Waltz Into Darkness

16

The letter was on his desk when he returned to the office from his noonday meal. It must have come in late, therefore, been delayed somehow in delivery, for the rest of his mail for that day had already been on hand awaiting his attention when he first came in at nine.

It was already well on toward three by now. The noonday meal of a typical New Orleans businessman, then, was no hurried snack snatched on the run, there then back again. It was a leisurely affair with due regard for the amenities. He went to his favorite restaurant. He seated himself in state. He ordered with care and amplitude. Friends and acquaintances were greeted, or often joined him at table. Business was discussed, sometimes even transacted. He lingered over his coffee, his cigar, his brandy. Finally, in his own good time, refreshed, restored, ready for the second half of the day’s efforts, he went back to his place of work. It was a process that consumed anywhere from two to three hours.

Thus it was midafternoon before, returning to his desk, he found the letter there lying on his blotting-pad.

Twice he started to open it, and twice was interrupted. He took it up, finally, and prepared to spare it a moment of his full attention.

The postmark was St. Louis again. Whether spurred by that or not, he recognized the handwriting, from the time before. From her sister again.

But this time there could be no mistake. It was addressed to him directly. Intentionally so. “Louis Durand, Esq.” To be delivered here, at his place of business.

He slit it along the top with a letter opener and plucked it out of its covering, puzzled. He swung himself sideward in his chair and gave it his attention.

If dried ink on paper can be said to scream, it screamed up at him.