“It’s been done,” Barnes said. “Anyhow, let me make another point. All Cordon’s writings have opposed force and compulsion and violence. It’s inconceivable that he’d try to kill someone.”
“That’s the point,” Gram said patiently. “The whole point. It will discredit everything he’s written. It’ll show him up as a hypocrite; it’ll undermine all his tracts and booklets. Do you see?”
“It’ll backfire,” Barnes said.
“You really don’t like my solutions to things,” Gram said, gazing at him searchingly.
“I think,” Barnes said, “that in this case—you’re being highly injudicious.”
“What’s that mean?” Gram asked.
“Ill-advised.”
“Nobody advised me, it’s my own idea.”
Director Barnes gave up at that point; he let his brooding thoughts take over and his tongue became silent.
Nobody seemed to notice.
“So it’s on with Project Barabbas,” Gram said heartily, and smiled a wide, happy smile.
Chapter 9
At the sound of their special knock, Kleo Appleton opened the door of the apartment. Home in the middle of the day? she wondered. Something must have happened.
And then she saw, with him, a small girl, probably in her late teens, well-dressed, with much makeup, and a white-toothed smile, as if of recognition.
“You must be Kleo,” the smiling girl said. “I’m very glad to meet you, after what Nick has said about you.” She and Nick entered the apartment; the girl gazed around at the furniture, the wall colors: she appraised the decor expertly, seeing everything. It had the effect of making Kleo nervous and self-conscious, whereas, she realized, it ought to be the other way around. Who is this girl? she wondered.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Appleton.”
Nick shut the door behind the two of them. “She’s hiding from her boyfriend,” he said to his wife. “He tried to beat her up and she got away. He can’t trace her here because he doesn’t know who I am or where I live, so she’s safe here.”
“Coffee?” Kleo asked.
“ ‘Coffee’?” Nick repeated.
“I’ll put on some coffee,” Kleo said. She surveyed the girl and saw how pretty she was, despite her heavy makeup. And how little she was. The girl probably had trouble finding clothes small enough to fit her . . . a trouble I wish I had, Kleo reflected.
“My name is Charlotte,” the girl said. She had seated herself on the living room couch and was unbuckling her greaves. The wide, positive smile never left her face; she gazed up at Kleo with what seemed almost to be love. Love! For someone she had never seen before in her life.
“I said she could stay here overnight,” Nick said.
“Yes,” Kleo said. “The couch makes into a bed.” She made her way to the kitchen area and poured three cups of coffee. “What do you take in your coffee?” she asked the girl.
“Look,” Charlotte said, springing lithely up and coming toward her. “Don’t go to any trouble for me, honest. I don’t need anything, except a place to stay a couple of days that’s a place Denny doesn’t know about. And we lost him, we shook him off in all that traffic. So there’s really no chance of a—” She gesticulated. “A scene. I promise.”
“You still didn’t tell me what you want in your coffee.”
“Black.”
Kleo handed her a cup.
“This is wonderful coffee,” Charlotte said.
Carrying two cups, Kleo went back to the living room, gave Nick his cup, seated herself on a black plastic chair. Nick and the girl, like two people in adjoining seats at a movie, sat down side by side on the couch.
“Have you called the police?” Kleo asked.
“Call the police?” Charlotte asked, with a puzzled expression. “No, of course not. He does this all the time; I just get out and wait—I know how long it lasts. And then I go back. The police? And have them arrest him? He’d die in jail. He has to be free; he has to go on sailing over great spaces, very fast, in that squib of his, the Purple Sea Cow we call it.” She then sipped her coffee, earnestly.
Kleo pondered. She had mixed feelings, chaotic feelings. She’s a stranger, she thought. We don’t know her; we don’t know even if she’s telling the truth about her boyfriend. Suppose it’s something else? Suppose the police are after her? But Nick seems to like her; he seems to trust her. But if she is telling the truth, of course we ought to let her stay here. And then Kleo thought, She certainly is pretty. Maybe that’s why Nick wants her to stay here; maybe he’s got a—she searched for the word. A special interest in her. If she wasn’t so pretty, would he still want to let her in here to stay with us? But that did not sound like Nick. Unless he was unaware of his true feelings; he knew he wanted to help the girl but he didn’t actually know why.
I guess we should take the chance, Kleo decided.
“We’d be very happy to have you stay with us,” she said aloud, “for as long as you need to.”
At this, Charlotte’s face grew radiant with pleasure.
“I’ll take your coat,” Kleo said, as the girl wriggled out of it—Nick gallantly offering her help.
“No, you don’t have to do that,” Charlotte said.
Kleo said, “If you’re going to be staying here”—she took the coat from Charlotte—“you’ll have to hang up your coat.” She carried it to the single closet of the apartment, opened the door, reached for a hanger . . . and saw, in one of the coat pockets, a hastily rolled up pamphlet. “Cordonite writing,” she said aloud, as she took it from the pocket. “You’re an Under Man.”
Charlotte ceased smiling; she looked anxious now, and it was obvious that her thoughts were moving rapidly as she hurriedly searched for an answer.
“Then that whole story about her boyfriend,” Kleo said, “it’s a lie. The tracks are after her; that’s why you want to hide her here.” She carried the coat, and the pamphlet, back to Charlotte. “You can’t stay here,” she said.
Nick said, “I would have told you, but—” He gestured. “I knew you’d react this way. And I was right.”
“It’s true about Denny,” Charlotte said in a mild, steady voice. “It is him I’m hiding from. The tracks aren’t after me. And you just had a random check, Nick told me. This apartment won’t be coming up again for—hell, for months. Maybe years.”
Kleo stood holding out Charlotte’s coat to her.
“If she goes,” Nick said, “I go with her.”
“I wish you would,” Kleo said.
“You mean that?” Nick asked.
“Yes, I mean it.”
Charlotte rose to her feet. “I’m not going to split the two of you up. It isn’t fair—I’ll go.” She turned to Nick. “Thank you anyway,” she said. She accepted her coat, put it on, moved toward the door. “I understand how you feel, Kleo,” she said as she opened the door. She smiled her bright—but now frozen—smile. “Goodbye.”
Nick moved rapidly—he strode after her, stopped her at the door by seizing her by the shoulder.
“No,” Charlotte said, and with what seemed unusual force by a woman, she twisted loose. “So long, Nick. Anyhow we shook the Purple Sea Cow. That was fun. You’re a good driver; a lot of guys have tried to shake Denny off when he’s in his ship, but you’re the only one who’s actually managed to do it.” She patted him on the arm and walked briskly out into the hall.
Maybe it is true about her boyfriend, Kleo thought. Maybe he did try to beat her up; maybe we ought to let her stay. Anyway. In spite of the fact . . . but, she thought, they didn’t tell me: not her, not Nick. Which amounts to a lie, by omission. She thought, I’ve never known Nick to do that before. Here he’s put us in all this danger and he hasn’t said—I just happened to see the pamphlet in her coat.