Free Kaleidoscope by Dorothy Gilman Page B

for faces.”
    â€œApparently he does, too,” pointed out Amos with humor. “I would not have cared to face you in any police lineup.”
    She smiled. “You’re not thinking of returning to your former . . . does one say ‘profession’?”
    â€œOnly through my books,” he assured her, “although I must say, most of the criminals I write about seem to me depressingly indelicate and clumsy. It will take time, you know, to learn what happened to your subway chap.”
    â€œI understand, but you will—”
    â€œI will,” he assured her gravely, and Madame Karitska left, feeling that she had done what she could for poor Georges.
    At half past three that afternoon she opened her door to her last appointment of the day and was confronted by a fashionably dressed woman who looked both nervous and embarrassed, perhaps never having visited, or expected to visit, either Eighth Street or a clairvoyant, her face a pale oval, skin flawless, eyes carefully made up with eye shadow. Definitely she belonged to Cavendish Square; she looked expensive.
    She said, “Karitska? Readings?”
    â€œYes, do come in,” Madame Karitska said cordially.
    â€œI told the cabdriver to wait; it won’t take long, will it?”
    Madame Karitska smiled. “This is not precisely like a dental appointment. We shall see, shall we?”
    â€œYes—yes, of course.”
    The woman followed her inside, looking around in surprise at the sunny book-lined room. “I’d rather not give you my last name, but . . . well, my first name’s Anna.” She sat down on the edge of the couch as if ready to flee at any minute. “I didn’t know what to expect—it’s very private.
Very
private.” She looked at Madame Karitska with suspicion. “My hairdresser told me about you. I didn’t know where else to go. Are you discreet? I hope we don’t know the same people.”
    Madame Karitska wanted to laugh but only waved her hand gracefully at her small living room. She knew a number of people on Cavendish Square, had been there, after all, only two hours ago, but she saw no purpose in saying so. “Unless you frequent Eighth Street I really doubt that we’ll meet again.”
    â€œYou see,” she said, “it’s about my husband.”
    Madame Karitska sighed;
another erring husband,
she thought;
I must be tired,
and reminded herself that love, money and grief were what usually brought people to her door. Patience was needed; bills had to be paid.
    â€œHave
you
been married?” demanded the woman.
    Amused, Madame Karitska said, “Actually three times, yes. Once for survival when I was fifteen, once for love, once for comfort and companionship.”
    â€œOh,” the woman said, startled. “I suppose I should apologize for prying—”
    â€œYes, you should,” agreed Madame Karitska calmly, and waited. After all, she did not have to
like
her clients.
    â€œWell, I’m sorry,” Anna said peevishly, “but this is embarrassing.”
    â€œYes, but you’d come about your husband?”
    She nodded. “We’re
very
happily married,” she said defiantly, “but I hardly ever see him; he’s become so . . . so secretive since he left his
very
important job a year ago. He’s a computer expert, you see, and considered a genius. And with two friends—one of them from Intel and one from IBM, the three left to begin their own electronic company—but in
Maine
,” she said with a catch in her voice, “and he refuses my moving there to be with him.”
    There were tears in her eyes now. “Our home is here in Trafton, you see, but he comes back so seldom, I scarcely see him at all these days, and . . .” She hesitated and then said at last, “I keep wondering if he’s seeing another woman. Up there. In Maine. And my hairdresser said that if I brought you