Free The Other Typist by Suzanne Rindell Page A

(I’d like to take this moment to note: This makes it sound as though I am by regular habit a thief, and I assure you I am not. One can hardly own a matchstick—they are made to be used by whoever might have need for them. And I have already said my peace about the brooch being more of a
found item
insofar as I only picked it up from the floor where it had dropped.)
    When I got to the alley, I glanced around furtively. I was acutely aware of how I must’ve looked. With a trembling hand, I struck the sulfur tip of the match against a brick wall. It flared up with a hiss. I’d never smoked, but I’d seen men do it plenty of times in cafés. I held the flame to one end of the cigarette and sucked in my cheeks slightly. Instantly my lungs felt a dry, hot, crackling sensation come over them. I coughed very ungracefully and shot a wild glance around the alley, still trying to make certain no one was watching me.
    The cigarette seemed to be taking effect. My head began to spin and felt a little like it had turned into a balloon and had begun to lift away from my body. I wondered if this was what Odalie felt like when she smoked her cigarettes. Did she smoke them in cafés? At parties? Was she so bold? I thought of her and tried to hold the cigarette like she might do. My head got even lighter. I took several long, luxurious puffs on the cigarette, watching the butt smolder like a tiny red-hot coal as I drew in breath after breath. I felt quite relaxed until, very abruptly, someone thrust open a window in one of the apartments high above me. Startled, I threw the cigarette into a murky puddle and bolted down the alley as quickly as I was able. The sound of my heels hitting the pavement urged me on with a loud clapping that served to terrify me further. I didn’t slow down until I neared the precinct. As I walked in the door and crossed the main floor, I tried to calm myself and put myself back together.
    Luckily, my entrance was treated with just as much disinterest as my departure had initially generated—that is to say, no one even bothered to look up at me. I made an effort to catch my breath, squared off my shoulders, and calmly began to cross the room back to my desk. My thoughts raced with my new secret.
I’ve been smoking! I am a wild, smoking woman—just think of that!
The Lieutenant Detective would be so surprised to know, I thought with some satisfaction. The Sergeant . . . well . . . that was a less satisfying thought. I pushed it aside.
    “Rose.” I heard someone say my name softly. I flinched and turned to see Odalie looking at me, a faint smile of curiosity twisting her lips. “Is everything all right?”
    “Oh! Fine,” I said. “It’s fine—all fine . . . I’m quite all right.”
    She cocked her head at me. “You looked startled just now,” she said. She sniffed the air, and her smile twisted a little further as the curiosity died out of it and a hint of knowing trickled in. Then she shrugged as if to let me off the hook and let the matter go. “Only checking,” she said. Her eyes lingered on mine for a second before she finally turned away and walked back to her desk. It was then that I turned my head and noticed the scent of cigarette smoke I was now carrying about in my hair. The scent was like the train of a gown, following me everywhere for the rest of the day, and I wondered how far it extended.
    Later that afternoon my question was answered as I came back from the filing cabinets to find a packet of cigarettes sitting on my desk. The packet was new and unopened, and I knew instantly where they had come from. I crossed the room and held them out to Odalie, who was in the middle of typing something and looked up at me with a distracted expression.
    “No, thank you,” I said, shaking the packet in her face. “I don’t smoke.”
    “Oh. Are you sure?”
    “Yes,” I said, still holding the packet out.
    “Well then. I guess that’s my mistake,” she said, not sounding mistaken at