Free An Air That Kills by Margaret Millar Page B

you spirited me away from Harry and the Inspector.”
    Turee smiled. “My dear Esther, no one spirited you away. You’re too big a girl to be spirited away, for one thing.”
    â€œDon’t go off on verbal maneuvers. Why were you so anxious to get rid of me?”
    â€œI wasn’t anxious. I simply thought it would be polite if you and I let the Inspector talk to Harry in private.”
    â€œPoliteness. That was one reason?”
    â€œCertainly.”
    â€œNow what are some others?”
    â€œOthers?”
    â€œYou always have an ulterior motive, Ralph, sometimes several of them. You remind me of a set of boxes the boys used to play with when they were younger—when you open the largest one, you find a smaller one, and inside that, still a smaller one, and so on.”
    â€œI’m not sure I follow you.”
    â€œEvery time you give me a motive for doing something, I know there’s another reason inside it, and yet another inside that one. Inside every box there’s a motive.”
    â€œIt can’t go on ad infinitum. What’s in the smallest box?”
    â€œYour fat little ego.”
    Turee’s laugh had a brittle note. “You make me sound extremely complicated.”
    â€œOr devious.”
    â€œI’ll make you a promise, Esther. If I ever open that last box, I’ll invite you over. Will you come?”
    â€œWith bells on,” Esther said primly. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
    â€œOf course, I don’t guarantee there’ll be much of a surprise inside. Just one fat little ego.” Turee could see that she was enjoying the game; he was even beginning to enjoy it him­self. “What do you suppose it’ll look like?”
    â€œA kewpie doll. One of those tiny celluloid kewpie dolls you can buy in the dime store.”
    â€œThat’s not very flattering.”
    â€œOh it is, really. Compared to what I think mine would look like. Or Ron’s.”
    â€œWhat about Ron’s?”
    â€œRon would never get to the last box. Or if he did, he’d never invite me over to see it, or anyone else. It would be strictly a private showing.”
    â€œI wish you could think more kindly of Ron.”
    â€œI wish I could, too,” Esther said slowly. “I happen to love him.”
    MacGregor had laid a fire in the fireplace and the room by this time was so warm that the windows had steamed up. Turee had a childish impulse to go over and write his name in the steam, or print a message or draw a picture—a heart with an arrow piercing it, and underneath, ESTHER LOVES RON.
    â€œI’m not very sensible,” Esther said, in a detached manner. “I appear to be sometimes—very sensible and efficient and practical. Actually it’s all a front. I’m a fool, and the worst kind, too, the kind that knows it, that sees ahead of time all the wrong things to do and does them anyway. I fell in love with Ron the first time I met him. I knew he had a wife and child. I knew he was spoiled by too much money and a terribly foolish set of parents, I knew our backgrounds and our tastes were completely different. I went after him anyway, tooth and nail. It was easy. Ron was a perfect setup. He still is.”
    â€œHow do you mean that?”
    â€œIf I could do it, any woman could. Or can.”
    â€œNow, Esther, don’t go . . .”
    â€œRon is a patsy. The perfect patsy.”
    â€œYour circumstances aren’t quite the same as Dorothy’s.”
    â€œOh, they’re different, all right. But are they any better?”
    It was, perhaps, the opportune time to tell her everything he knew about Thelma and Ron, but Turee had neither the courage nor the desire, nor even all the facts. It seemed to him a fateful piece of irony that Esther should now find herself in the same position into which she had forced another woman a long time ago. Somebody would have to tell her. Who, he