Another Woman's House (25 page)

She said quickly, half-whispering, “What do you know of the gun?”

And he knew something; knowledge was in the surprised, deep flash in his eyes. It was in the air between them. Then he opened the door, and wind and rain swept in. He said, “I don't know anything about the gun,” and left. One instant his tall figure in the glittering, wet, black mackintosh was there, the next instant it had gone and the door closed.

The rain muffled any sound of his departing footsteps.

Again the tick of the clock seemed to grow louder.

Mildred's death automatically cleared Tim and Richard—and Webb. There was no question of that.

And if Webb had actually and secretly had some quarrel with Jack,
if he had shot Jack
and then accused Alice to clear himself—then
he might have repeated a once-successful pattern,
choosing Mildred this time instead of Alice for a scapegoat.

Except, this time, there was no chance of its going wrong. This time the victim could not return, exonerated and free.

Again the see-saw of fact and conjecture caught her. Mildred's death could not be murder. But Webb's whole intention had been to find out, from her, whether or not they were searching for the gun. And he had known something about it.

The danger that had focused like a sinister light upon the gun suddenly returned. It was so clear and strong that she was astounded at what amounted to her own disregard of that latent yet inextinguishable danger. It seemed now a fantastic negligence, an incredible procrastination.

Where was Richard?

Rain droned upon the terrace again like muffled footsteps. Then she realized that there actually were footsteps, but they were definite, nearer. Someone was coming along the hall, from the far end of it. It was Richard, she thought, and went to the door quickly. It was, instead, Tim, in pajamas, with a blue blanket flapping dismally over his shoulders. He saw her and, looking surprised, quickened his steps. “Hello,” he said. “You still up? I couldn't sleep, either! Hell's bells, how could anybody?”

“I didn't hear you come down!” Had he heard her talk with Webb?

He hadn't. “Oh, I came down the back stairs,” he said cheerfully. “Nearer my room.”

“Where is—have you seen Richard?”

He was reaching for a cigarette in the box on the table beside her. He shot a quick look at her. “No,” he said rather shortly. “Are you waiting for him?”

She nodded and Tim lighted the cigarette, and went to lean against the mantel. His hair was wispy and disheveled; he smoothed it absently and said, “Listen, Sis, I want to say something. About …” he hesitated. “Well, it's about Dick. And—and you. You see, I don't want you to be hurt. And I don't want—well,” he swallowed, “Richard or—or Alice to be hurt.”

He waited a moment, his eyes were worried, his face uneasy. Suddenly he came to her and put his hand on her shoulder. She said, “Is it that easy to see?”

“No. I don't think so. Not to other people. But you're my sister.”

She put her cheek over against his hand. “I love him, Tim.”

“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Yes, I know. But it's no good, honey.”

“He loves me.”

There was a long pause. Then, in one of the quick and astonishing—and somehow sad—moments of wisdom and adulthood that were so far beyond his rightful years, Tim said, “Yes. That's what he thinks. Or, rather, it's what he thought before Alice came home.”

Fight for him, Aunt Cornelia had said. “How can I give him up, Tim?” cried Myra suddenly, despairing, wanting him, too, to say fight Alice.

But Tim did not speak for a long moment. Then he said, his voice very gentle, “Alice loves him and—well, she's his wife. I'll never forget how good she was to me, a callow, half-baked kid. She never forgot anything—Christmases, Easter, birthdays. She always had time for me. She never minded it when I showed pretty plainly how crazy I was about her. She'd laugh a little and—and I always knew she was like a—well, a sort of saint. That was when I was just a kid, you see. But I thought of her that way all through the war. I knew she couldn't have shot Manders. If she did it was all right but I knew she hadn't. And I used to—well, sort of see her—you know. We'd be coming back from a mission and I'd be cramped and damned cold and nervy. And I used to pretend that she'd be there, when I got back. Maybe it sounds silly. But sometimes I could almost see her face and that sort of childish, innocent look in her eyes.” He stopped and said abruptly, “I sound like a fool. I guess I was. But …” Again for an instant the premature age touched him, and he said slowly, “It's not so bad for a fellow to have something like that to hold on to. In war …”

His mood had changed. He patted her shoulder briskly. “Well, I've spilled all over. But I wanted you to know that I'm with you—understand? I mean, well, hell, Myra, you're young and pretty and you'll meet some other guy. You're licked here, honey. Come on and live with me.”

A million years ago—that afternoon, about twelve hours ago in fact—she had thought of that.

“Yes. Yes, I'd like to, Tim.”

He had expected her to oppose it. His face cleared instantly. “Good girl,” he said. “You've got sense.”

He smoked thoughtfully for a moment and said, “Now the case is closed I keep thinking about it. All sorts of things.”

“Such as what?”

“Well, for one thing—you're going to think I'm out of my mind—I always thought that Sam knew something about that gun.”

She sat upright. “Sam!”

“As a matter of fact, there was even a time when I thought Sam had killed Jack.”

“Why?”

His look was quickly disapproving. “Now don't get all worked up. I shouldn't have told you.”

“But Tim …”

He said hastily, “I'm going back to bed.”

“Why did you say that Sam … ?”

“Don't get any ideas. Sam didn't kill anybody. Mildred did it. I only thought of Sam because—well, for one thing he got here so fast that night. He was staying at the club and somebody phoned and didn't talk to Sam but left a message for him. I guess he must have got it right away and driven over here like a bat out of hell. He would, of course. But he got here so darned quick! And also because he thinks a lot of Alice. I mean, well, Sam would do anything for Alice. But he didn't. I was half out of my mind then. I suspected everybody. It makes no sense now, and never did! Forget it. Go to bed. Tomorrow's another day.” He glanced around. And saw the cupid. “What's that?”

“It's—Alice's cupid. Someone broke it.”

“Gee,” said Tim calmly, “too bad!”

This thing at least she could speak aloud. She said, “Tim, I'm frightened.”

“Huh!” He gave her a sharp look. “What about?”

“I don't know. There's something—in the room. In the house …”

“What on earth do you mean? There's nothing in the room to be afraid of!”

It was like trying to convince him of a ghost which only she could see. She said inadequately, “There's the cupid. Alice loved the cupid. It is as if somebody who hated her did that!”

“Nobody hates Alice! You've got an attack of nerves. Forget it. That was an accident. Coming upstairs?”

How could she explain the inexplicable? “No. I'll wait for Richard.”

He did not insist. He said briskly, “Well, I'm going back and get some sleep. See you later,” and went away, the blanket trailing behind him.

Richard must return soon.

The gun—the cupid. Webb. After awhile she went slowly to the stairway again. She lifted the carved pineapple top. The space below was still empty. She had known it would be. Mildred could not have returned the gun.

And the gun was safe. It was a swift, unexpected thought, corning from nowhere. The gun was safe because it was not loaded.

She came back into the library.

Suppose Webb had the gun.

The silence in the room was again charged with knowledge. The memories within it seemed to stir, as if about to come to life again.

She would not wait for Richard, she decided swiftly.

But she lingered, nevertheless, staring at the shattered rosy pieces of the cupid, which could never come to life again.

She kneeled. She began to pick up the little pieces.

Alice said quietly behind her, “What have you done to my cupid?”

M
YRA TURNED SWIFTLY, ON
her knees, a jagged piece of the cupid in her hand. Alice had changed to her soft, pink-satin negligee. Her golden hair was smooth and shining as a golden cap, but her face was very white with that stony, pulseless look of a small and perfect statue. She said, “You broke the cupid.”

“No.”

“You broke it because it was mine.”

A sharp impatience came to Myra's aid. “I did nothing of the kind!”

“Then what are you doing?”

Myra glanced at the shattered little heap of porcelain, the bit of blue sash, the slivered, tiny pink fingers. She got to her feet. “I was picking up the pieces.”

“Why?”

“Oh, Alice, I know nothing about it or how it happened! This is absurd. …”

“Why are you picking up the pieces?” Alice's soft lips were touched with a light rose lipstick. Her perfect, straight little nose and chin, the lovely curves of her cheekbones were so beautiful in their heart-stopping perfection that they might have been done in marble by an inspired sculptor.

“I don't know why!” said Myra. “Somebody had to pick them up!”

Alice's eyes were gentle as she said softly, “I expect you've got into a habit of seeing to things. Taking my place, giving orders, seeing to the servants and the flowers. But it is not your house yet, Myra.”

It was childish and for that very reason rather frightening. They were adults. Myra said, “I have not tried to take your place.”

“You want everything that is mine! You have done everything to destroy”—she moved toward the cupid and looked down and said—“the things I love. The things that were mine until you came.”

Suddenly she pushed both her hands upward over her face, thrusting back her hair. She cried almost wildly, “
Why did you come? Why don't you go?
” And turned and ran with an abandonment Myra would not have believed possible, to the ruby-red arm chair and flung herself into it, her face in her hands.

But she was not sobbing. Myra realized, with a queer kind of shock, that Alice was watching her, behind her hands—almost as if measuring the effect of her words. Almost as if Myra was an audience which Alice intended to sway.

It was a curious and a perplexing impression. It touched Alice's gesture and words with falseness. Myra said slowly, puzzled by that tinge of falseness, “I am going, Alice. I'll go now if you like. You can have Francine pack my things and send them later.”

Alice's hands dropped. “The taxis don't run after midnight,” she said thoughtfully after a moment. “Besides, they say the district attorney is on his way. He may want to question us again. No, you'd better not leave tonight. But you can see for yourself that it would be an impossible situation. For you to stay more than a day or two, I mean.”

The lilies Mildred had brought sent up a sweet, almost sickening fragrance.

“I'm going away. I told you that.”

“Where are you going?”

“I'll live with Tim. He's got a little apartment.”

“Oh. That's not far away, is it? I expect Aunt Cornelia will want you back here often.”

“I'll not come, if that's what you want.”

“I can't stop Aunt Cornelia from asking you. Or Richard from seeing you unless you promise …”

“I'll not promise anything …” began Myra, a sudden gust of anger shaking her, and immediately thought, ashamed: We are like children, bickering. She checked her anger swiftly. She said, wishing only to end it, “You understand me. I think we understand each other. There's nothing to be gained by our talking and quarreling, like this.”

Alice put her hands over her face and again it seemed theatrical, yet Alice was sincere. She had much to lose or win. She said, after a moment, her voice muffled behind her hands, “Yes, yes, you are right, of course. I'm upset and nervous! Mildred's death—everything …”

Again an impulse of pity touched Myra. Yet, when she spoke, her voice was tired and cold. She said, “Mildred loved you, Alice. She talked to me about you.”

Alice's hands flew from her face. “What!”

“She was crying. She …”

“You talked to her?”

“Yes, tonight …”

“When?”

“After she had seen you.”

Alice's face looked blank. Myra said, “After I had taken her up to your room. You remember—you were looking at jewelry. I happened to see her when she went home. She was sitting in her car, crying. She said to tell you that she'd be back.”

“You didn't tell me that,” said Alice slowly.

Both women heard the front door open and then close, rather quietly, as if whoever had opened it did not wish to wake a house which already was as taut and tense as if it would never know sleep again. Myra said, “I haven't told anyone,” and turned. Richard had come in and was taking off his topcoat. He tossed it onto a chair and without glancing toward the library went into the dining room. Alice said, “That must be Richard,” and got up.

She touched her hair, glanced once at the cupid. She looked around the room. “It's beautiful isn't it?” she said. “I chose the colors—everything.” And walked quietly out of the room and disappeared along the stairway her hand sliding along the railing. Myra watched again, in spite of herself, but it did not touch the newel post.

The slight, graceful figure in the long, clinging folds of pink satin and lace had barely gone when Richard came back along the hall, with a glass in his hand. She watched him for a moment before he knew that she was there. How well she would remember the solid, square lines of his body, the way he walked, the gesture with which he lifted his head just then and looked at her. His face lightened and he came forward quickly. “Myra! I thought you'd gone to bed. Have a Scotch and soda? I'll get you one. …”