a soft drink bottling plant. He put all his money into equipment.”
“Ha!” Uncle Charley sat down on the library table. “Soft drinks. Like Harvey. A blasted Puritan.”
“We can’t all drink brandy,” Julie reminded him. “And there’s money in it.”
Uncle Charley refilled his glass. He practically leered at Julie.
“To our better acquaintance, my dear.”
Julie took a deep breath and lunged into her subject. She didn’t understand quite what it was all about, but soft drink production had been curtailed. It had to do with sugar and the war, and you got a certain percent of the sugar you had used the year before and, of course, Harvey’s business hadn’t been running the year before.
“Put his money on the wrong horse,” Uncle Charley said. “A stupid fool!”
“He’s not!”
“Didn’t make any mistake when he hooked you, though,” Uncle Charley said. “But what you can see in him, I don’t know.”
Julie frowned, wet her smooth curving lips, and plunged on with a hint of desperation getting into her tone.
“Harvey needs some money,” she blurted. “He could remodel his plant and manufacture something for the war effort. He’s tried banks and they won’t lend him anything on his present equipment.”
“No credit,” Uncle Charley said. “He can’t borrow any money from me.”
Julie put her glass down on the floor because there was no place else to put it. The gray cat immediately became interested.
“He’s not asking you for money, Uncle Charley,” she said. “I am. Of course, you mustn’t let him know that.”
“That’s different. That’s entirely different.” Uncle Charley chuckled. “You’ve got credit with me, pet.”
Other men of fifty-five had looked at Julie that same way and implied the same thing with different words. They had offered her everything from a mink coat to a tropic cruise, and they had been very little different from Uncle Charley. Dressed different, heavens knows.
Julie’s lips thinned and curled at the outer extremities. Disgust narrowed her long blue eyes.
“Uncle Charley, be your age!”
Uncle Charley put down his glass. He blinked at her.
“So you think I’m old? Just a dozen, fifteen years older than that milksop you’re married to.”
He took a step toward Julie. She stood up. It was obvious that she was going to have some trouble with Uncle Charley. He reached out to paw her shoulder, chuckling.
“Guess I know you models,” he said.
“You’re sure about that?” And then she clipped the side of Uncle Charley’s gaunt face.
It wasn’t a slap. It was a blow from a small, hard fist. It rocked Uncle Charley back so that he stepped on the paw of the white cat. He didn’t seem to hear his pet’s pained cry.
“You—you hit me,” he said, but not whining. “You’ve got spirit. Picture Harvey married to a girl with spirit. I like girls with spirit.”
She turned her back on him and stepped indignantly to the door. Harvey had been entirely right in his declaration that his uncle was a rather poor specimen of a man. She had reached for the doorknob when Uncle Charley suddenly uttered a roar that was halfway between rage and drunken laughter. She wheeled, and he lunged.
He caught her in a bearlike embrace and did his best to kiss her. She felt the sandpaper of his cheek against hers, and that spurred her to get her right arm free. Her purse was in her right hand and it had a heavy natural wood frame that was all the rage that season because of the metal shortage.
She hit Uncle Charley on the side of the head with the wooden section of the purse. And then Uncle Charley was completely at her feet without knowing about it. Julie pressed back against the door and stared down at the long, thin figure on the floor.
“Uncle Charley,” she cried faintly.
Uncle Charley didn’t move. She stamped her foot angrily.
“Uncle Charley!”
He still didn’t move. Cautiously she knelt beside him. This could be a trick intended to get her sympathy. She flipped off her glove and pressed a thumb against Uncle Charley’s throat to discover a strong, rapid pulse.
Julie sighed with relief. He was just knocked out, and the chances were the brandy had hit him harder than she had.
She looked away from Uncle Charley because seven pairs of slitted eyes drew her gaze. There were the cats sitting in a semi-circle, staring at her. They were very unemotional about it.
Julie straightened. She felt that she ought to call a doctor for Uncle Charley. But in a small town like this, the very fact that she had visited Uncle Charley after dark while her husband was away would be frowned upon. The town, she was certain, already talked about her, because the town, like Uncle Charley, thought it knew models. No, she’d better leave him where he was, to sleep it off.
Opening the door quietly, she looked up and down the dark street. She went out on the stoop and made no sound closing the door. She tiptoed to the sidewalk, turned to the south, and ran.
Four blocks down Pinkney Street she turned east, walked to Harrison Street, to the neat, modern red brick bungalow she shared with Harvey. Their neighbors on the north were Dr. and Mrs. John Palet, and as Julie was unlocking her door, she sent an apprehensive glance toward the Palet house. The blinds were down, but Julie had a sneaking suspicion that Mrs. Palet might be peering around the edge of a shade of one of the windows.
Mrs. Palet was always watching her neighbors. A large, unattractive and spiteful woman, Mrs. Palet. She had—or so Harvey said—a tongue that was tied in the middle and wagged at both ends.
Julie unlocked the door carefully. When she was inside and the light was on, she double-locked herself in and drew a long breath. Harvey wouldn’t be back from Washington until tomorrow night. She wished tonight was tomorrow.
She was in bed by eleven with a night lamp burning in the front bedroom. But it was absolutely futile to try and sleep.
She lay there and stared at the ceiling. She worried about Uncle Charley. She worried about telling Harvey what she had done. He wouldn’t like her going to Uncle Charley in the first place. And he’d be furious with Uncle Charley for acting the way he had. It might be better to just keep the whole thing a secret.
* * * *
The following day, Tuesday, Julie walked to the grocery the long way, around and up Pinkney Street. She kept on the side of the street opposite Uncle Charley’s house and was very much relieved to see a plumber’s truck parked in front of the shabby house.
A downspout from the eaves was disconnected, and the plumber was working on the drainage tile at the south end of the stoop. Uncle Charley, of course, must be all right this morning. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have
