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THE UNSUSPECTED

 Copyright © 1945 by The Curtis Publishing Company

Charlotte Armstrong

Chapter One

On a February Monday, in the afternoon, too late for lunch too early for tea, the restaurant was nearly empty. A party of stout "girls" were quarreling over the check with high-pitched, playful cries. Two men at another table were eating very fast and swap-

ping manly gossip.

A blond girl in a powder-blue suit was waiting in the lobby. She was a butter-and-eggs, sugar-and-cream kind of girl, with yellow hair, pink-and-white skin, round blue eyes. Her small nose, snubbed up at the end, might have been drawn by an illustrator of children's

books. She was cute.

  The man who came in very fast through the revolving door might have been roughly classified as tall, dark and handsome. He was muscular and a trifle too thin for his expensive suit. His face had bleak and guarded expression. The girl in blue got up. They were not alike. You wouldn't have guessed from their meeting that they were blood relatives. But if you had watched them wisely you would have known them to be close in understanding, and that she was anxious about him.

She put her hand on his sleeve. "Let's get us a corner. "

The mans face loosened a little. "How are you, Jane?"

"All right. "

There were plenty of empty corners. They found a table against the partition that bounded the bar. "No uniform any more," she commented.

The man didn't answer. He looked across the big room with all the clean white tablecloths. It was very warm and dim and quiet, with soft music coming over the radio in the bar behind them. He looked down at five different kinds of spoons. His left hand mas-

saged the familiar ache in his right forearm.

Jane said, “I had to see you. I was afraid you'd go up there.

"Up to Dedham, Connecticut? Why would I go up there?" He drew a breath. He didn't want to talk about it. He had hoped she wouldn't talk about it. He said, "She isn't even buried there. "

"No," said Jane.

"She's dead. "

"Yes. "

"And that's that. " She began to murmur something, but he said, "How've you been?"—warning her off.

"All right," said Jane again. She had picked up her purse and was holding it tightly with both hands. "Did Rosaleen write you often, Fran?"

"Of course she wrote. " He moved his shoulders impatiently.

"What are you thinking?"

"I thought maybe," he said, "we could meet and have a bite without—”

Jane said, "You're the only one I can talk to. "

"Then don't ask foolish questions," he said unhappily. "You know what I'm thinking. Naturally, I'm wondering why. Why?" He spread both hands flat on the table, as if he were going to push it aside and get up and leave. "If you know why, then you can tell

me and get it over. Why did Rosaleen want to die so much that she had to hang herself?" He got it out brutally. It was what he was thinking.

 Jane's pretty face began to look pinched, as if she were cold, Francis leaned back against the seat. "I want to understand it," he said more quietly. "And I'm prepared to understand it. Go ahead. And if you've got to go gently," he sighed, "I guess I can stand it. "