. Though I was often in their apartment, Louise had not been in mine more than once or twice.

�I�ll stay only a minute,� she twittered. �I simply must see your pictures of that charming Eve Staub.� The Bakers had met Eve twice. Once when we had been in Ritchie�s, they had come in and joined us at our table. Another time I had been accompanying Eve down to the street when we had met them coming up the stairs and they had invited us in for coffee. Of course they had found her charming.

�Those there on the wall,� I told her.

Louise looked from one canvas to the other, and I could see the fragile lines of her face harden. She turned away.

�Don�t you agree with me they�re works of genius?� Alexander asked her. Rather anxiously, I thought.

�I think they�re lewd,� she said.

I was deeply shocked. I had not suspected she had so nasty a mind. I had nothing to say.

�Now, Louise,� Alexander said miserably, �there�s no need to insult Carl.�

Her mouth was primly tight. She opened it. �I consider it an insult to me to show me such vulgarities.� She relented a little. �I realized I asked to see them. I am not blaming you, Carl; I am afraid I will never understand men.� She twittered again. �Now I�ll leave you two to your game.�

She went, and for a moment there was an uncomfortable silence. Then Alexander said, �I should have stopped her from coming up. I was afraid she would react like that. I really believe they�re great works of art, Carl.�

�Thanks.�

I set up the chessboard. The first move was his, but he didn�t make it. He twisted on his chair to look at the portraits.

�You�re in love with that girl,� he said.

�Am I?�

�It�s conveyed by every stroke of your brush. Do you mind my mentioning this?�

�I�m not ashamed of how I feel about her,� I said.

Alexander moved a pawn and stroked his bald pate and said, �Is she your mistress?�

I managed to restrain myself from reaching across the table and hitting him.

He saw what was in my face. �No offense, Carl,� he said quickly. �But you admit you love her, and � well, she does pose in the nude for you.�

�She�s a model and I�m an artist,� I said. �I never as much as put a hand on her.�

�I�m a blathering idiot! I apologize most sincerely. Forget I said anything.�

We played. It was not a good game. It ended, as I remember, in a draw, and we did not play a second game. He seemed glad to get away and I was glad to see him leave.

I could not forget what he had said. I thought about it during the restless night. My love for Eve showed in my paintings for everybody to see. What kind of a man was I to make love only with paint on canvas? This was a kind of sickness. I was flesh and blood and she was flesh and blood.

Next day I touched Eve for the first time. I put my hands on her shoulders and kissed her.

It was late afternoon. She had come at three o�clock after a class, and it was six o�clock and she was about to leave. I waited until she was dressed before I kissed her.

I remember how she jerked her head aside and drew away from me. I held onto her shoulders, saying, �Eve, I love you.�

�Let me go!�

�Eve, you don�t understand. I want you to marry me.�

She broke away from me. I went after her. I threw my arms about her. I was possessed by my need of her.

She did not struggle. She stood limply within my embrace and said, �Carl, I�m in love with somebody else.�

My arms fell from her.

�Who?� I said.

�A boy who goes to N. Y. U. with me. We�re going to be married.�

I stared at her. �You never mentioned him.�

�There�s no reason why I should have.�

No reason. I had been no more to her than an employer � a man who hired her for a job of work.

I said dully, �When will you be married?�

�Early next month, as soon as we both graduate.� She picked up her school books. �I�m afraid you�ve made it impossible for me to pose for you any more.�

�Eve, in heaven�s name! At least let me finish this one. You can�t walk out on me.�

�You�ve made it so � so personal.�

�Eve, I swear it will be just the way it was before. I give you my solemn word.�

She chewed her lower lip. �We certainly can use the money,� she said, speaking more to herself than to me. �We have so little to get started with. Every bit will help.� She looked up, and her tone and manner were business-like. �I�ll be here tomorrow at eight. I�ll be able to give you all morning.�

So we continued, but it was different. She did not chatter the way she used to while posing and we no longer went down to Ritchie�s restaurant. We were more remote than we had been that first day.

But I was grateful to have her at all � to be able to have her there and love her with my eyes and with my paint brushes.

In the middle of May my money gave out.

I had not expected it to happen so soon and I had been careless about keeping my checkbook up to date. There was a day when a check to the electric company bounced, and I remember how I went into a sweat of terror at the realization that all I had to my name were the very few dollars in my pocket. I was not so much concerned about paying my bills and even eating. Each one of the dollars I had left meant an hour of Eve. When they were gone, as they would be in a couple of days, Eve would be gone.

I put in a long distance call to my brother who had a small lumber yard in Indiana. He complained that business was bad, but in the end promised to send me fifty dollars � a lot less than I had asked for. Still, that would be enough to pay Eve for the rest of the month if I cut down my other expenses to the bone. Meanwhile, until that money arrived, every cent I had would have to be reserved for Eve.

There happened to be very little food in the apartment. I finished it off next day and went to bed hungry. The day after that I had a couple of slices of stale bread and some tea and then there was nothing left. I thought of going down to the Bakers for a meal, but ever since Louise had called my portraits of Eve lewd I had stayed away from that apartment. I was hungry, but I had money for Eve. I paid her two dollars one day and three dollars the next day, and then I had exactly seven cents left. I was sure the check from brother would arrive in the morning.

At ten o�clock next morning I was waiting on the stoop for the mailman. Usually he arrived at ten after ten. That morning he was late. I rushed to him and he shuffled through his letters for the building. Nothing for me. No check from my brother.

I remember standing in the hot May sunlight and hearing my heart thump. Eve was due at eleven. If I did not pay her today, would she come back? There was so little time anyway before she graduated from N. Y. U. and got married and would never again pose for me. Was I to lose even those few remaining days?

I had seven cents. In those days a nickel was enough for the subway. I rushed uptown to Andre Mierhof�s apartment on West End Avenue. Though it was a quarter to eleven, I had to rouse him out of bed. I asked him for money.

�My offer stands,� he purred. �I�ll buy one or all of those three nudes. Or are there more than three now?�

�I�ll not part with them.�

Standing lean and dapper in a silk dressing gown, he shrugged. �Then evidently you don�t want money.�

�All I�m asking for is five dollars till tomorrow.�

He frowned at me and went for his wallet and took out a bill. I snatched it from him and ran.

My legs wobbled as I went down the subway stairs. I was weak with hunger, but I had no time to stop to eat. It was eleven already, and Eve might leave if she didn�t find me in.

George was bringing out the ash cans as I ran up the stoop. He called after me, �That model of yours went up a while ago.� When I plunged into my studio, I had no breath left in me.

I had left my door unlocked and I found her leafing through an art magazine. I gasped out apologies. She merely nodded and went into the bathroom to undress and I at once set to work assembling my brushes and paints. That fourth portrait was almost finished.

I remember the silence between us as she sat, and I remember how utterly fatigued I felt as I stood at the easel. I had run too much and not eaten and my legs would hardly hold me up. I remember putting down my palette and taking a step toward her and Eve starting to rise from the chair and saying in an oddly constricted tone, �Carl!� What happened after that I cannot remember clearly. There was a kind of shimmering vagueness, and we were coming together somehow, she infinitely beautiful in her nakedness, and as from far off there was her voice again, crying, �Carl!� and her voice faded and she faded and for a while there was nothing.

There was nothing and then there was something, as if I had been in a dark pit and was emerging up into the light. I kept pushing myself up from the pit � an actual physical effort that I realized was the slow and laborous task of rising to my feet. I remember myself standing, then, and swaying and looking down at Eve.

She was very still. She lay sprawled on the floor in a grotesque and obscene position. Her eyes were wide open, staring without sight at the ceiling. And, God help me, I could see her tongue.

I knew she was dead.

I became aware of scratches on my bare forearms and on the backs of my hands � deep furrows tinged with blood. I bent and saw her fingernails broken and I saw blood on the tips of her fingers. My blood.

I did not remember leaving my apartment, but I remember being on the floor below and pounding on the door of the Bakers� apartment. There was no answer. I descended another flight of stairs. George was sitting on the stoop filling his corncob pipe.

�George,� I heard myself say, �call a policeman.�

The trial was short. I remember how it seemed that almost before it began the jury was filing in and I could see by their faces what the verdict would be.

The scratches were what did it, mainly. Flecks of skin and blood were found under her fingernails, and the blood was the same type as mine. And when I took the stand for my own defense, I could not say that I had not done it. I could only say that I did not believe I could have done it.

�I loved her,� I blurted out. �Would I have killed her when I loved her?�

I remember how the prosecutor had smiled at that, as if my words had assured his victory over me. He made me admit that I had known she was to marry another man within three weeks. Later he devoted much of his summation to the jury to that. He made a great deal of the fact that I, who loved her and had been rejected by her, continued to see her every day in my apartment in the nude. Those three portraits of her, three finished and one nearly finished, were there in the courtroom, and I remember shrinking into myself as the prosecutor showed them once more to the jury. She had posed for me like this, he said, and the time was nearing when she was to marry another and would be out of my life forever, and on that morning, on or about eleven-thirty, I had leaped at her and raped her and finally strangled her.

The jury was convinced beyond reasonable doubt. And could I, myself, not be convinced?

I was given a life sentence.

The first time my brother came to visit me in Sing Sing he told me that Andre Mierhof had asked him to let him have all my pictures for a one-man show. My brother had shipped everything of mine to his home in Indiana, including the four portraits of Eve, which had been evidence and after the trial had been turned over to him as my next of kin. I knew Andre Mierhof wanted to cash in on my notoriety. I didn�t care. I told my brother to let Andre Mierhof have whatever he wanted � except those four portraits.

Shortly after that Andre Mierhof visited me. He wanted the portraits.

�Never,� I said.

�You�ll never see them again,� he said. �Why not let others?�

�Never. It was bad enough having them drooled over in the courtroom.�

When he was gone, I thought of writing my brother to destroy them. But I didn�t.

The warden was kind to me. I was, I suppose, a model prisoner, and after a while he let me have the materials with which I could resume painting. I began to do my best work in prison. I became known. I sold. Life was not unpleasant. I was behind bars, but I was doing what I most wanted to do.

I had plenty of time to think, and I knew what I would do if I ever got out.

I got out after ten years, pardoned by the governor.

It took three weeks for the young couple who occupied my studio � always I had thought of it as mine!�� to find another apartment and move out. I moved in, and the first thing I did was open the box containing the four portraits of Eve. I had had my brother send them to me from Indiana where all this time they had been in his attic. I hung three on the wall and placed the unfinished one on the easel.

Everything was as it had been. Except that Eve was long dead.

Andre Mierhof came to see me. He stepped through the door and saw the three portraits on the wall and the fourth on the easel and stood stock still.

�What are you after, Carl?� he said.

�I�m not sure. Maybe to try to pick up the pieces.�

He put a fatherly hand on my shoulder. �Carl, this is a haunted place for you. You�ll be living with ghosts.�

�They�re my ghosts,� I said.

�One can�t live in the past. That�s a kind of madness. Carl, let me help you.� He was an elderly, gray-haired man now, but the purr had never left his voice. �Let me take those pictures off your hands. They�re no good for you.�

I laughed out loud. �You never give up, do you, Andre?�

He laughed with me, which was like him.

Later that afternoon I went down to the floor below and knocked on a door. It opened halfway and Louise Baker�s aging face appeared. I think she would have slammed the door if I had not held my shoulder against it.

�What do you want?� she demanded.

�I�d like to see Alexander.�

�He�s not in.�

Clearly she was scared sick of me. I was not an old friend. I was a man who murdered women.

�I want to ask him to play chess with me this evening,� I said.

�He works evenings. He plays in an orchestra.�

�Then he must have free time during the day. Would you mind telling him to come to see me?�

�Yes, yes,� she said, continuing her frantic pressure on the door.

I stepped back and the door slammed. I heard the lock being turned.

I stood in the hall for I don�t know how long before I went down to the street. I made a tour of Village bookstores, asking for a recently published volume by Louise Livingston Baker. It wasn�t easy to find, but after a while I did. It was called, My Heart Goes Out, and that night I read it. I had never read such dull slop, all about the birds in the air and the flowers in the fields and her immortal soul. All the same, I read every line.

Alexander did not come up to play chess, not next day and not any day. Maybe he came while I was out. More likely she hadn�t given him my message.

I was out a great deal that week. I visited model agencies and art schools and artists and photographers; I went everywhere and to everybody who had anything to do with models. Whenever I heard of a girl in the profession who at all resembled the description I gave, I got in touch with her. Most of the girls were all wrong. Those who were not wrong were not right enough.

Eventually I found her by hunting through back issues of photography magazines. There was a full-page shot of her in a brief bathing suit against a background of sky and sea. I looked up the photographer and obtained the model�s name and address. Luckily she lived in the city. I phoned her and made an appointment with her at my studio the following afternoon. Her name was Margery Dawson.

I was somewhat disappointed when she walked in. She was taller and heavier and her face was too healthy-looking for wistfulness. But when she had her clothes off and assumed posing positions, I thought she would do. I had an artist�s eye and memory, but for others ten years would be a long time to remember exactly.

I did not touch charcoal or brush. I told her to dress, and when she had done so I had a long talk with her. I had trouble persuading her. What did it was the substantial fee I offered her. I had been learning, since I had got out of prison, what money could accomplish.

Even though I had talked Margery Dawson into it, she left obviously somewhat uneasy about me. I would not have been surprised if she had not returned next day. But she did.

When she arrived, I phoned Andre Mierhof and asked him to be at my place at four o�clock. He got there at ten to five, which was about par in punctuality for him. He came in, saying, �What�s so all-fired urgent that you�� and choked on the rest of the sentence.

She was posed in the pose he had seen ten years ago for that fourth and unfinished painting, sitting partly turned with her arm over the back of the chair and a rose in her hair.

Slowly he let out his breath. �For a moment I could have sworn she was�� He worked up a smile. �So you are finishing that fourth portrait!�

I said, �I thought you�d be interested,� and went to the easel. I picked up palette and brush and made gestures at the canvas, but actually I added nothing that mattered. I could not, of course, ever finish it, for no model could take Eve�s place.

Andre Mierhof did not stay long, he did not, as he had that other time, sit and watch my model. He seemed in a hurry to go. I accompanied him out to the hall where we could speak in private.

�You can�t fool me, Carl,� he said. �You�re not painting her.� And he repeated the question he had asked a week ago. �What are you after?�

This time I told him. �The truth,� I said.

�You think you�ll find it here?�

�Where else?�

He sighed. �What do you mean by the truth?�

�I must know if I could have killed the only girl I had ever loved.�

He said, �Suppose you find out you hadn�t. What good can it do you now? Can it bring her back to life? Can it bring you back your ten years?�

�I have to know,� I said.

He gave my upper arm a pat and started down the stairs. I returned to the studio.

Margery Dawson had put on her robe and was looking through Louise Livingston Baker�s book of poems on the table.

�The sight of you startled him all right,� I told her. �He was the important test.�

I went to the phone and called up George in his basement room and said a pipe in the bathroom had burst. That done, I told the girl to resume her pose on the chair. Within a few minutes there was a knock on the door and I sang out, �Come in.�

George entered with a heavy toolbox. He turned to me at the easel, thereby turning to the model also, and his jaw dropped. That was all that happened. He was merely an old man gawking at a naked young woman.

�Well, George, what is it?� I said.

�I come to fix the pipe.�

�What pipe?�

�You phoned you have a busted pipe.�

�Are you out of your mind? It must have been somebody else. Don�t stand there. You�re embarrassing the lady.�

He left dragging his feet.

When the door had closed behind him, I wiped my sweaty hands on my pants. I felt suddenly very tired. The girl sat with her body slack and her face pale. She seemed to be exhausted, too.

�Just one more,� I told her. �It�s close to dinner time. He�s sure to be home.�

I dialed a number on the phone. Louise Baker answered.

�I�d like to speak to Alexander,� I said.

�Who is this, please?�

�Carl Coulter.�

�He�s not��

�Put him on!� I cut her off. �Let him speak for himself.�

Perhaps she needed to be shouted at. She said weakly, �Just a moment,� and after a pause Alexander�s voice was on the line.

�What is it, Carl?�

�Come up to my place at once.�

�I can�t. Louise will be serving dinner soon.�

�Something has happened,� I said. �It concerns you vitally.�

�What?�

�I can�t tell you on the phone. I advise you to hurry.�

The line sounded empty. I was beginning to think he was no longer on it when I heard his voice. �I�ll be right up,� he said.

He wasn�t right up. I had never thought that minutes could be so long in passing. I kept wiping my hands on my pants and Margery Dawson sat silent and pale and huddled on the chair.

Then there were footsteps on the stairs, followed by tapping on the door.

At that moment I decided to do it a bit differently. I whispered to her to lie down on the floor. She stared at me in bewilderment.

�Do as I say,� I whispered harshly. �Quick!� She obeyed. �No, sprawled out on your back. That�s it, but looser, as if you were dead. Good enough.�

The tapping on the door grew louder. I stretched out on the floor near the girl. We lay half a dozen feet apart, the naked girl limp as a bundle of rags and I. That was the way it must have been ten years ago.

�Come in,� I called.

I heard the door open. From where I lay, I could see only the stubby legs, but I could imagine the rest of him, the potbelly and the always solemn face and the glistening bald scalp. I saw the feet move. They took two or three hesitant steps into the room, then they stopped.

He screamed like a woman.

The feet turned and plunged out through the open door.

In a few minutes I followed him. I knocked on the door of the apartment below mine. Nobody came to admit me. The knob turned in my hand; the door wasn�t locked. I went in.

Alexander sat hunched on the sofa and Louise stood over him. Both were turned to the door, their heads and torsos held in a kind of helpless immobility as they had watched it open and now stared at me enter. His face was shattered, but hers was like stone.

�What are you doing to him?� she said to me.

I spoke to him, not to her. �Does she know?�

Alexander nodded as if he were unaware of nodding.

I closed the door and stood with my back against it. �I suppose she was here with you when Eve banged on the door that morning. She saw you leave with Eve and she saw you come running back; and later, after I had found that Eve was dead had come down and knocked on your door, you kept Louise from opening it. You couldn�t let anybody see you, not me then and not the police when they arrived. Because of the scratches on your hands and arms. You had to keep under cover till they healed. But Louise had seen you come and go and had seen those scratches and had known what they meant.�

Louise said, �I knew nothing. There was nothing to know.�

I ignored her. I continued to speak only to Alexander.

�I passed out that morning while Eve posed for me,� I said. �I was weak with hunger and I had done too much running about and I fainted. Eve got frightened when she couldn�t revive me. She ran for help. Whom would she go to in this building? Not to total strangers when she knew there were friends of mine. Maybe to George. There was always that possibility. During all my thinking about what must have happened, I had to consider George � that she had gone for him first or that she had gone for him after she had not found you at home. But this was the first door she would have knocked at. You were closer than George, and you were my friends. So she knocked and you were in and you went up to my apartment with her. There you found that I had merely fainted. And Eve was very close to you, wearing only that thin silk robe. You knew what she was like under the robe. You had seen my paintings of her many times. I remember how during our chess games you used to keep glancing at them. And there she was and I was unconscious and you��

�Stop it!� he burst out. �Haven�t I gone through hell for ten years?�

I found that, after all, I did not hate him so very much.

�I�ve been reading the poetry of Louise Livingston Baker,� I said. �They are all about things, never about people. They are full of love for nature, but never for a man. There�s no blood in them. No sex.�

�I do not write of lewdness,� Louise Livingston Baker said stiffly.

I looked at her. �Poor Alexander!� I said. �I remember you called my paintings of Eve lewd.� I looked at him. �It could not have been easy on you, Alexander, living with a woman who was too pure, too disembodied, to consider sex anything but lewdness.�

�Yes,� he said in a small voice, and he put his head in his hands. Then he looked up. �Something came over me. As you said, Carl, there had been those pictures of her whenever I had been in your apartment, and then that morning there she was kneeling beside me and the robe fell partly open.� He uttered a broken sob. �God help me, I didn�t know what I was doing.�

I said, �But you knew what you were doing afterward when you choked her to death.�

�I had to. She was going to scream. I held her by the throat to prevent her from screaming. I didn�t want to... I didn�t mean to...�

His voice went to pieces.

I said, �But you meant to do what you did after she was dead. You saw the scratches on your skin and you saw your blood on her fingers. You knew the police would look through the building for somebody who had been scratched. You had to keep that from happening. You had to make it appear that I was the one against whom she had struggled, so you made those scratches on my hands and arms with your own fingernails. As it turned out, luck was with you because we were both the same blood type. Type O, the most common. Oh, yes, you were lucky. I was in jail and you were outside. But I wonder how lucky you really were. How bad were those years, Alexander? How deep in hell were you?�

He was about to tell me, but Louise didn�t let him.

�You�ve said too much already,� she scolded him as she would a small boy. �He has no evidence. He can�t hurt you.�

Alexander laughed in a way that was not nice to hear. �Can�t hurt me!� he muttered. �Dear God, can�t hurt me!�

�Exactly,� she snapped. �Bear that in mind. He has no evidence.� She turned to me, and that little, chubby woman stood like a rock in that room. �Please leave,� she said to me. �You must see that you can prove nothing. You can do nothing.�

Without a word, I went out through the door and back to my studio and the four portraits of Eve.

Louise was right � I couldn�t do anything. But Alexander could. During the night he cut his throat.