clenched. He couldn’t do this, not on their honeymoon. She remembered to close her fish-wide mouth after they disappeared through the door.
Kew was watching. He smiled. “Same old Con,” and then he must have noted the distress she was trying unsuccessfully to hide. “I’m sorry, Griselda. You know he’ll be right back. You know how Quixotic Con is. He’ll take her home and be right back.”
She looked away from him. “I won’t be here.”
He said, “Could I run you home?” His watch was crystalline copper. “I’d ask you to do something better than that but I’m late for an engagement now.”
She answered, “No, Kew. Thank you. But it’s only a step.”
She wouldn’t go with Kew. She didn’t want to make a fool of herself to Con’s friends. She’d wait until she could leave alone with no one to look boredly sympathetic if her eyes were moist. She wasn’t sure she could pretend to be a casual modern wife even for five blocks–she wanted to howl and kick her heels.
He said, “Tell Con I’ll drop by tomorrow. I’m at the Villa Riviera. Give him a ring.”
She watched him disappear behind the presumedly artistic doors of swinging bamboo. The now solitary drinker at the table where Kew had been, finished his stint and prepared to leave. He hesitated crossing to the door and her eyes were enormous when he stopped at her table. She’d never seen him before.
He introduced himself sparsely, “Mrs. Satterlee, I am Major Pembrooke.”
She had met many of him in London, on the continent, in kinder days. The bulldog British breed, stocky rather than tall, red-faced, with a sand-colored bristle mustache beginning to gray; hair, the same, beginning to recede. She had never met one wearing so cold a mask, almost a brutal face. She didn’t like him. Instinctively and with no reason for it, she feared him. He had no business knowing who she was. Kew hadn’t told him; Kew hadn’t seen her until he was leaving that table.
She acknowledged the introduction as sparsely as it was given.
He was standing there looking down at her but he wasn’t interested in her. That wasn’t in his face. He announced, “I will escort you home, Mrs. Satterlee.”
She was suddenly furious at him, a stranger daring to intrude, the straw at the breaking-point of this insufferable day. She jumped up, said with more anger than hauteur, “You will not escort me home. I am not accustomed to being escorted by strangers. Goodnight, Major Pembrooke.” She strode head high out of the place, regretting that swinging doors could not emphasize a point.
Con had, of course, taken the car as well as the pick-up blonde. Griselda was always nervous walking alone after dark; short as the distance to the cottage was, she dreaded to turn from the lighted main street for the final two blocks on the one closed to traffic. There was the night-lonely beach of the bay on one side, the drawn blinds of white apartments on the other. She walked in the center of the wide pavement.
It couldn’t be that she heard footsteps falling accurately in hers. It was nerves, her usual night nerves. She could glance over her shoulder and make certain it was only imagination but she didn’t. She hurried her steps and the relentless echo-steps paced faster. She strolled now; whoever it was behind her could pass easily, she’d rather have it precede her than follow. But the sound steps retained their metronomic mimicry. Without willing, her eyes slid left to the bay and she saw the shadow of a man, not far, not far enough from her own shadow. Her feet began to move swiftly, blindly, forward. She could hear her breath come and go, louder than those insistent pursuing steps still behind her as she began to climb the long stairway leading to the catwalk porch and her front door. She was near hysterical laughter listening–one-two-three-four–those last steps thwarted, silenced, not accompanied by hers. She didn’t know who or what she expected to see but she couldn’t turn. She stood there breathing.
And then the voice spoke, stones dropped on the cold gray of the Pacific beyond. “I would have preferred to escort you home, Mrs. Satterlee.”
She turned slowly. The fear she had smelled on seeing this man in the bar was tangible now. There were no neighbors to hear a shout for help. The sea wall extended about the left, the other side of the house. The cottage a sand lot away on this side was unoccupied. She stood at the head of the steps, hoping he would climb no further, hoping she might continue to bar his way. She had her voice now. “What do you want? How did you know I was Mrs. Satterlee?”
“Mr. Brent told me who you were.” That was a lie; Kew hadn’t even known she was Con’s wife again until she told him.
She wanted her heart to stop pounding so hard that it hurt to breathe. She asked, “Are you a friend of Kew’s?”
“I knew him in Washington. I didn’t know he’d come to the West Coast until I ran into him tonight. I was pleased to find him here. I was also pleased to learn that Con Satterlee was here.”
She questioned, “You know my husband?” She wasn’t surprised at that; Con was always pulling some astonishing creature out of his bag of acquaintances.
But he said, “No, I wish to meet him.”
She stated firmly then, “I’m sorry, Major Pembrooke, but Con isn’t here. And I don’t know when he will return. If you will call some other time–” It was dismissal but he didn’t accept it. Not even his eyes moved. They retained their cold expressionlessness against hers. He said, “I presume Mr. Satterlee is here for the same purpose as Mr. Brent.”
She could speak up now and she did. “Then you are quite mistaken, Major Pembrooke. My husband is here on his honeymoon. I doubt very much that Kew’s presence in Long Beach is for the same reason.” She actually smiled. The darling bachelor Kew wasn’t to be caught by matrimonial entanglements.
Pembrooke was silent for the moment. “Mr. Satterlee is not here seeking Mannie Martin?”
Amazement must have been wide in her eyes. She could feel it there. “Seeking whom?”
“Manfred Martin. Mannie Martin. You know him, of course.”
“I have never heard of him.” She repeated definitely, “I have never heard the name before.”
“Con Satterlee has heard of him,” the Major stated.
“Possibly.” She didn’t know half of Con’s freaks.
“Con Satterlee knows him. Martin has been production director of the West Coast division of the broadcasting company.”
She remembered then. But she had never met this Martin. Con hadn’t even looked him up in Hollywood. Why should he be seeking the man here? Her face must have been a question mark.
Major Pembrooke said, “Mannie disappeared two weeks ago Monday.” He explained before she could protest, “It hasn’t been in the papers. The studio didn’t want publicity unless they were certain it was not a self-induced disappearance. By now, however, not having heard from or of him in that time, his associates are becoming nervous.” His mouth was scornful. “By now the trail is cold.”
She picked her words icily, “What has this to do with my husband?”
The Major ignored her ill humor. “I was certain Con Satterlee came here to trace his friend. Even as Mr.
