Free The Other Typist by Suzanne Rindell Page B

all, and accepted the cigarettes with a smug, languid hand.

5
    A n incident occurred at some point during that period that had little direct connection to Odalie, but for some reason it always stands out in my memory when I recall her first weeks at the precinct. In fact, perhaps rather than saying the incident had “little direct connection,” it would be more accurate of me to say it had no connection at all. The event in question didn’t even happen at the precinct—it was just a small matter that happened back at the boarding-house once I’d already gone home for the day.
    That afternoon, I was dismissed earlier than usual from my post. There had been a sort of lull after the lunch hour, during which a lazy mood settled over the office. At about half past three, the Lieutenant Detective ambled over with his loose, lanky shuffle and proceeded to half perch, half lean against my desk, sitting on the desktop as though it were a horse he was planning to ride sidesaddle. He pushed the papers lying on my desk around with an air of great interest, although judging from the unfocused gaze of his eyes I don’t think he actually
saw
any of the words typed on the reports he was looking at. He cleared his throat several times and finally spoke.
    “I believe you’ve already done the work of two typists today, Miss Baker. Perhaps we had better let you go home before you decide to demand twice the pay.” His eyes flicked upward from the reports on my desk to meet my own, but, as though burned by something they found there, flicked away just as quickly.
    “I don’t believe the Sergeant has mentioned anything about my going home early today,” I said.
    “Well, as you know, I’m quite authorized to dismiss you on my own. And anyway, I’m sure the Sergeant would give his blessing,” the Lieutenant Detective continued, his voice straining with affability. He balanced a paper clip flat on one fingertip and pretended to study it. “We wouldn’t want to bring any trouble on ourselves from the union.”
    This last part was a joke. There were no unions for typists—or, for that matter, any profession where the fairer sex made up the majority of workers.
    “Fine,” I said brusquely, refusing to laugh at the joke. “So long as the Sergeant doesn’t mind it, I’ll take the afternoon off.” I promptly set about packing my things up for the day. I reached for some papers under the Lieutenant Detective’s seat and yanked at them unapologetically. With his eyebrows raised, he stumbled out of his sidesaddle perch and stood there blinking at me in a manner reminiscent of the winos who, upon their release from our custody, often staggered out from the darkness of the precinct only to stand on the pavement, dumbstruck and blinking in utter bewilderment at the much-too-bright sun.
    When I had put on my gloves and slipped my handbag into the crook of my elbow, he was still standing there, blinking.
    “But where will you go?” It was plain to see this exchange was not going as he’d planned.
    I gave him a curious glance. “Why, home, of course. You said it yourself.” He did not respond right away. I waited. I sighed and slipped the handbag back off my arm and let it land in the middle of my desk with a
plunk
. “Unless, of course,” I said, “you’re only having a laugh at me.” I began tugging at the fingers of my gloves with irritation.
    “No, no,” the Lieutenant Detective said with haste. “Definitely not having a laugh at you.” He had an odd, pinched look on his face as he watched me retrieve my handbag from the desktop and walk across the precinct floor to the front exit. He looked flustered, as though there were a sentence half formed in his mouth that was struggling in vain to the point of delivery. Perhaps he had expected a more effusive thank-you. But it was not my job to decode the motivations behind his enigmatic behaviors, and during my commute home, I made an oath to myself not to give it much thought or