He'd removed the hand from his pocket and it was resting on the table now, the stubby fingers still contracted into a fist. A fist ... nothing more! A fist which had been thrust deeply into the coat pocket of a boy keyed up, embarrassed, uncertain of himself—a hard-knuckled fist making, quite naturally, a weapon-like bulge.
She had a sudden, almost uncontrollable impulse to laugh hysterically, to let herself go, not caring what anyone in the restaurant might think, least of all this crazy kid with his sheaf of drawings. It was a portfolio he'd been carrying, she could see that now. The square, black object was a portfolio and it rested on the table; there was nothing but drawings in it, good, bad or indifferent. She had been given back her life and had nothing at all to fear.
"I guess ... I took too much for granted," he stammered. A deep flush had crept up over his cheekbones and he seemed almost on the verge of tears. "You do crazy things at times when you feel that you really can draw, and that just a brief talk with an editor in a position to recommend—"
He gulped and tried again. "I'd never submit a drawing I didn't believe in myself. It took me a long time to learn, and I still turn out bad work at times—some very bad things. But there are a few drawings I'm proud of and not ashamed to show to editors. All I ask is a chance to show one of the really big groups what I can do if the incentive is there, the opportunity ... if I'm given half a chance.
"I suppose that isn't the way an artist should talk ... or even think. He should do his best without giving a thought to the rewards—to commercial success or artistic recognition on a more important level, like getting a picture hung in the Museum of Modern Art. I almost did last year. But even if that happened I could still starve to death."
The impulse to laugh hysterically was gone now, or she found herself able to control it. She wouldn't have been laughing at him, she was sure of that. There was something appealing about him, something honest and forthright—even if brash and almost incredibly naïve—which was beginning to affect her in a strange way. And that was to his credit also, for she was just recovering from the worst scare she'd ever had, the most ghastly fifteen minutes she'd ever lived through.
It was difficult for her to think clearly, to listen with complete sympathy to what he was saying, as she would have done had he talked with her at the office before—
All of the horror came back for an instant and she shut her eyes, seeing the police again, her eyes blinded by the exploding flash bulbs, hearing Macklin's voice, calm, unruffled, but filled with understanding and deep concern.
"I wish you wouldn't be quite so stubborn, Lynn. They'll let you go out right now and get a sandwich and some coffee if you simply remind them that you've had no lunch and it's too great a strain to answer any more questions. I'm having some coffee sent up, but it may not get here for another fifteen or twenty minutes. Just say the word and I'll tell them off and make them like it. That detective lieutenant isn't a bad guy. Naturally he wants to get the nearest thing they have to an eye-witness account down on paper while it's still fresh in your mind. Later, you might forget some important detail. But if you feel bad, it makes sense to say so. You can go out and come back again."
There was a whirling in her mind now, a dizziness that kept her eyelids glued shut for a second or two longer. Why had she been so stubborn, preferring to think of herself as trapped, forced to answer questions while a fierce rebelliousness tugged at her, when she could so easily have followed Macklin's advice and gained at least an hour's respite? With a respite at two, she could have gone on talking until six and perhaps avoided this encounter with another kind of horror—a horror of the dusk that had almost destroyed what remained of her control.