The Devil's Own Rag Doll Read Online Free PDF Page B

don’t know much about childbirth, I suppose. It isn’t often brought up in polite conversation, at least in mixed company. But you see, I am a woman who insists on being treated with respect. I believe in marriage as a partnership. Roger doesn’t keep things from me, because he knows I’d make his life a living hell if he did.” She teetered and looked over our faces, then pulled a slim silver cigarette case from somewhere in her dress. She put her hand on my arm, leaned close, put a cigarette to her lips, and murmured, “You look like a man who could give a woman a light.”
    I raised my eyebrows and slowly shook my head. I pulled my left hand from my pocket and tipped the palm upward, empty, making sure she took a good look.
    Bobby stood up and fumbled with his lighter until the lady managed to catch the flame. He sat down gingerly and rubbed his thumb over the silver case, looking for a place to cut into the conversation.
    â€œWell,” said Mrs. Hardiman, “my little girl is gone. Taken from me by a madman, I suppose.”
    â€œEstelle,” said Hardiman, “perhaps liquor isn’t the thing just now.” He made a halfhearted motion to take the glass from her.
    â€œIt’s just the thing,” she said. “Nothing else will do.” Her rings clacked on the tumbler as she tipped it back and sucked out a mouthful of whiskey.
    I watched her delicate throat bobbing, watched the movement of her blue veins beneath the pale whispery skin. She might still have passed as beautiful but seemed to have lost her vitality unevenly—bits of flabby flesh contrasted with the odd dazzle in her eyes, and she had quick way of moving, even with the influence of whatever the doctor had given her. I moved my eye slowly back and forth between Hardiman and the woman.
    Mrs. Hardiman glanced at me, her eyes just shy of control. “Oh, dear, I’m afraid Mr.—Cudgel, is it? Mr. Cudgel doesn’t approve. Do you think I’m entirely without feeling for my daughter, Mr. Cudgel? Do I seem cold to you?”
    â€œAh,” said Bobby, “I’m sure Detective Caudill doesn’t have anything to say about that.”
    â€œI venture to say, Mr. Cudgel, that you can’t begin to appreciate what’s been lost here. Am I right? Do you know yourself?” She was a slender woman, and small, and half broken down, but still she turned something my way that made me think she knew how to wreck things.
    I met Estelle Hardiman’s eyes for a moment without letting her pull anything out of me. Then I turned my head slowly and stared blankly at her husband. You could see that she had more than a little something on him, and you can bet I was taking careful note of how he was handling her.
    â€œIt’s a delicate situation,” said Bobby. “It’s going to take—”
    â€œShut up, you idiot!” Hardiman walked to his desk and shook the ink down into his fountain pen. He scrawled a note on a half-sheet of letterhead, folded it, and handed it to Bobby. “Detectives,” he said, gesturing toward the doors, “I suppose you can find your way out. It’s been a long day, and I should see to it that my wife gets her rest.”
    We stood up and walked toward the library doors. Bobby placed his hat on his head, then turned to the woman and lifted it slightly. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said. I kept walking.
    Darkness had fallen, and a chorus of crickets sang out from all over the green, leafy estates of Grosse Pointe. I was thinking about Hardiman’s liquor cabinet as I slid into the car. It was obvious that he got a lot of use out of it. Since I couldn’t make much out of the situation in the house, I kept from thinking about it. It was like stepping into a whole other world, where the usual rules for dealing with people had been warped, where gin might not be gin and whiskey not whiskey, where names on bottles might