Time Out of Mind (45 page)
Authors: John R. Maxim
Tags: #Horror, #General, #Psychological, #Suspense, #Memory, #Thrillers, #Fiction, #Time Travel
“
Tell me about Ansel Carling, Ella. He is quite the cul
tivated gentleman, isn't he? And a lion of commerce on top
of it. A latter-day Ivanhoe.”
“
It is unbecoming, Tilden,” she said icily, “to mock that
to which you cannot aspire.”
“
Hardly the sort of man,” Tilden continued, “who
would bandy a lady's name about in a Thirty-sixth Street
whorehouse. Hardly the type to boast of his conquest to his friends
without even being discreet enough to do so behind
closed doors.”
Ella paled by several shades. “What are you talking
about?” she asked.
“
He laughed at you, Ella.”
“
You are a liar.”
“
Oh, he laughed at me as well. He laughed at me for
being blind, which was true enough. But he laughed at you
because you were so easy for him, Ella. And because he
finds you silly, Ella.”
Oh, he laughed at me as well. He laughed at me for
being blind, which was true enough. But he laughed at you
because you were so easy for him, Ella. And because he
finds you silly, Ella.”
“
Liar!” she screamed.
“
Aside from that unaccountably dark and sallow infant
in there”—Tilden gestured toward the nursery—“what
else did you easily give him? Did you give him the knowl
edge of Cyrus Field's business affairs? Did you give him
the means, from my private records, to destroy a man who
is worth a thousand of you, Ella?”
Aside from that unaccountably dark and sallow infant
in there”—Tilden gestured toward the nursery—“what
else did you easily give him? Did you give him the knowl
edge of Cyrus Field's business affairs? Did you give him
the means, from my private records, to destroy a man who
is worth a thousand of you, Ella?”
Her eyes went wide. She stared at him for several long
moments, her face first a mask of fear, then of contempt,
then fear again. ”I will hear no more of this.” She turned
away from him, passing an iced-over window that crackled
under the assault of driven sleet.
moments, her face first a mask of fear, then of contempt,
then fear again. ”I will hear no more of this.” She turned
away from him, passing an iced-over window that crackled
under the assault of driven sleet.
”
I want you gone, Ella,” he said coolly. “Tomorrow, if
the trains are running, I want you to take your child and
go home to Philadelphia. Take your twin beds as well. I
intend to divorce you on a bill of adultery.”
I want you gone, Ella,” he said coolly. “Tomorrow, if
the trains are running, I want you to take your child and
go home to Philadelphia. Take your twin beds as well. I
intend to divorce you on a bill of adultery.”
“
Do you indeed, sir?” She stopped and faced him.
“
With all possible haste. If you do not go of your own accord, by the way, I will put you and your belongings on
the sidewalk.”
With all possible haste. If you do not go of your own accord, by the way, I will put you and your belongings on
the sidewalk.”
“
To make room for your slut, I presume.”
Now Tilden paled.
“
Hypocrite,” she spat.
Tilden held his tongue, though alarmed by her use of the word
slut.
It troubled him less that Ella seemed to know of
Margaret than that she might know of Margaret's origins
and could use that knowledge to do her harm. And if Ella
knew, so, by deduction, did Carling. And therefore Jay
Gould as well.
“
There will be no divorce, Tilden”—she smirked—
“except at a time and on conditions of my choosing. Press
me on this and I swear I will leave your life in tatters.”
“
As with Cyrus Field, for example,” he hissed.
“
He's as great a fool as you. Though not so great as to
have bought himself a private whore.”
Tilden took two steps closer to her and paused, an expression almost of sorrow on his face. Then he slapped her
hard across the mouth.
“
Tomorrow, Ella,” he told her. “Tomorrow I want you
gone.”
She'd almost fallen, not from the force of the blow but
out of shock. She had never dreamed that Tilden might
strike her. No one had hit her, ever, not in her entire life.
He is a madman. An animal. Ansel. I must get to Ansel.
He will protect me. Gathering herself, Ella crossed to their
entrance hall and fought the knob of the clothes closet
: there. When I tell him what has been done to me here, when
I show him, he will rush back here and give Tilden the
caning of his life. He will avenge me. And oh, how he'll
laugh at Tilden’s childish lies. Easy, indeed. Silly! We shall
see who is silly.
Ella snatched the first coat she found and struggled into it. She reached for a hatbox, knocking several to the floor, and plucked from the debris a small feathered toque that
would be useless for the conditions outside. She ignored
three pairs of boots that sat in the rear of the closet.
Tilden considered stopping her. She was dangerously out of her senses. If her intention was to cool her fury she might
find more coolness than she bargained for. But let her go,
he decided. He was sure that she would go no more than
a few steps once she saw that the storm was slapping her
with a force much greater than he had used.
His back was to the door when he heard it slam. In the
hallway outside he heard a single squeal of rage and then
a series of smacks, which he imagined were the sounds of
her hand pounding the call button of the elevator.He re
gretted that the night operator must see her condition. He heard the sound of sliding doors and the clatter of metal
gates.
“
Tilden.”
He jumped at the echoing sound of his name.
You are not a man, Tilden.”
Oh no. He closed his eyes.
The operator. The neighbors. “
I
know what a real man is
like. Sleep well, Tilden. But do not be surprised if Ansel
pays you a visit and whips the life out of you.”
The elevator
doors rolled shut.
“
My God! Is it possible?” he gasped through his em
barrassment. Would she actually go there? At night? Unes
corted? He could not permit it. Tilden walked quickly to
the closet and found a gray lamb's-wool coat and hat. But what of the infant, he thought as he pulled on his gloves.
Neither Bess, the housekeeper, nor Mrs. Vickers, the nurse, had come because of the storm. In the whole building, hard
ly any servants and few staff had made it through. Could
he leave the infant alone? Tilden crossed to the nursery
door and looked inside. All was quiet. The infant would be
fine for the few minutes it would take to remind Ella of
her duties and to drag her back if necessary.
Tilden chose a stout walking stick from the hallway stand and stepped through the door, closing it quietly behind him.
He headed toward the stairs. A visit from Ansel Carling, he muttered to himself as he descended them. I dare not
even pray for such a blessing. But there will be a visit. Depend on it, Carling. And it is I who will do the visiting.
Tilden reached the lobby and went quickly into the
storm. No one saw him leave.
Sturdevant moved his chair aside to afford Corbin and Gwen Leamas a better view of the projected microfilm
page. He glanced up at their faces. Gwen's expression was animated, excited. She caught her breath when she saw the
name Tilden Beckwith on a printed page and repeated it
aloud. Corbin, fascinated at first, now seemed confused,
dazed. But a bit angry as well, Sturdevant decided.
He watched as Corbin’s hand reached slowly forward
and his thumb began brushing over the glass at one edge. Gwen stiffened. She knew at once what the hand was doing. It was attempting to turn the page. Sturdevant touched a finger to his lips and advanced the reel, slowly, one page
at a time, moving on only when Corbin's thumb began to
move. On page 2 of the newspaper dated Thursday, March
15, Corbin's hand went flat.
and his thumb began brushing over the glass at one edge. Gwen stiffened. She knew at once what the hand was doing. It was attempting to turn the page. Sturdevant touched a finger to his lips and advanced the reel, slowly, one page
at a time, moving on only when Corbin's thumb began to
move. On page 2 of the newspaper dated Thursday, March
15, Corbin's hand went flat.
There it was. Storm victim. Ella Huntington Beckwith.
Age 24. The wife of Tilden Beckwith of the Osborne Apart
ments. Reported missing on March 12th. Found between
stacks of bricks on the construction site of the new Plaza Hotel. Police were investigating.
Investigating? Why? Ah, yes, Sturdevant realized. Stur
devant probabilities. How is it that two unrelated neighbors
from the same apartment house perished in the same storm in the same general area? It might be possible to dig up the
record of that investigation for what it might be worth.
Probably not much. Once the police established that no relationship existed between Ella Beckwith and George Bar
emore, the coincidence would have been accepted and Ella
would be just one more person who fatally underestimated
the storm that first night.
“
Can we talk in private, sir?” The policeman, a hulking
figure who introduced himself as Inspector Williams,
cocked his head toward John Flood, who had visited Tilden
daily since Ella was first reported missing.
Can we talk in private, sir?” The policeman, a hulking
figure who introduced himself as Inspector Williams,
cocked his head toward John Flood, who had visited Tilden
daily since Ella was first reported missing.
Flood rose to his feet. “I'll just use that fancy bathroom
of yours a while, lad. Sing out if you need me.” He met
the inspector's eyes and held them. Neither man blinked
until Flood had passed.
of yours a while, lad. Sing out if you need me.” He met
the inspector's eyes and held them. Neither man blinked
until Flood had passed.
“
That's John Flood, ain't it? The Bull's Head Terror?”
“
Yes.”
”
I seen him fight Sullivan up in Yonkers. I don't guess
a gent like you would have been there.” His voice was
curiously high-pitched.
I seen him fight Sullivan up in Yonkers. I don't guess
a gent like you would have been there.” His voice was
curiously high-pitched.
”
I was there, Inspector.”
“
Tough man.” He raised a fist. “Went eight rounds
against John L. No one but Paddy Ryan has lasted longer.”
Tilden nodded, waiting.
”
Appertainin' to that, sir,” he asked, “how is it that a society feller like yourself is pals with the likes of John Fl
ood? You wouldn't be feelin' no need for a bodyguard,
would you?”
Appertainin' to that, sir,” he asked, “how is it that a society feller like yourself is pals with the likes of John Fl
ood? You wouldn't be feelin' no need for a bodyguard,
would you?”
“
John's been a friend since I was twelve.” He ignored
the last part of the policeman's question.
“
Though by the look of you, sir, you've mixed it up
once or twice yourself.”
“
Can we get on with this, Inspector?”
“
We can, sir. We can indeed.”
Tilden waited again.
“
You can understand, sir, how the Baremore feller and Missus Beckwith both bein' from the same address caught the eye of the department. Could there have been a con
nection, sir?”
“
No.” Tilden shook his head. “They scarcely knew
each other on sight.”
”
I thought as much myself.” Williams spread his hands.
“Mr. Baremore left for work that morning. Your wife a
full ten hours later. Odd thing, though. She must have prac
tically stepped right over his body to get to where they found her.”
Tilden said nothing.
“
Have you a notion where she was goin', sir, that was
worth bein' out on a night like that?”
“
No.”
“
Well, this is real embarrassin' for me, sir, but I have
to point out I know different. I know you and her had some
strong words, maybe even a blow was struck, and I know
she said something about a feller named Ansel comin' to fix your hash.”
Color rose on Tilden’ s neck. He did not know what in
furiated him more, whether the fact that his striking a
woman for the only time in his life was now public knowl
edge, or that a linkage of her name to Carling's was as
well, or that this thug of a policeman could even consider
the notion of Ansel Carling surviving two minutes with
him.
furiated him more, whether the fact that his striking a
woman for the only time in his life was now public knowl
edge, or that a linkage of her name to Carling's was as
well, or that this thug of a policeman could even consider
the notion of Ansel Carling surviving two minutes with
him.
“
Would this Ansel feller be livin' over at the Navarro
Flats?”
“
He would. Why do you ask?”
Williams pulled an object wrapped in paper from his coat
pocket. “Your wife had no hat when she was found, sir.
We found this along the way, right in front of where a man named Ansel Carling lives.” He showed the crushed lump
of cloth and feathers to Tilden. “Looks like a dead bird,
don't it. Would it be her hat, by chance?”
pocket. “Your wife had no hat when she was found, sir.
We found this along the way, right in front of where a man named Ansel Carling lives.” He showed the crushed lump
of cloth and feathers to Tilden. “Looks like a dead bird,
don't it. Would it be her hat, by chance?”
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