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Updated: June 6, 2025
A surge of relief swept him at least she was alone! "She's looking back!" Storch volunteered. Fred turned. The woman had gained the doorway of the place where she lodged and she was standing with an air of inconsequence as if she had nothing of any purpose on her mind except an appreciation of the night's dark beauty. He looked at her steadily ... It was Ginger!
It was like living on the edge of a volcano. Later in the day he said to Storch: "Are you sure the maker of that bomb was skillful?" Storch bared his green teeth. "One is sure of nothing!" he snapped back. Fred tried to appear nonchalant. "Aren't you rather bold, having this thing delivered in broad daylight?" "What have we to fear?" "I thought we were being watched."
Fred put both his arms upon the cluttered table, leaning forward, as he answered: "Nothing can alter my decision now, Storch... You should have known better than to have counted on one of my sort...In the end, you see, my standards have shackled me." "Counted on your sort!" Storch laughed back, sarcastically.
But when they were inside the house again, with the cracked lamp shade spilling a tempered light about the room, he turned to Storch and said, quietly: "I sha'n't go to sleep to-night, Storch... You throw yourself on the couch; I've kept you from it long enough." Storch made a movement toward the door. "Don't bother to lock it ... I'm not going to run away. I'm not quite a fool!
Armed guards paraded before the entrance to the docks and only occasional idlers sunned themselves and viewed the silent and furtive loading of restive craft straining at their moorings. He began to wonder dimly whether he had left Storch dead or merely stunned, and, granting either alternative, how definitely this circumstance would halt the plot against Hilmer's life.
He wanted to live, realizing completely that to-morrow might seal everything. He was not afraid, but he was alive, very much alive so alive that he found himself rising triumphant from sorrow and shame and disillusionment. He came out of his musings with a realization that Storch was regarding him with that puzzled air which his moods were beginning to evoke.
It was conceivable to him now that Storch might have provided against the possibility of failure, given the role of assassin into the hands of an understudy, to be exact. Suppose Ginger should fail in her warning? Not that he doubted her, but there was a chance that she had been hedged about with all manner of difficulties perhaps even death.
But slowly the outlines of Monet grew less and less tangible and the personality of Storch more and more shot through with warm-breathed vitality, and the strange company that gathered at dusk about the lamp became living things instead of shadows. Yet it took him some time to realize that these nightly gatherings at Storch's were composed of real flesh and blood.
When the barber finished, Fred was startled. Standing before the mirror he gazed at his smooth-shaven cheek again and trembled. It was like a resurrection. Even Storch was startled. Fred caught a suggestion of doubt in the gaze his jailer threw at him. It was almost as if Storch said: "You are not the man I thought you." After that Fred had a sense that Storch watched him more narrowly.
Storch's tone was kind to a point of softness, and yet, later, when he bent over the couch with a steaming glass in his hand Fred experienced a sharp revulsion. "I dreamed all last night," Fred said, almost defiantly, "that this room was a cobweb and that you were a huge spider, dangling on a thread." "And you were the fly, I suppose," Storch replied, sneeringly.
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