Read The Umbrella Man and Other Stories for Free Online Page B

wanted, isn’t that so?”
    “Do you want a description or don’t you?” the man asked.
    “No,” she said. “I trust you.”
    The man wrote “fifty dollars” opposite the word VALUE on both sections of the ticket, then he tore it in half along the perforations and slid the lower portion across the counter. He took a wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket and extracted five ten-dollar bills. “The interest is three per cent a month,” he said.
    “Yes, all right. And thank you. You’ll take good care of it, won’t you?”
    The man nodded but said nothing.
    “Shall I put it back in the box for you?”
    “No,” the man said.
    Mrs. Bixby turned and went out of the shop on to the street where the taxi was waiting. Ten minutes later, she was home.
    “Darling,” she said as she bent over and kissed her husband. “Did you miss me?”
    Cyril Bixby laid down the evening paper and glanced at the watch on his wrist. “It’s twelve and a half minutes past six,” he said. “You’re a bit late, aren’t you?”
    “I know. It’s those dreadful trains. Aunt Maude sent you her love as usual. I’m dying for a drink, aren’t you?”
    The husband folded his newspaper into a neat rectangle and placed it on the arm of his chair. Then he stood up and crossed over to the sideboard. His wife remained in the centre of the room pulling off her gloves, watching him carefully, wondering how long she ought to wait. He had his back to her now, bending forward to measure the gin, putting his face right up close to the measurer and peering into it as though it were a patient’s mouth.
    It was funny how small he always looked after the Colonel. The Colonel was huge and bristly, and when you were near to him he smelled faintly of horseradish. This one was small and neat and bony and he didn’t really smell of anything at all, except peppermint drops, which he sucked to keep his breath nice for the patients.
    “See what I’ve bought for measuring the vermouth,” he said, holding up a calibrated glass beaker. “I can get it to the nearest milligram with this.”
    “Darling, how clever.”
    I really must try to make him change the way he dresses, she told herself. His suits are just too ridiculous for words. There had been a time when she thought they were wonderful, those Edwardian jackets with high lapels and six buttons down the front, but now they merely seemed absurd. So did the narrow stovepipe trousers. You had to have a special sort of face to wear things like that, and Cyril just didn’t have it. His was a long bony countenance with a narrow nose and a slightly prognathous jaw, and when you saw it coming up out of the top of one of those tightly fitting old-fashioned suits it looked like a caricature of Sam Weller. He probably thought it looked like Beau Brummel. It was a fact that in the office he invariably greeted female patients with his white coat unbuttoned so that they would catch a glimpse of the trappings underneath; and in some obscure way this was obviously meant to convey the impression that he was a bit of a dog. But Mrs. Bixby knew better. The plumage was a bluff. It meant nothing. It reminded her of an ageing peacock strutting on the lawn with only half its feathers left. Or one of those fatuous self-fertilizing flowers—like the dandelion. A dandelion never has to get fertilized for the setting of its seed, and all those brilliant yellow petals are just a waste of time, a boast, a masquerade. What’s the word the biologists use? Subsexual. A dandelion is subsexual. So, for that matter, are the summer broods of water fleas. It sounds a bit like Lewis Carroll, she thought—water fleas and dandelions and dentists.
    “Thank you, darling,” she said, taking the martini and seating herself on the sofa with her handbag on her lap. “And what did
you
do last night?”
    “I stayed on in the office and cast a few inlays. I also got my accounts up to date.”
    “Now really, Cyril, I think it’s high