Free Double Jeopardy by Martin M. Goldsmith

out of my sails and I had read and re-read several of her friendly letters that I began to seriously wonder if she really did love me. If she did, I reasoned, it was a very cool sort of love and not at all like the fierce passions of the French.
    Much to my dismay, she substantiated this dark thought of mine by the way she greeted me at the dock. Surrounding us on all sides were lovers, families and close friends being reunited, openly kissing and embracing one another. But when I spotted Anita—;looking perfectly beautiful—;and hugged and kissed her, she turned her face away to preclude the possibility of any repetition. Not only that, she murmured in a slightly irritated tone of voice: “Oh, please. Must you do that here?”
    I laughed, though not very convincingly. “Darling, I don't care if the whole world knows I love you! I want them to know!”
    I kissed her again, over and above her protests and she said, “Well, that's very sweet of you and all that, Peter. But must you....?”
    At that moment a Customs officer interrupted the scene and I was grateful. Her marked indifference to my happiness at seeing her hurt me no end and, had we been alone, I think a scrap would have started. As it was, an hour later in a taxicab my repressed anger cooled and I slid an arm about her shoulders. She was far too exquisite to fight with and since she did not draw away from me or try to remove my arm, any suspicions I might have had—;that she no longer cared for me—;fled.
    We checked in at the Martinique Hotel, having decided to stay in the city overnight before taking the train for Ithaca. The desk clerk, a war veteran himself, kept me in conversation—; much to Anita's disgust—;while I registered. Although I was very tired from the ordeal of the dock formalities, she insisted that I immediately go out and purchase some civilian clothes.
    “That uniform will be the death of me,” she complained. “While you've got it on, anyone, even a street-cleaner, feels he's your equal. Besides, you're not an officer.”
    At this, I demurred. “I want to bathe and take a nap for a few hours first, darling. It's much too hot to shop in this sun. The stores stay open until seven and I can buy them then. Right after I've put on the new duds, we can eat dinner.”
    Anita sighed wearily, as though I was some idiot whom she was eternally fated to humor. “You're hopeless but I suppose there is nothing that can be done about it. All right. Have your nap. But be sure you wake up and get your shopping done in time for an early dinner. I want to go to the theatre tonight.”
    I stared at her stupidly.
    After having been separated from her husband for almost two years, she wanted to spend the first night of the reunion in a theatre!
     
    Because I was unable to finish my medical course due to the sudden death of my mother, I am not a doctor; neither am I a psychoanalyst or a physiologist; but I am of the opinion that the sexual appetite of a person is the thermometer by which the degree of his or her love can be measured. By this I do not mean to infer that love is mere animal lust; certainly not. I do believe, though, that if a person is in love, sex follows naturally and continues to fire both parties only just so long as mutual adoration remains.
    All this, of course, is but a prelude to my telling you that Anita had to be coaxed.
    I write of this in embarrassment for I cannot conquer the feeling that I am revealing secrets rightfully belonging not to me alone, but to a sacred partnership. As a matter of fact, this entire tale is difficult to tell since the greater part of it concerns a woman now dead and unable to admit or deny its implications.
    This self-consciousness comes not from reviewing events which cannot be confirmed by concrete evidence, but because I realize that I am, in part, admitting the charges against me as set forth in the indictment. My attorney has pleaded with me to discontinue the writing of this manuscript,