We'll Always Have Paris Read Online Free Page A

don’t think I’ll
    ever come back here again at twilight.’
    The old man looked at him and nodded.
    ‘No, I don’t think you will. Not for a while, anyway. Maybe in twenty or
    thirty years. You’ve got too good a suntan and you walk too quickly and you look like you’re
    all revved up. From now on you should arrive here at noon and play with a real foursome. You
    shouldn’t be out here, walking on the Twilight Greens.’
    ‘I’ll
never
come back at night,’ said the young
    man. ‘It will
never
happen to me.’
    ‘I hope not,’ said the old man.
    ‘I’ll make sure of it,’ said the young man. ‘I think I’ve walked as far as I
    need to walk. I think that last hit putmy ball too far out in
    the dark; I don’t think I want to find it.’
    ‘Well said,’ said the old man.
    And they walked back and the night was really gathering now and they couldn’t
    hear their footsteps in the grass.
    Behind them the lone strollers still moved, some in, some out, along the far
    greens.
    When they reached the clubhouse, the young man looked at the old, who seemed
    very old indeed, and the old man looked at the young, who looked very young indeed.
    ‘If you do come back,’ said the old man, ‘at twilight, that is, if you ever
    feel the need to play a round starting out with three others and winding up alone, there’s one
    thing I’ve got to warn you about.’
    ‘What’s that?’ said the young man.
    ‘There is one word you must never use when you converse with all those people
    who wander out along the evening grass prairie.’
    ‘And the word is?’ said the young man.
    ‘Marriage,’ whispered the old man.
    He shook the young man’s hand, took his bag of clubs, and walked away.
    Far out, on the Twilight Greens, it now was true dark, and you could not see
    the men who still played there.
    The young man with his suntanned face and clear, bright eyes turned, walked
    to his car, and drove away.

The Murder
    ‘There are some people who would never commit a murder,’ said Mr
    Bentley.
    ‘Who, for instance?’ said Mr Hill.
    ‘Me, for instance, and lots more like me,’ said Mr Bentley.
    ‘Poppycock!’ said Mr Hill.
    ‘Poppycock?’
    ‘You heard what I said. Everybody’s capable of murder. Even you.’
    ‘I haven’t a motive in the world, I’m content with things, my wife is a good
    woman, I’ve got enough money, a good job, why should I commit murder?’ said Mr Bentley.
    ‘I could make you commit murder,’ said Mr Hill.
    ‘You could
not
.’
    ‘I could.’ Mr Hill looked out over the small
    green summer town, meditatively.
    ‘You can’t make a murderer out of a nonmurderer.’
    ‘Yes, I could.’
    ‘No, you couldn’t!’
    ‘How much would you like to bet?’
    ‘I’ve never bet in my life. Don’t believe in it.’
    ‘Oh, hell, a gentleman’s bet,’ said Mr Hill. ‘A dollar. A dollar to a dime.
    Come on, now, you’d bet a dime, wouldn’t you? You’d be three kinds of Scotchman not to, and
    showing little faith in your thesis, besides. Isn’t it worth a dime to prove you’re not a
    murderer?’
    ‘You’re joking.’
    ‘We’re both joking and we’re both not. All I’m interested in proving is that
    you’re no different than any other man. You’ve got a button to be pushed. If I could find it
    and push it, you’d commit murder.’
    Mr Bentley laughed easily and cut the end from a cigar, twirled it between
    his comfortably fleshy lips, and leaned back in his rocker. Then he fumbled in his unbuttoned
    vest pocket, found a dime, and laid it on the porch newel in front of him. ‘All right,’ he
    said, and, thinking, drew forth another dime. ‘There’s twenty cents says I’m not a murderer.
    Now how are you going to prove that I am?’ He chuckled and squeezed his eyes deliciously shut.
    ‘I’m going to be sitting around here a good many years.’
    ‘There’ll be a time limit, of course.’
    ‘Oh,
will
there?’
    Bentley laughed still louder.
    ‘Yes. One month from today,