The Second Confesion

I followed her out and walked beside her along the wide hall, across a landing, and down another hall into another wing. The room she took me into, through a door that was standing open, was twice as big as mine, which I had thought was plenty big enough, and in addition to the outdoor summer smell that came in the open windows it had the fragrance of enormous vases of roses that were placed around. I would just as soon have taken a moment to glance around at details, but she took me across to a table, opened a bulky leather-bound portfolio as big as an atlas to a page where there was a marker, and pointed.

“See? When I was young and gay!” I recognized it instantly because I had one like it at home. It was a clipping from the Gazette of September ninth, 1940. I have not had my picture in the paper as often as Churchill or Rocky Graziano, or even Nero Wolfe, but that time it happened that I had been lucky and shot an automatic out of a man's hand just before he pressed the trigger.

I nodded. “A born hero if I ever saw one.” She nodded back. “I was seventeen. I had a crush on you for nearly a month.” “No wonder. Have you been showing this around?” “I have not! Damn it, you ought to be touched!” “Hell, I am touched, but not as much as I was an hour ago. I thought you liked my nose or the hair oft my chest or something, and here it was only a childhood memory.” “What if I feel it coming back?” “Don't try to sweeten it. Anyway, now I have a problem. Who else might possibly remember this picture-and there have been a couple of others-besides you?” She considered. “Gwenn might, but I doubt it, and I don't think anyone else would. If you have a problem, I have a question. What are you here for? Louis Rony?” It was my turn to consider, and I let her have a poker smile while I was at it.

“That's it,” she said!