Magician's Wife (17 page)

Bewildered by now, Clay went in the kitchen, opened a can of beans, and while swallowing them down finished reading the paper, especially the story on Buster, which he hadn't got to yet, as the one on Captain Walton had seemed much more important. A picture of her, in shapeless hospital attire, with an inset of her in tights, and another of Mr. Alexis, made a Page 1 layout, and under it was an interview, in which she made “veiled hints” as to the guilty motorist's identity. “What's all this checking out?” she had demanded of the reporter. “I gave them the number, didn't I? They've had time to look it up. They know who it was and, brother, so do I. Why don't they make an arrest? What are they waiting for?” It was a costly interview, as she was to find out later, but to Clay it was incomprehensible, as it didn't at all match up with what he thought she should feel if she did know who it was. To her, he was surely a friend, and her reaction must have been shock, coupled with hurt. But the emotion she seemed to show here was of malice compounded with hoped-for revenge, or perhaps of suspicion that hoped for proof. Most perplexing of all, she voiced no surprise at what had been done, but seemed almost to regard it as something expected. He washed up his plate, went to the living room, and sat looking out on the stars, “perhaps for the last time,” as he glumly told himself, still grinding the riddle. His outside phone rang and he sat there. It rang a number of times, and he made no move toward it. But around nine, when Doris rang from downstairs, he grimly got up and answered, sure “they” had come at last. “Lady to see you,” said Doris. “The same one, Mrs. Simone—hey, she's quite a looker.”

“Send her up,” he said.

But the receiver was hardly in place before it flashed through his mind how horrible it was going to be if Grace was there with him when they finally came, and not only witnessed his arrest but also learned the reason for it. He grabbed up the phone again, batting at the bar. “Doris!” he barked. “Is she still there? Hold her—don't let her come up. Tell her I'll be down!”

She was in a blue summer dress, with her usual crimson accessories, and he grabbed her hand, almost clinging to her. “My, but I'm glad to see you!” he exclaimed. “But won't you ask me over? If we go upstairs, it'll be nothing but calls from Mankato, with the local bunch dropping in—you've no idea what it's like, being president-elect of a big meat corporation.”

“I'd love to ask you over.”

They took another stroll through the night, with more pauses to stop, look, and listen. Like most artists, she took a profound interest in natural phenomena, the day, the night, the seasons, and all that these things produced. This time they stared at early chrysanthemums and listened to the crickets, “a sure sign of fall,” as she said. The lightning bugs enchanted her. “They give light without heat,” she whispered, “the way you do with paint.”

In her apartment, after turning on lights, she took off her hat and gloves and put out a highball tray, with glasses, ice, fizz water, and Scotch, while he watched her, as always, in delight at her graceful form and simple, quiet elegance. Then from a closet she got out his picture, now finished and framed—and set it up on a chair. It showed him lounging in the maroon coat she had chosen, his golden hair aglint, his blue eyes on the beholder. “... Well?” she asked. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah, but it's too damned pretty.”

“How, too pretty?”

“It's too—
idealistic!
”

“It's not!” Indignantly she faced him. “Clay Lockwood, you don't know yourself, that's your trouble—
always.
You are idealistic, and sometimes it shows in your eyes—the way it did the first night we met, when you talked about Tom Lea, and Mexico, and why they fought their war. I didn't know much about it, but I could feel what it meant to
you.
And that's what I wanted to catch. I couldn't. And then that morning I did—that Sunday morning when I finished it. The knife did it, I didn't. And suddenly it was there, what I'd been trying to get. And now you don't like it!”

“I'd love it—if I believed it.”

“Well? Can't I
make
you?”

“I'd give anything if you would!”

He hadn't expected the fervor in his voice, and she looked at him quite strangely. “At least,” she said, “I imagine they'll hang it—in their board room, I mean.”

His mind formed the words, “If they
ever
hang it,” and for a moment nostalgia claimed him, for all that might have been except for his monstrous folly. But he didn't say them, and began a digression about her painting, noting its “vigor.” But even while he talked he knew he was filling in time, stretching things out to delay his return home, to face what he feared would be waiting there. But when she chimed in, encouraging his loquacity, he knew she was doing the same, and had been, with all her talk about mums, crickets, and lightning bugs. Abruptly he cut in and asked: “What did you want of me, Grace? Neither of us has opened our mouths yet about what's on both of our minds.”

“... Clay, I'm almost ashamed to say.”

“Something's riding you.”

“Yes, and I had to come to you, Clay, as you're the one person on earth who can possibly understand why I feel as I do.”

“About this death, you mean?”

“Yes, Clay—this death.”

“Grace, it's natural that you'd be upset.”

She stared at him, clutched him, buried her face in his coat, and whispered: “
I'm not—that's why I'm so ashamed!
”

“... Wait a minute. Talk plainer.”

“Clay, you know what I feared?”

“What I
said
you feared.”

“That's right—you never made me admit it, and I'm grateful to you for that. But that's what it was, just the same, a horrible, haunting nightmare that wouldn't go away. Well, last night it happened, in a natural way—or at least accidentally. It's as though I've been filled with gas and am going to float away. It's—such a relief! Clay, instead of grieving for a boy who was nice to me, who treated me
so
well, who was
everything
any mother-in-law could
ask,
I'm happy it happened this way! It's a horrible thing to admit—I can't help it! I try not to be glad and I am! But at least you'll understand why. You know it's not something I just now thought up, that popped into my mind. It didn't—it's been there. Ever since—one day when her eyes told me.”

“O.K., talk it out.”

“I have. That's all, Clay.”

“Then, take it easy. Try to relax.”

He put his arm around her, pulling her to him, wiping her tears with his handkerchief, holding it to her nose, saying, “Blow.” She blew, and he kissed her and pressed her and patted her. She said: “It's not all! I'm not sure you still understand! It's not on my account that I feel this way—or even on hers mainly. She's my baby, I'll always love her. But mainly it's for
him!
My little grandson, Elly! Alec's little boy! Perhaps if Alec can understand that, wherever he is—he'll forgive me, Clay!”

“But, Grace, you haven't done anything!”

“Oh, but I have. In my heart I've done plenty!”

She gained control a little, but it increased her compulsion to talk. “Clay,” she wailed, “you'll never know,
no one
can ever know, the nights I spent—imagining myself with Elly—holding him on my lap—while we waited for word—the flash that might come from Annapolis: her sentence had been commuted, so she wouldn't have to die! And even worse, the days I spent with him—when her sentence
was
commuted—driving up to the prison, the Maryland penitentiary, for the monthly allotted visit. Clay, I've been to that penitentiary: Fisher's, one year, bid on the uniforms, and I did the design. I had to talk with the warden and went there. I guess it's all right, clean and humanely run—but, Clay, a prison's a prison, and any prison is horrible to me. The picture of her there, talking to him through the wire, would make me actually
ill—
and that he'd spend the rest of his life with that scar, that brand, that mark of shame, was more than I could bear. So, knowing what I went through, perhaps you'll understand—”

“Is that all?”

“I'll try to stop talking about it.”

Intermittently, what seemed to her a dream out of the past now began looming to him as reality in the future, and his voice husked as he spoke. In an effort to change the subject, she drew a long breath and said: “The funny thing is that
she
seems to take it just opposite. I wouldn't have thought Alec meant much to her, but she's taking it very hard. And incidentally, Clay, it would be in terrible taste for you to go to her now, but you
could
call her up—I
hope
you have already.”

“I saw her, as a matter of fact.”

“... You've seen Sally? Since it happened?”

“She came over. We—had a disagreement.”

“Disagreement, Clay? What about?”

“I wouldn't feel free to say.”

“You picked a quarrel? At a time like this?”

“I didn't, Grace. She did.” Then, gravely, he added: “She said it was over between us, and this time I'm sure it is.”

“Well, you don't seem much upset.”

“Upset? I'm—thrilled.”

Indeed, as he spoke he knew his feeling for Sally was gone—whether from the fear that froze his blood, or disgust at the way she had smelled, or resentment at her ratting, he didn't know and couldn't seem to care. Grace stared a few moments, and then wonderingly said: “I honestly think it's true. You don't sound the way you did before when you'd swear up and down it was over.”

“She means nothing to me at all.”

Grace, a little calmer now, thought this over at length, then reflected: “There'll come times when you torch for her—in that, you'd only be human. And yet, perhaps it's just as well. If you're not free to say what she quarreled about, I'm not free to ask, and I don't. Quite possibly, though, in back of the reason she gave, another reason lurked, that she probably didn't give, and wouldn't admit, even to herself. She's my flesh and blood, and I love her, but she has a selfish streak. Very possibly now that she
has
the money, that huge Gorsuch fortune, she got speedy second thoughts on sharing it, even with you. So, it could be you're just as well off. And if that sounds strange, after my egging you on, all the promoting I did, I can only say the
reason
I egged you on doesn't exist any more. As I explained—oh, blessed relief! So, perhaps you should thank her, Clay.”

“One way to look at it, certainly.”

“Not that it's been any bed of roses for
her
. Especially this show the police have put on. Why, you'd think hers was the car that Buster saw last night, the questions they've asked everyone!”

“... When was all this, Grace?”

“Tonight. All evening.”

“And—who is ‘everyone'? Who did they question?”

“Me, for one. They were here. And those other two women, too. That came to dinner last night. At Sally's.”

“And what did they want to know?”

“Where she was last night. What she was doing. Where her car was. Fortunately all three of us knew it was in the drive. We helped carry things in that Sally'd brought home for supper. But— Clay, is anything wrong?”

“No! It seems strange, that's all.”

“Strange? It seems weird!”

Little heat lightnings of hope began shooting through him as he began fitting all this to the bafflement he had felt about the failure to check out his car. And then suddenly, in one blinding flash, hope blazed into certainty. The phone rang, and when Grace talked, it was obviously to Sally. Quickly, tensely, she kept saying: “Yes!... Yes!... Yes, of course, darling”—and then suddenly hung up. Whisking the painting into the closet she had taken it from, she said as she locked it up: “Clay, you'll have to go now. Sally's on her way over. That's what it was, all right—that little viper gave in Sally's number, believe it or not. The reporters are there now, and she must get away from them somehow—I told her to come here. So—I'm sorry, but this is no time to tell her what's between you and me!”

“Certainly not—I'm on my way!”

“And thanks! You've been wonderful, Clay!”

“Kiss me?”

“Now that I can—without any sense of guilt!”

His heart sang. Out on the street, he hummed as he started home and then changed his mind and crossed to Rosemary Park, where he sat on a bench and waited. In a few minutes Sally drove up and, after parking, got out, an overnight bag in her hand. She looked up and down the street, making sure she wasn't followed, and then went in. He looked at his watch, found it was after twelve, and instead of going home headed downtown and walked to the Chinquapin-Plaza. Here he sat for an hour in the lobby until a bellboy came in with a bundle of morning papers. Several others besides Clay came forward to buy as the boy cut them open and put them on sale. With his, Clay went back to his chair and read every word that was there. It appeared that “though police still refused to talk,” it had become known through other sources that the number Miss Conlon had seen last night was the same as that borne by the “second Alexis car,” the one usually driven by Mrs. Alexis. The writing was indirect, a masterpiece of left-handed insinuation, and Clay was some time twigging that the reason for it was libel—the paper dared not accuse Sally directly. But the implication was plain, and when he had read to the end, he got up and walked home, his heels lifting in a queer, uncontrolled way. He reached the Marlborough around two, waved at Frank, and went up. In the apartment at last, he was suddenly consumed with hunger, and broiled a Grant steak. With it he had peas and boiled potatoes, which he got out of cans and heated. For dessert he had apple pie and with that had champagne, walking around with his glass and guzzling it as he went. The bubbles tickled his throat and he started to laugh. He laughed and laughed and laughed.