Femmes Fatales restores to print the best of women’s writing in the classic pulp genres of the mid-twentieth century. From mysteries to hard-boiled noir to taboo lesbian romance, these rediscovered queens of pulp offer subversive perspectives on a turbulent era.
Faith Baldwin
SKYSCRAPER
Vera Caspary
BEDELIA
LAURA
THE MAN WHO LOVED HIS WIFE
Gypsy Rose Lee
THE G-STRING MURDERS
MOTHER FINDS A BODY
Evelyn Piper
BUNNY LAKE IS MISSING
Olive Higgins Prouty
NOW, VOYAGER
Valerie Taylor
THE GIRLS IN 3-B
STRANGER ON LESBOS
RETURN TO LESBOS
Tereska Torrès
WOMEN’S BARRACKS
BY CECILE
Published in 2013 by the Feminist Press
at the City University of New York
The Graduate Center
365 Fifth Avenue, Suite 5406
New York, NY 10016
First Feminist Press edition
Text copyright © 1966 The Authors League Fund, as literary executor of the Estate of Vera Caspary
Originally published by G.P. Putnam’s Sons, New York.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, used, or stored in any information retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the Feminist Press at the City University of New York, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover and text design by Drew Stevens.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Caspary, Vera, 1899-1987.
The man who loved his wife / Vera Caspary.
pages cm
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-1-55861-847-3
I. Title.
PS3505.A842M36 2014
813'.52—dc23
2013035186
Contents
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
THE DIARY WAS STARTED, PROPERLY, ON JANUARY first. More than merely the beginning of another year, it marked a new phase in the life of a man. Fletcher Strode had always known quick satisfactions, easy delight, and the exercise of such teeming energy that if one of his many projects failed, he had at once plunged into more extravagant activities. The written word had neither dazzled nor distressed him; the only books he had read all the way through were detective stories. There can be no doubt of their influence on the purpose and content of his diary.
It was a good thick book, beautifully bound in dark green morocco stamped with his initials. He had got it as a Christmas present, one of many useless, expensive trinkets elaborately wrapped to make a show under the tree. Together he and Elaine had selected the Douglas fir, trimmed it, admired their work but there had been no surprise in it and no one to help them celebrate. Over an abundant Christmas dinner at a charming table, merriment was pretense. They had hoped on New Year’s Eve to recapture some of the old joy, wore New York clothes and drank Cordon Rouge ’59. For a short time, dancing to a tune that had driven them half out of their minds that first whirlwind season, they had let themselves believe a miracle would bring about a return of that delightful fever. They hurried out of the nightclub, leaving half a bottle of champagne.
On the hilltop their house was as lonely as a ship far out at sea. The night was silent, the world exclusively theirs. In the hall Elaine dropped the fur-lined cloak, left it crumpled on the floor. Before they reached her room, Fletcher had jerked down the zipper of her dress and kissed her back, inch by inch. The chiffon fell about her feet. She stepped over it grandly and, with a fine disregard for things treasured by colder women, tossed upon the dressing table encumbrances of gold, jade, and pearls. Long legs shining in misty stockings, thighs round and female, a narrow strip of satin girdling her hips, she teased and pranced before him like one of those naughty French girls on posters. Fletcher played at the game of pursuit until he had caught her and performed the ritual of the bra, unfastening the single hook, pulling her to him with rough joy, circling her torso with his heavy arms, cupping big hands over her breasts. They kissed like new lovers. This was how it had been in the beginning; they followed the routine for luck.
Out in the dark an owl hooted.
Fletcher
