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at getting away from the technical
aspects of the case and attempted to picture Parry as a combination
of unfaithful husband, killer and draft dodger. I am not acquainted
with Parry's marital difficulties. As for the killer angle, the
case is not yet completed and further testimony will no doubt bring
up new facts that will decide the matter one way or another.
However, I am certain that Vincent Parry is not a draft dodger. I
happen to know that Parry made several attempts to enter the armed
forces even though he had been rejected previously because of
physical disability.
    The letter was signed — Irene
Janney.
    Parry said, “Is that you?”
    “Yes.”
    “It’s not much of a letter. It hardly says
anything.”
    “It’s not the entire letter. The Chronicle
couldn’t print all of it. They'd have to use a couple of columns.
But they tried to be fair. They included that contradiction of the
draft-dodging angle.”
    “How did you know I tried to get
in?”
    She pressed, her cigarette in a yellow
glass ash tray. “I have a friend who works at your draft board. He
told me. He said you were called up twice and rejected. He said you
kept pestering the draft board for another chance to get
in.”
    “Is that what got you interested in the
case?”
    “No,” Irene said. “This friend knew I was
interested. He called me up and told me what had happened at the
draft board. He told me you really wanted to get in. It checked
with the way I felt about the entire affair. Sometimes I get that
way. I get excited about something and I give it everything I
have.”
    “I think I’ll clear out,” Parry
said.
    “Sit down. Let’s keep talking. Let's tell
each other about ourselves. How's the kidney trouble?”
    “I’ve been feeling better,” Parry said. He
lit another cigarette.
    “It’s odd about the kidney
trouble.”
    “Why?”
    “I have it also. Not serious, but it
bothers me now and then.”
    “Look, I think I’ll clear out. How's the
fire escape?”
    “Stay here, Vincent.”
    “What for?”
    “Stay until it’s dark at
least.”
    He looked at the stained-yellow cabinet,
the unmoving shining black record on the phonograph disc. He said,
“It’s this way. I've got to keep moving. And moving fast. Like this
it's no good. The police will be working while I'm doing nothing.
They're running after me and if I don't run I'll be
caught.”
    “There’s a time to run.”
    He was about to say something but just
then the phone rang. It was a French phone, yellow. It was on a
yellow table beside the grey-violet davenport. Irene picked up the
phone.
    “Hello—oh, hello Bob. How are you—yes, I’m
fine-tonight? Oh, I'm sorry, Bob, but I won't be able to make it
tonight—no, no other commitments, but I just don't feel like going
out. —Oh yes, I'm quite all right, but I'm in the mood for a quiet
evening and reading and the radio and so forth all by myself—no, I
just feel that way—don't be silly—oh, don't be silly Bob—well,
maybe tomorrow—oh, Bob don't be silly—stop it, Bob, I don't like to
hear you talk that way. Call me tomorrow—yes, tomorrow about seven.
—Of course not. How's your work coming along— that's fine—all
right, Bob—yes, tomorrow at seven I'll expect to hear from you.
Good-by—”
    Parry walked toward the door.
    She stood up and stepped between Parry and
the door. She said, “Please, Vincent—”
    “I’m going,” he said. “That phone call did
it.”
    “But I didn’t want to see him
anyway.”
    “All right, but there will be times when
you’ll want to see him. And times when you want to be at certain
places. Doing certain things. And you won't be able to, because
you'll be stuck with me.”
    “But I said only for tonight.”
    “Tonight will be a beginning. And if we
let it begin it will keep on going. You’re trying to help me but
you won't be helping me. And I certainly won't be helping you any.
We'll only get in each other's way. I'm going.”
    “Just until tonight, Vincent. Until it
gets dark.”
    “Dark. They won’t see me when it's dark.”
He stood there staring