The Lady and Her Doctor (19 page)

Chapter VI

For a minute Milton thought that one of the two suits of armor had moved toward him as he came into the house, that it knew what he was going to do to Sloane, that the movement would end in its bringing the sword it held down on his skull. “Who's that?” he called sharply, veering away from the suits of armor nevertheless, staring down the hall where he heard someone. “I see you standing there!” It wasn't Sloane. “Oh, Mrs. Austen!” Now he could see her sour face. “What are you doing—up?”

“It is just past nine o'clock, Dr. Krop!”

He had started to say, “What are you doing
here?”
because he had forgotten that she would be here, he had counted on being alone in the house with Sloane. “I know it's nine o'clock, but you're not a well woman, Mrs. Austen!” He stepped nearer her. “You look done in.” He shook his head at her.

Mrs. Austen began to tremble. “Doctor. Doctor, please—You haven't changed your mind? That isn't what you're going to say, is it, Doctor? About having me here? On the telephone, sir, you said it would be satisfactory. You said—”

“I just about said you saved my life, but I'm not going to save my life at the expense of yours, Mrs. Austen!”

“Dr. Krop—sir—if you turn me out—if I have to go on the dole again—that is no life, sir. Sir, if I have to go I would rather—”

Rather die with her boots on, poor old biddie! He shook his head at her again, to show he wasn't satisfied. “Where is Mrs. Krop?”

“Madam is in her room, Dr. Krop. I've kept your dinner hot, sir. If you'll just go into the dining room, I will serve it. You'll see, sir, I'm a good cook!”

If he ate, he wouldn't have to face Sloane yet. “O.K.” Mrs. Austen hurried away and he walked into the godawful dining room. The dining room was, maybe, the worst room. It had red flock paper and the walls were loaded with oil paintings in gold frames, all of them pictures of storms at sea, shipwrecks, waves bouncing off jagged rocks. Cheerful. The only light came through the one big window, which was all different-color glass. With that light on those pictures—did old lady Folsom want to make people seasick? Was the old lady's idea to make people so seasick they couldn't eat much? Or Sloane's idea! To save on food that way? It could be Sloane, he knew that now!

Austen came in with a tray, trying so hard to show how easily she could manage that the tray jiggled in her old hands. She waited for him to sit, then put the tray on the sideboard and brought him the serving dish with—oh, God, stew on it!

“It is a particular ragout I used to cook when madam's mother dined at the Vintons' house, sir. Please try it.”

Milton helped himself to as little as possible, then pointed with his knife to the next chair. “Sit down, go on, sit down. I want to talk to you.” She obeyed him reluctantly and he lifted a forkful of the ragout (stew, he decided) and pretended it hit the spot but he didn't fool Austen, who immediately jumped out of her seat and moved the big silver condiment set within his reach.

“You forgot, sir!”

“What's that?”

“You forgot the salt, sir.” She lifted the silver saltcellar out of the condiment set and handed it to him. “It's just the first time, Dr. Krop! You will get accustomed to it, sir, I'm sure you will. Madam assured me you would get accustomed to it, sir.”

Milton stared at Mrs. Austen, at the big silver saltcellar trembling in her hand.

“Didn't madam tell you, sir?”

“Madam—?” Milton took the saltcellar from the old woman, turning it in his hands thoughtfully; then he smiled. “I sure did forget,” he said, “but now I'll remember!”

“You do think it will work out, sir?”

He nodded vigorously. “Yes, I do think it will work out. Yes.” Mrs. Austen was blinking at him, poor old biddy, with her heart in her eyes, because if it didn't work out, she'd rather be dead, she had as good as said so. Milton knew that he must seem to pass it over, not show her he was giving it another thought. Plenty of time to work it out when those beady old eyes weren't trying to take him apart. He salted the ragout vigorously, then put the silver shaker out of the way on the condiment tray. (For the time being out of the way!) “Now,” he said, putting a forkful into his mouth, chewing, “now then—” The old hag was looking disgusted at him. (Talking with his mouth full!) He pointed with his knife at his mouth, meaning when he got it swallowed. Since he had to chew, he also chewed the idea over: only salt in the house. Sloane would have to use it. Sloane to eat a meal without him there. He out of the house and alibied for the time. He puts the—what looks like salt? What pours like salt? It mustn't have too much taste and has to be fatal in small amounts. He would find it—what the hell was he a doctor for if he couldn't find one drug in the whole materia medica to suit his purpose? Come home. With witness. Find Sloane dead. He had the suicide note all ready, upstairs in the lining of his valise, all handy. All he had to do when he came back with his alibi witness was get hold of that saltcellar there, empty the poison down the john, replace it with salt. He nodded at Austen, swallowed and told her that you couldn't tell the salt had been added after cooking. “Fine,” he said, pointing at the ragout on his plate but, oh boy, oh boy, meaning something quite different. “Fine!” He ate as much as he could take, then crossed his knife and fork on the plate and remembered that wasn't how to do because of the way the old woman kind of twitched her nose at him. (Sloane could also make him feel everything he did was wrong; two of a kind. See both of them in hell and gone, he thought.) Even though he remembered Sloane never did it, he gave his plate a shove, to indicate he was through. “That was good eating, Mrs. Austen!” She took his plate to the tray on the sideboard. “If eating was all I had to worry about here, we'd be all set with you in the house!”

“Sir?”

“I'm worried about—the madam. You saw her; how did she seem to you? Depressed?”

Mrs. Austen said primly, “Madam did not seem herself, sir.”

“She was herself. She's got two selves, Mrs. Austen: Mrs. Jekyll and Mrs. Hyde.” She brought him another plate, but he waved it away. “I'm too worried to eat much right now, Mrs. Austen. Don't bother. I don't want to eat, I want to talk to you while we have the chance. I know you're so happy to have a job again you'll overlook a lot, but you will have to overlook more than you bargained for!”

“Sir—”

“Don't get the idea I don't want you here, Mrs. Austen. I was a little worried could you take it—but since you explained what it means to you, I'm going to be selfish. I want you, but do you know how many in help we had here already?”

“Madam had told me, Dr. Krop, but they weren't real servants, none of them! They don't understand the work, sir!”

“Maybe yes, maybe no. Listen, Mrs. Austen. Helga, the one who left earlier today—”

“Wasteful. Madam had complained.”

“O.K. Wasteful, but not so dumb as you might think. Do you know what she said to me today? She said I must be a mental doctor! She meant a psychiatrist, Mrs. Austen.”

“These—girls—don't understand ladies, sir!”

“Now, Mrs. Austen, my wife told me—the minute you and she laid eyes on each other in the clinic, you felt you knew each other all your lives. Fine. Swell. For my own selfish reasons, that couldn't be better. When a feller needs a friend—” Milton saw Mrs. Austen stiffen up all over, but he did not know he had violated her code in which employers and servants could not be friends. Milton never learned when he offended Mrs. Austen. “Don't kid yourself that you know my wife because you're familiar with her background!”

“I wouldn't presume—”

“This Helga knew my wife a little better than you did and she told me she thinks madam is nuts. Now, that's putting it a little strongly, Mrs. Austen, but this much is true: my wife is a very disturbed girl. I'm worried stiff, Mrs. Austen!”

“I don't quite understand, sir.”

“Disturbed. How shall I give it to you? Moody—up and down—subject to depressions, Mrs. Austen, serious depressions. I don't want to get too technical with you, you're not a nurse, but can I ask you—like I'd ask a nurse—to keep an eye on her in case I'm not around? You'll see I'm around most of the time. I've given up my practice to take care of her. That's why Helga figured I was a mental doctor, see; my wife's private psychiatrist! I'll be with her most of the time, but in case I'm not you let me know if she goes into depression again, will you?”

“Yes, Dr. Krop.”

“Thanks a million.”

“I'll bring your coffee and there's
pain perdu
, sir.”

“There's what?”

“Madam mentioned that there was so much bread thrown out, sir.
Pain perdu
is a kind of a bread pudding, sir.”

I might have known it, Milton thought, bread pudding again! “Just the coffee. Just pour a cup and bring it in and go on up and rest. I'll wash up the cup and saucer myself. We don't want you to overdo.” She picked up the tray after carefully arranging what was on it, taking so damn long about it Milton could have shoved the plates down her throat. He wanted her to get the lead out of her pants, to git. He wanted to be alone and work over the scheme, step by step, see if it would hold water, where the cracks were, if any. Any minute Sloane might take it into her head to come downstairs.

Austen came back with the tray and a big silver pot and a cup and saucer. He could ask her to pour a cup in the kitchen from now to doomsday but she knew the right way to do things, even if he didn't, was the idea. She could “yes, sir, yes, Doctor” from now until doomsday, he could treat her like a human being instead of a robot until he dropped, but he was still the scum of the earth and bringing coffee in the pot was one way of showing him. He pretended he didn't remember he had asked for a cup, lifted the silver pot and smiled at the old woman because what did he care, whatever she thought of him, she was going to come in damn handy.

Milton stared at the doorknob that had turned but not opened the bedroom door. That, he thought, was a hot one, that really was a hot one! He had stalled downstairs as long as he dared, putting off the evil moment, he had tiptoed upstairs, turned the knob as if it would explode in his hand, had hardly breathed. In other words he had done everything possible in the dim hope that for once Sloane would be asleep when he came into their bedroom, and that he would not have to face her until morning, only to find she had locked the door on him. He stood there almost sick with relief and then, looking up at the third floor, seeing from the crack of light up there that Mrs. Austen was still awake as, from the crack of light under their bedroom door that Sloane was awake also, he saw how he could use this. “Sloane!” he called. “Sloane! Sloane!” He didn't need to shout, the old woman was a cardiac, not deaf. “Answer me. All I want to know is if you're all right, Sloane!” Silence, the silent treatment and locking the bedroom door as a punishment! “If you don't answer me, I'll break the door down!” (“Listen, old biddy up there!”) He rattled the knob. “Just talk to me and then I'll go sleep in the next room; just speak, that's all I want, Sloane!”

“I'm quite all right.”

He turned from the door, hunting for his handkerchief, pretending to be surprised to see Austen at the top of the third flight. He pantomimed his relief, mopped at his brow, turned to the door again. “Sloane, if you're still—nervous, will you take another of those pink capsules, those sedatives? The ones I gave you? If you're still jittery, Sloane, it's O.K. to take another now. I'm here and I have some stuff can pull anyone out of an overdose in two shakes of a lamb's tail!” He pantomimed to Mrs. Austen up there that overdosing was one of Sloane's neurotic fears.

“No.”

“O.K., then. It's up to you. I'm going to bed in the next room, but if you can't sleep, take the pill or wake me and I'll take care of it. O.K., Sloane?” If the old woman remembered this, fine, if she didn't, nothing lost but a little breath and that much breath he could afford to lose in a good cause. “Good night, Sloane.”

When Milton awoke the next morning, he didn't know where he was, but anywhere, he thought, getting out of the bed in a hurry, feeling that the griffins carved on the headboard were getting ready to pounce, anywhere was better than where he had spent the night in his dreams. He had never had such dreams in his life—but then he had never before put himself to sleep by going over a plan to murder his wife either. He stood by the side of the bed rubbing the cricks in his back, repeating his litany: she tried to kill an old woman—her mother—because the old lady was going to give her own sister part of what she thought should be hers; she knew all along I figured different. (“You're like a little bird, kid,” he had told her.) But she let me kid myself, she laughed at me; she wanted me to kill her sister; she was going to let me be the patsy!

He went to the window and pushed the dust-smelling curtains aside and looked out while he reviewed the plan again. No, even by daylight, even when he looked out beyond the crazy grounds of the Haunted House, over the gate to where he could see the biddies sitting there in real life, the plan was O.K. He could do it. (Milt? Milt kill somebody?) He could do it and he could get away with it, too.

He had slept in his underwear and now he wanted to get out of it, to take a cold shower and scrub himself clean of his dreams. (Of his plan? Of the murder?) He gathered up the suit he had worn and opened the door carefully. Downstairs there were sounds. Sloane and Mrs. Austen. Upstairs, nothing. He hurried into the bathroom to shave, needing to use the old Rolls razor he hadn't used since Jenny and Bud and Murine had given him the Remington which now lay in its case in his dressing room. Here he had a dressing room but no plug in the john for an electric shaver. He ran the water. Brown again. Every day the water ran brown here, which, for all he knew, might make it worth being put in a museum like the furniture. A brown antique Victorian bathroom wasn't enough, yet; they had to have brown Victorian water to match!