If Death Ever Slept

She patted my arm. “Now now, I don’t mind. I’m used to it. Susan. My stepdaughter-in-law. Go and put an oar in.”

“She seems to have a full crew. Anyway, I haven’t met her.”

“You haven’t? That won’t do.” She turned and sang out, “Susan! Come here.”

She was obeyed instantly. The circle opened to make room, and Susan crossed to us. “Yes, Trella?”

“I want to present Mr. Green. Alan. He has taken Jim’s place. He has met everyone but you, and that didn’t seem fair.”

I took the offered hand and felt it warm and firm for the fifth of a second she let me have it. Her face had blurred at a distance. Even close up none of her features took your eye; you only saw the whole, the little oval face.

“Welcome to our aerie, Mr. Green,” she said. Her voice was low, and was shy or coy or wary or demure, depending on your attitude. I had no attitude, and didn’t intend to have one until I could give reasons. All I would have conceded on the spot was that she didn’t hiss like a cobra or rattle like a rattler. As for her being the only one of the bunch to bid me welcome, that was sociable and kindhearted, but it would seem that she might have left that to the lady of the house. I thanked her for it anyway. She glanced at Trella, apparently uncertain whether to let it go at that or stay for a chat, murmured something polite, and moved away.

“I think it’s in her bones,” Trella said. “Or maybe her blood. Anyhow it’s nothing you can see or hear. Some kind of hypnotism, but I think she can turn it on and off. Did you feel anything?”

“I’m a secretary,” Mrs. Jarrell. Secretaries don’t feel.”

“The hell they don’t. Jim Eber did. Of course you’ve barely met her and you may be immune.”

Trella was telling me about a book on hypnotism she had read when Steck came to tell her dinner was ready.