18
Mr. Ferris was sitting on the edge of his bed in the Culvers' guest room. He was wearing a pair of khaki trousers and a corduroy jacket, both belonging to Larry Culver; and he was bending over, absorbed in lacing up a pair of Larry's boots. He looked up when he heard Iris Culver's heels click as far as the open door.
She was in a pink negligee so sheer it might have been made of gossamer. She was standing with one hand on the jamb, and after a glance at her bright, glassy eyes he decided she needed it for support. It was obvious that she'd been leaning heavily on the martinis.
"Why, Tarl," – drunk or not, you couldn't shake the smooth Vassar-intonation from her voice – "what are you up to?"
"I'm going into the swamp," he said. "With Jort Camp and Sam Parks."
"With – but why?"
Mr. Ferris finished with the right boot and switched to the left.
"I've just come from Sutt's. There was a great deal of talk about a girl called Dorry Mears who ran away with Shad Hark. Everyone seems to be of the opinion that they have gone off with the money."
He stood up and tested the feel of the right boot, took two heavy steps forward on it. He seemed satisfied. "This Camp person and his little friend were just returning from the swamp – from 'gator-grabbing' I believe they said. Camp said he saw Shad and the girl going downriver in a skiff."
Iris looked at him. "Then that's that," she said.
Mr. Ferris glanced at her. "No. I don't think it is."
He went to the dresser and began putting things in his pockets: comb, keys, wallet, cigarettes, matches, folded handkerchief.
"It seems that the genial Camp and his nervous shadow are going back into the swamp immediately – 'gatorgrabbing' again, they say. I'm going with them."
"I don't understand, Tarl -"
"You don't need to. In my business I must know a great deal about the people I come in contact with. I know something about these two men. That is why it is imperative I go into the swamp with them."
Iris came into the room.
"What is it you know, Tarl?"
He smiled. "Don't press this insurance investigator, my dear. My information is my hole card."
She sensed that she was losing him; and he was her last hope.
"Then you don't think it is too late to recover the money?"
"No. I don't think it's too late."
"You think Shad is still out there?"
"I'm certain of it."
Her eyes were too bright. They sparked as though the light had glanced from black spear points. "Tarl -" she breathed. "Tarl, I don't want him to come back."
"Iris -" his tone could be very official, "you must be very careful what you say. Someone might misintepret -"
"He's a thief!" she hissed, and her breath was like warm gin on his face. "An outlaw. And he's dangerous, Tar!. You don't know -"
"Let's forget about Shad Hark now," he said coldly. "I'll manage that young man when the time comes." He made a move as if to go around her. "I really must be going now, Iris."
But she couldn't have it that way. She raised her white arms to his neck.
"But you'll come back to me? You'll promise to come back?"
He opened his mouth to promise, but she didn't let him speak. She ground her mouth on his.
"Iris!" The voice had the high bleat of shocked belief. It belonged to Larry Culver.
Mr. Ferris disengaged his mouth and looked up. All he could think at that moment was, this has never happened to me before. I must be growing very careless.
Iris turned a look on her husband as though he'd just asked her to come clean up the mess the dog had made in the living room. She was very annoyed with him.
"Don't stand there like a fool," she snapped at him. "Did you think this was the Victorian era?"
He was a slight man with the pasty pallor of a book lover, which he was not; and the horn-rimmed glasses he wore lent to his incredulous expression, a droll look rather than a studious one. He stood in the doorway with the hesitant stance of a man on the edge of an abyss.
"Iris – Tarleton -"
Mr. Ferris brought out his folded handkerchief and rubbed the lipstick from his mouth. He glanced at his wristwatch. Time to go.
"Iris – what are you doing? How long has this – this – Good Lord, Iris, don't just stand there with your – your gown open that way!"
Iris bunched her negligee together in the front. She swayed slightly on her high heels. "I want a cigarette," she said petulantly. "Tarl, I want a cigarette."
Mr. Ferris brought out his pack of cigarettes and offered her one. Then he struck a match for her. He deeply wished he might be dealing with someone a little more realistic than Larry Culver. He blew the match out and said, "I'm sorry Larry. Really very sorry. I wish I had the time to try and explain – but I have business that can't wait." He looked at Iris, his expression politely void. "Goodbye, lris."
He went through the doorway without looking at Larry Culver. Their bodies brushed and Mr. Ferris murmured "Pardon me." His guard was down pointedly because he didn't expect Larry to strike him. Larry didn't. It didn't even enter his mind.
Iris heard the screen door clatter and she said, "Gone." And then, "Over." Now there would be nothing more – loose pigs on the front lawn that wasn't really a lawn at all, only a pseudo-civilized extension of that filthy swamp; illiterate, barefooted swamp billies loafing along the edge of the lake, leering their imbecilic grins when they saw her; damp mould on everything, even on the people; they called it sweat. And Larry hiding in his ivory tower in hurt bewilderment trying to understand something that was as remote to his intelligence as Mars was to Earth. Ovet
"Iris -" That terrible, incredulous whine. "Iris, don't you have anything to say to me? Aren't you – I mean – we can't just remain mute as though I hadn't seen what I did see."
She put the cigarette out in an ashtray on the dresser. She didn't look at him. "I don't want to talk about it," she said.
"_Not talk about it?_" He was aghast.
His insistent stupidity was too much for her. "You fool!" she cried. "Don't you understand you mean nothing to me? I'd as soon waste my time explaining my actions to that chair. I don't give a damn what you think, or if you think at all, which is doubtful."
He managed to shave some of the whine from his voice, replacing it with righteous disapproval. "Have you been sleeping with him?"
It was so like him to use that archaic expression. She almost laughed.
"Did you think you could satisfy a woman? Any woman? Do you think any woman could live with you and not go stark raving mad. Do you have any idea of what your lovemaking is like? It's like that watered-down slop you write!"
Instantly he found himself on the defensive, which, considering the circumstances, was incongruous. But he couldn't help it.
"Now wait a minute – now – wait a minute, Iris. You're not being fair. I may not be a Thomas Wolfe, but I -"
"_May not be a Thomas Wolfe?_" she cried. "Oh God!"
Suddenly she spoke with cold sarcasm. "Do you know what your work reminds me of? It's like the trash those hack writers used to pot-boil for the pulp adventure magazines back in the '20s and '30s. They always called their dashing Nordic heroes names like McCoy or McKay or McCloud or Quincannon – names which automatically had a connotation suggestive of rough, manly derring-do. Invariably they had sandy thatches of hair, frequently red, and always a scattering of freckles on the backs of their tanned square wrists. But best of all was the manner in which these literary giants would introduce those girlkilling, booze-drinking, saloon-brawling, quick-shooting, Scotch-Irish supermen. They would write, 'No plaster saint – comma – McKay.'"
"Now you're not being fair, Iris. You know I don't use that archaic kind of sentence structure."