“There are people who can,” I half-agreed, “when they want to.”
“No, no! Whether they want to or not. When they desperately don’t want to. It is so. It is. I loved Eric because he was clean and fine. You know he was. You knew him well enough, and you know men well enough, to know he was. I loved him that way, wanted him that way. And then, when we were married–”
She shuddered and gave me both of her hands. The palms were dry and hot, the ends of her fingers cold. I had to hold them tight to keep the nails out of my flesh. I asked:
“You were a virgin when you married him?”
“Yes, I was. I am. I–”
“It’s nothing to get excited about,” I said. “You are, and have the usual silly notions. And you use dope, don’t you?”
She nodded. I went on:
“That would cut your own interest in sex to below normal, so that a perfectly natural interest in it on somebody else’s part would seem abnormal. Erie was too young, too much in love with you, maybe too inexperienced, to keep from being clumsy. You can’t make anything horrible out of that.”
“But it wasn’t only Eric,” she explained. “Every man I’ve known. Don’t think me conceited. I know I’m not beautiful. But I don’t want to be evil. I don’t. Why do men–? Why have all the men I’ve–?”
“Are you,” I asked, “talking about me?”
“No–you know I’m not. Don’t make fun of me, please.”
“Then there are exceptions? Any others? Madison Andrews, for instance?”
“If you know him at all well, or have heard much about him, you don’t have to ask that.”
“No,” I agreed. “But you can’t blame the curse with him–it’s habit. Was he very bad?”
“He was very funny,” she said bitterly.
“How long ago was it?”
“Oh, possibly a year and a half. I didn’t say anything to my father and step-mother. I was–I was ashamed that men were like that to me, and that–”
“How do you know,” I grumbled, “that most men aren’t like that to most women? What makes you think your case is so damned unique? If your ears were sharp enough, you could listen now and hear a thousand women in San Francisco making the same complaint, and–God knows–maybe half of them would be thinking themselves sincere.”
She took her hands away from me and sat up straight on the bed. Some pink came into her face.
“Now you have made me feel silly,” she said.
“Not much sillier than I do. I’m supposed to be a detective. Since this job began, I’ve been riding around on a merry-go-round, staying the same distance behind your curse, suspecting what it’d look like if I could get face to face with it, but never getting there. I will now. Can you stand another week or two?”
“You mean–?”
“I’m going to show you that your curse is a lot of hooey, but it’ll take a few days, maybe a couple of weeks.”
She was round-eyed and trembling, wanting to believe me, afraid to. I said:
“That’s settled. What are you going to do now?”
“I–I don’t know. Do you mean what you’ve said? That this can be ended? That I’ll have no more–? That you can–?”
“Yeah. Could you go back to the house in the cove for a while? It might help things along, and you’ll be safe enough there. We could take Mrs. Herman with us, and maybe an op or two.”
“I’ll go,” she said.
I looked at my watch and stood up saying:
“Better go back to bed. We’ll move down tomorrow. Good night.”
She chewed her lower lip, wanting to say something, not wanting to say it, finally blurting it out:
“I’ll have to have morphine down there.”
“Sure. What’s your day’s ration?”
“Five–ten grains.”
“That’s mild enough,” I said, and then, casually: “Do you like using the stuff?”
“I’m afraid it’s too late for my liking or not liking it to matter.”
“You’ve been reading the Hearst papers,” I said. “If you want to break off, and we’ve a few days to spare down there, we’ll use them weaning you. It’s not so tough.”