“Don’t you want to tell him?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No, you.” She put out a hand to touch his knee and then jerked it away.
His eyes went to Wolfe. “We were married six months ago — six months and four days — but now we’re not married, according to the law. We’re not married because my wife, Caroline—” He paused to look down at her, and, his train of thought interrupted, reached to take her hand, but it moved, and he didn’t get it.
He stood up, squared his shoulders, faced Wolfe, and spoke faster and louder. “Four years ago she married a man named Sidney Karnow. A year later he enlisted in the Army and was sent to Korea. A few months later she was officially informed that he was dead — killed in action. A year after that I met her and fell in love with her and asked her to marry me, but she wouldn’t until two years had passed since Karnow died, and then she did. Three weeks ago Karnow turned up alive — he phoned his lawyer here from San Francisco — and last week he got his Army discharge, and Sunday, day before yesterday, he came to New York.”
Aubry hunched his shoulders like Jack Dempsey ready to move in. “I’m not giving her up,” he told the world. “I — will — not — give — her — up!”
Wolfe grunted. “It’s fifteen million to one, Mr. Aubry.”
“What do you mean, fifteen million?”
“The People of the State of New York. They’re lined up against you, officially at least, I’m one of them. Why in heaven’s name did you come to me? You should have cleared out with her days ago — Turkey, Australia, Burma, anywhere — if she was willing. It may not be too late if you hurry. Bon voyage.”
Aubry stood a moment, took a deep breath, turned and went to the yellow chair I had placed, and sat. Becoming aware that his fists were clenched, he opened them, cupped his hands on his knees, and looked at Caroline. He lifted a hand and let it fall back to his knee. “I can’t touch you,” he said.
“No,” she said. “Not while — no.”