The Glass Slipper (3 page)

Andy must have given an order, for all at once there was a white, steaming cup at her hand.

“It’s black coffee,” said Andy. “Maybe you ought to have brandy. But I — you’ve got to listen. Drink it.”

The cup shook in her hand and spilled, and she thought, It’s ruining my glove. Andy’s been drinking too much. He’s had some terrible thing happen — he doesn’t know what he’s saying — it is not true.

The hot liquid all but burned her tongue.

“Better?” said Andy. The boy had gone to the front of the store and turned on the little radio; there was dance music; and the boy looked out at the cold, wind-swept street and whistled, keeping time and tune with the music from the radio.

“He can’t hear,” said Andy. “You’ve got to listen, Rue. You’ve got to do as I tell you.”

“When —” whispered Rue stiffly and stopped.

“You mean when did I hear it? Tonight. Just after the office closed. The police — two detectives — came to me.”

She had to moisten her lips.

“Does Brule know?”

Andy looked away from her; he took a long time about drinking something in a glass. He said then:

“Yes, he knows. He — couldn’t come himself. He — Rue, listen. You don’t realize what it’s going to be. You see, I think — God, Rue, don’t look like that.”

In a split second of terrifying prescience she knew what he was going to say.

“You —”

“I think they are right. I think she was murdered.” He said it almost defiantly.

Yes, he was mad. He’d been Crystal’s doctor. He’d signed the death certificate. Someone’s — her own — cup clattered loudly against the table, and Andy glanced sharply at the boy, still oblivious to them, and back at Rue.

“And,” said Andy with paralyzing unexpectedness, “I want you to come away with me. Away from Chicago, I mean. Now. It’s the only way.” He leaned across the table, the lean angle of his jaw sharp against the bright orange of an advertising placard behind him. He said urgently: “You’re in danger, Rue. It’s worse than anything you ever dreamed of. You must come with me.”

“With… you…” said Rue’s voice again out of a vast distance.

And Andy said curtly, as if he were angry:

“With me. Now. You see, I love you.”

S
omebody began to sing over the radio — huskily, with heavily accented beats; the boy at the window accelerated his whistle. All her life afterward Rue was to remember the lilting tune. “Have you got — any castles — that you want — me to build —”

Andy heard it, too, and smiled in the strangest, tight way that had no mirth in it. He said:

“It’s true. You’ve got to believe it, Rue. There isn’t time for — for talk. Will you come?”

“But—”

She couldn’t believe him when he said he loved her, either; it was as unexpected, as nightmarishly fantastic just then, as the other incredible things he had said. It was as if it all blurred together, dreadfully confusing her.

He leaned forward again, speaking slowly and very earnestly as if he must make her understand. “Listen, Rue. I know this is a — a blow. But you’ve got to listen and you’ve got to believe me.” He pushed back his sleeve to look at his watch in a habitual gesture; it wasn’t there, and he seemed to remember with a frown that he was in evening dress and reached for a thin, elegant-looking watch which was in his pocket. His initials were engraved on it, and Crystal had given him the watch; Rue remembered it sharply and with curious bitterness. She’d given it to him during the last week of her life; it was Andy’s birthday; Rue herself had seen the presentation and the way Crystal had looked at him. Brule had been in the room too; he had watched and smiled below his short black mustache, but it had seemed to Rue that there was knowledge in his eyes.

Andy shoved the watch into his pocket again. “I’ve got it planned. We’ll go back to the house and get some clothes for you; there’ll be time. Then we’ll take a midnight train north. Canada, I suppose…”

She simply couldn’t sit there quietly and listen to so mad and fantastic a plan.

“Andy, don’t. This — this isn’t possible: I’m not going with you. I’ve done nothing. Crystal wasn’t murdered. I was her nurse. I know —”

“I was her doctor,” said Andy.

“But you said nothing. You didn’t notify the police: you didn’t question. You signed the certificate; you didn’t even seem surprised. You — you accepted it. If you knew it was murder —”

“I didn’t know then,” said Andy. “I do know now.”

“How do you know? You can’t know. And if she was —” Her throat closed.

Andy looked ashen.

“I can’t tell you, Rue. Isn’t it enough to convince you of my sincerity when I tell you that I’m — giving up everything I’ve worked to make secure? My profession, all my connections. I’ll give it up gladly to take you away.”

“You can’t do that. And anyway, I am not going with you. What right have you to suppose —”

“To suppose you would go away with me? No right. Except that I love you, whether you believe me or not, and I want to save you. That’s all.”

“But you must tell me. Tell me everything you know. I’ve got to know.”

“You’ve got to believe me, Rue,” he repeated. “I can’t tell you everything — there’s so little I know. But… Very well; you’ll understand better if I — begin at the beginning. You see, when Crystal died, she had been for two weeks actually on the mend; you knew that.”

“Yes. I didn’t expect her death just then. But it seemed so natural. There was nothing — Andy, how could she have been murdered? There was no way. There were no symptoms of anything. She — was it poison?”

“So the police say. It had to be that.”

“Do you mean they’ve found poison?”

“No. They have to get Brule’s consent to make an exhumation. But he’ll have to give it. Otherwise it would look bad for him. After all, he inherited most of Crystal’s property. But it probably was poison. There were no symptoms. I remember when you called me that night and said she was worse, I couldn’t believe it; she’d seemed so well. And I got there just after she died. You said she’d gone into a coma; you said that over the telephone. I remember that. And I told you to call Brule, and to hell with professional ethics about a doctor’s attending his own family, didn’t I?”

“Yes. And I called Brule. But we couldn’t do anything. She died without returning to consciousness at all. It was about eleven o’clock. I thought she was in a natural sleep until I took her pulse for my chart. She was dead when you arrived. She died naturally; she couldn’t have been — murdered,” whispered Rue all at once, as if it was a word she could not speak aloud.

“I thought it was natural then,” said Andy.

“If you think she was murdered you must know who did it. Who —” Again a wave of complete disbelief came over her. She said: “It isn’t true! It can’t be!”

“It is, Rue.” It was like a groan. He brushed his hands over his eyes. His gloves lay on the table: he picked them up with a tight, nervous grip, and said quickly as if to get a bad job over: “I’m as sure of it as — Listen. Tonight when the police came I was closing the office, the office girl and nurse had gone, and Brule had gone to see a patient at the hospital. They came — a little fellow by the name of Funk and another one. I knew they were detectives, but I didn’t guess what they wanted. At any rate they came in and insisted on talking to me privately. Asked particularly to make sure Brule was not in the office and there was no way he could hear them.

“They said — it’s a crazy thing, Rue; they said they’d been getting letters; letters urging them to look into the matter of Crystal’s death — and the manner of it. Letters that said she’d been murdered. They didn’t show me the letters; I had to believe them. They said they finally had to take some notice of the things; even the district attorney had received one or two. So they looked up the records and found I was the attending physician and had signed the death certificate. And they came to question me. They’d already talked to other people, too; had inquired into the circumstances of Crystal’s life — her relations with her family, everything. It — it’s only a question of time till it reaches the newspapers; I suppose there are whispers already. They can’t go about enquiring like that, no matter how carefully, without somebody getting wind of it, and the moment anybody guesses the truth it’ll be all over town.

“Well, the main point of evidence was that one of the servants had told them that she was definitely better and that everyone was surprised when she took so sudden a turn for the worse and died. I was surprised when she died that night; but Brule — Brule wasn’t. Naturally I reproached myself; I didn’t know where or how I’d made a mistake, but I reproached myself bitterly for not handling the case right. My patient died, and she was Brule’s wife. And Brule’s been — so much to me.”

So was Brule’s wife, thought Rue.

“I was — horribly upset. You remember that.”

“Yes, I remember. I remember that you and Brule talked of it. And that Brule reassured you.”

“Yes, he did, didn’t he? He said she’d never been strong; had never had much resistance. Well — then this afternoon, when they questioned me, I — oh, there’s no time for all this talk. You must come.”

“Why do you think she was murdered?”

“Because — because that accounts for it, Rue. Poison. That accounts for her death. As nothing else ever did.”

“You were not satisfied then that her death was what Brule said it was.”

“No,” admitted Andy. “No, not entirely. But I wanted to be. Anyway, she was dead. It wouldn’t help to make a fuss, demand a postmortem, stir up a lot of talk. I blamed myself: I thought I had missed something important, something organic. Sometimes symptoms do deceive a doctor; you know that, Rue.” There was a look of pleading in his eyes.

“I accused myself of everything; I told myself that I had let myself be swayed by Brule’s diagnosis when I ought to have sought further myself. Oh, don’t misunderstand me: I’m not trying to alibi myself; I’m not blaming Brule. And God knows I didn’t suspect murder… Oh, I blame myself. Now. I’ve always let Brule influence me; he’s done so much for me. I owe him loyalty.”

“I am Brule’s wife,” said Rue. “I can’t go away with you. And — and even if this is true, if Crystal was murdered, I still can’t go. I didn’t murder her.”

“Listen, Rue.” Andy was white and tense. He said rapidly: “You are Brule’s wife and you may think I’m failing in loyalty when I tell you I love you and when I ask you to go away with me. But there are greater loyalties than those of friendship and of obligation. And as for this— Crystal’s murder — oh, my God, Rue, don’t you understand? You were alone with her when she went into that coma; you said then, as you said just now, that you thought it was a natural sleep; that you only discovered it was not when you went to take her pulse for the ten o’clock chart note. You were alone with her; she was all right and better when I saw her at six and when the day nurse left at seven. Brule said he came in about nine and you told him she was asleep. At something after ten you called him, and she died shortly after. You had been alone with her all that time; she would have taken anything you might have chosen to give her, thinking it was medicine. And then you see, in the eyes of the police you had a motive. You married Brule.”

“I gave her nothing. I didn’t —”

“I know you didn’t, Rue. I believe you; if — if I had seen you do it with my own eyes I’d still believe you. But that’s the situation.”

“I must go home. I must see Brule. Where is he?”

A shadow like a veil dropped into Andy’s eyes.

“I’m not sure. I think he’ll be home later.”

“Why didn’t he come to tell me?”

“Because — there were things Brule had to do.”

“What?”

“I — I don’t know exactly. It’s an ugly situation any way you look at it. I got hold of Brule right away; as soon as I could get rid of the police. I told him all about it; if he can pull any wires he’s going to. But I think it’s gone too far. The district attorney himself can’t stop it now without exhumation; if nothing shows up then, things are all right and we’re safe.”

“You’re afraid something will be found,” said Rue in the strangest voice.

Andy hesitated; one hand tightened around the glass; after a moment he lifted his eyes and looked straight at Rue.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m afraid. Will you trust me, Rue?”

His eyes plunged deeply into her own; for a moment it was as if all the world had fallen away into limbo and only the two of them, Andy Crittenden and Rue Hatterick, were left. As if, thus, they were all important to each other. Yet dimly she was aware of the blare of the radio; of the boy’s shrill, constant whistle.

The door of the drugstore opened sharply, and a cold blast of air swept in upon them, and the boy stopped whistling and went to greet a man who lounged toward the soda fountain and gave them a quick, oddly observant look which seemed to take in every detail. The coffee cup and Andy’s gloves and Rue’s little silver-and-blue train looking so out of place on the bare, white-tiled floor. Andy saw that look too; his eyes jerked away from Rue to watch; the man at the soda fountain turned harmlessly enough to order something to drink; Andy said quietly: “Come. I told Kendal to come for us in about half an hour. He’ll be at the door soon.”

His question went unanswered. All at once it seemed to Rue that the music from the radio and the heat in the drugstore were unbearable. She pushed back her chair with a clatter of scraping metal, and Andy sprang to help her; he paused to pay the boy at the cash register, and Rue, walking ahead toward the door, caught her own reflection, garish and bright, in the mirror behind the soda fountain. A slender woman in sables and a silver-blue evening gown; a woman with a paper-white face and great terrified dark eyes and a red, meaningless mark for a mouth; a woman with a white kid glove that was stained with coffee. Did the man leaning on his elbow there at the soda fountain actually turn to observe her covertly as she passed? Or did she only imagine it?

Andy came quickly after her, his footsteps hard and reassuring on the bare floor. The music flared all around them with a ghastly falseness, to Rue, in its gaiety, and Andy opened the door and she passed ahead of him again into the night-lighted, cold street with the wind seizing viciously upon them.

“Was that a — detective?” The wind snatched her words and hurled them eerily into the shadows, but Andy heard.

“No. Why should he be a detective?” But it was too quick a denial; she knew she had voiced his own thought.

The wind hurled her blue-and-silver train around her ankles. She grasped the soft furs closer about her throat. Andy, holding his hat against the onslaught of the wind, said something unintelligible but with a surprised note that caught Rue’s ears.

“What —”

“Nothing. I thought it was Alicia Pelham. There ahead, getting into a motor.”

She followed his look. Half a block ahead a car had stopped just before the lighted entrance to the opera proper; she had the barest glimpse of a woman’s trailing skirts as she got into the car; the attendant closed the door; the shadows from the tall pillars obscured the little scene, but as the car swept away from the curb Rue said:

“It’s Brule —” and stopped.

Andy did not reply. Rue added quickly: “It looked like Brule’s coupé. It couldn’t be, of course. I’m going home, Andy.”

He was looking up and down the street, with its slanting subway entrance.

“Kendal ought to be here soon. Ah, there he is now.”

Andy, of course, would recognize the car before she did. They reached the broad space opposite the green-room, and an attendant recognized Andy and said: “The Hatterick car, sir? Here it comes now.”

“Thank you.”

The attendant hadn’t called Andy by name; he had only associated him with the Hatterick car. Rue said rather crisply: “The car that just now drove away — wasn’t that Doctor Hatterick?”

The attendant, cold and pinched-looking in spite of his greatcoat, glanced at her and at Andy and said: “I don’t know, madam,” politely, and the limousine paused quietly beside them. Andy opened the door and gave the attendant a tip.

The door closed behind them and the car moved off slowly. Andy said: “You’re cold. You’re shivering,” and reached ahead for the thick soft robe and put it over her, leaning down to tuck it gently around her feet. His black shoulder and the edge of the white scarf about his chin were very close to her. He said, pulling the robe around her, “You’re shivering. You are trembling,” and took her suddenly in his arms.