What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? (23 page)

“I left that there for you. I thought you might want to see it.”

Miriam’s eyes flashed with anger. “You were quite wrong. I don’t!” She made a move to start the car, but Paul put his hand through the car window to stop her.

“I think you ought to hear what I have to say, Miss Hollis. My paper is
Now Magazine
. You’ve heard of it, I suppose?”

“I’ve heard of it,” Miriam replied.

“Then you must know that we’re not like that rag,” pointing to the tabloid. “We’re much more reserved, shall I say, in our approach.”

“You could hardly be less.”

“True. Exactly. But we are their closest competitors. I simply wanted to show you and Miss Charlotte what they were doing… the kind of consideration… or lack of consideration… you can expect. But of course they don’t bother to research their subjects; they don’t trouble themselves with the expense and inconvenience of seeking interviews…”

“But you do!”

“True. Exactly. Now, I’ll tell you frankly, what I’ve been sent here for is a picture of your cousin… preferably a picture of her leaving the house.”

“You may have a considerable wait.”

“But she will have to leave eventually. And in the meantime…”

“You have your expense account,” snapped Miriam.

“Yes. And a goodly amount of patience. But the point is… you can expect a much more sympathetic coverage from my publication than you’re getting from the competition.”

“In consideration for what?”

Paul laughed, disconcerted by Miriam’s directness. “Well, yes. First of all, I’d like an interview with Charlotte Hollis… a personal interview. Also an exclusive photo of her leaving the house.”

“An exclusive photo?”

“A tip off before she leaves… that’s all… a little phone call.”

“Not a big phone call… just a little one…?”

Miriam’s gaze moved to an elderly, portly gentleman who had evidently been eavesdropping, hovering discreetly nearby.

“We can make an arrangement. There’s the expense account. I’m allowed certain expenditures for… ‘contacts.’ ”

“Then why don’t you go make some!” replied Miriam.

“You don’t understand.”

“I do understand. So please step away from the car…”

At this point the elderly gentleman, Waldo Hopper, came forward and catching Miriam’s eye, smiled. And when he spoke, to Miriam’s surprise, it was with a pronounced English accent.

“Forgive me,” he said as he smiled, “if I may intrude…”

“Why should you be different?”

“True. Exactly,” replied Waldo in the direction and in a direct imitation of Paul. Miriam smiled. “But I only wanted to suggest that this young man here has a point. He is, after all, doing his job. Whether you intercede for him with your cousin or not, his publication will still do a story, and feeling and opinion is against her. In her way, which is almost entirely negative, she is an international celebrity of long standing. It’s popular to regard her as an untried murderess. If this young man can help offset this opinion with a sympathetic piece, well then, it might be wise to consider his offer.”

“But,” Miriam began, “I couldn’t possibly…”

“Of course, you can’t accept payment for an interview with your cousin… and you’re plainly not that kind of person.”

“I couldn’t guarantee an interview,” Miriam stated flatly. “And in any case, I have very little influence with Charlotte.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I was hoping you might have.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” continued Waldo. “You see I was rather hoping to speak to her myself.”

“You’re a reporter, too?” asked Miriam.

“Oh, no. It’s nothing commercial. May I give you my card?”

As Miriam read the card she saw that Waldo was an amateur criminologist associated with a society in London.

“Then you’re an investigator?”

“Quite unofficially, yes. As this was my favorite case, almost as famous as Lizzie Borden, and far more interesting. A missing lover, a severed hand, but a body never discovered… An heiress and a bloodied gown… I was elected to come and make a report on it. I must tell you that I’ve wanted to meet your cousin since I can remember. I can remember the excitement I felt when I heard the Hollis house was to be razed. I was in a state of terror that I wouldn’t get here on time.”

“But you did. Congratulations. Just what do you expect them to find in that house? If you’ll recall there were rumors just after my cousin sailed for Europe just after the murder that she was seen throwing a mysterious parcel overboard.”

“Oh, I know all about that. I’ve talked to nearly everyone who was onboard who were around and still alive. It was just poppycock, nothing more.”

“But that was nearly twenty years ago.”

“Yes, I know.” He smiled again. “You’re thinking I must be some sort of mad eccentric, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am.”

“But,” Waldo asked, “do you think I’m dangerous?”

“No, not dangerous.”

“Then you will ask your cousin to see me… and this young man?”

Miriam hesitated and then said, “Perhaps. But I don’t think it will do any good.”

“As long as you ask.”

“I have to go now,” Miriam said, bringing the matter to an emphatic end. “Goodbye.”

“So nice meeting you,” said Waldo, “and you’re even more beautiful than they ever reported in any of the crime journals.”

Miriam started the car and setting it in motion, lifted a brow. “Thank you… I suppose,” and with that she drove off.

Charlotte was in a state as she handed Miriam the copy of the tabloid she had received in the morning mail.

“This is Jewel’s work,” cried Charlotte, hurling the paper from her. “She’ll never be satisfied until she drives me out!”

“I saw her in town, Charlotte,” said Miriam. “She’s old and sick. I don’t think she had anything to do with it.”

“Just because she couldn’t hang on to her husband,” Charlotte ranted, “she blames me. If she’d just taken an interest in him. If she’d just bothered to recognize his talent, his music, just because he needed some sort of beauty and youth and understanding in his life…”

“That’s all done with,” interrupted Miriam. “It has been for years now.”

“Oh, has it?” railed Charlotte. She drew forth another envelope from the morning mail and handed it to Miriam. “Just take a look at this…”

Miriam took out a single sheet of paper on which was scrawled a single word—“MURDERESS.”

“I don’t even bother to open the mail anymore,” said Charlotte. “I know what’s in it.”

“How long has this been going on?” asked Miriam.

“I’ve had one of those every week, every Monday morning for the last eighteen years. She sends them.”

“But that’s incredible!”

“Who else could have sent them?” asked Charlotte. “It’s her guilty conscience that makes her do it.”

“Oh, Charlotte, why have you stayed here like this all these years? Why have you thrown your life away?”

“It wouldn’t have been any different anywhere else. I tried
escaping to Europe and they hounded me there. And I promised Daddy…”

“You must leave now!” Miriam interrupted. “There are people coming to pack. You mustn’t interfere.”

“I won’t leave. Not while she’s still here, not as long as they call me a murderess. I will not leave…”

“You’ve no choice. You must understand that!”

“Then they’ll have to carry me out!”

“That may well be the case if you don’t behave yourself.”

Leaving Charlotte, Miriam went downstairs where Hugh was waiting. “She’ll never listen to reason. Never,” Miriam told him. “I don’t know what she thinks she’s protecting here.”

The helpers arrived that afternoon and Miriam set them to work. They approached the old rooms unwillingly, almost with a kind of superstitious fear. Charlotte saw them as she stood on the landing, and then turned and went back into her room and locked the door. Miriam cast her eyes heavenward in exasperation.

That night as Miriam lay in bed, she was awakened by the sound of music, of a piano being played downstairs. Getting up and slipping on her negligee, she went out into the hallway and saw that Charlotte’s door was open and in the lower hallway, the shine of moonlight came from the open door of the ballroom. She looked back in the direction of the bedroom and the revolver lying on the bedside table, but left it there and started down the stairs.

There in the ballroom was Charlotte, sitting at the piano and playing the song John Mayhew had written for her—the song that children now chant the accusing words to. Only now Charlotte was playing the song as written by John—a song of love for her. Her voice was wistful and almost young. Miriam hesitated, loath
to intrude, but then she heard a crash of chords from the piano, a gasp, and then, the sound of sobbing.

Miriam ran into the room which was flooded with moonlight coming in the French windows which comprised the entire far wall of the room and reflected in mirrored panels decorating the walls. Charlotte was huddled on the floor beside the piano in mute terror, too frightened evidently to make even a sound as she stared at something on the keyboard of the piano.

Miriam hastened to Charlotte trying to coax words from her, but Charlotte could only sob as her gaze remained fastened in the direction of the keyboard. Miriam followed her stare and suddenly froze in shock. There on the keyboard was a tapered, severed hand.

As soon as she recovered from the first revulsion of the sight, Miriam pulled Charlotte’s face away, got her to her feet and helped her up the stairs. Once she had calmed Charlotte, she returned to the ballroom, paused for a moment in the doorway and reluctantly entered the room.

She found the light switch and turned on the large overhead chandelier bringing the room into vivid aliveness. At first she thought she saw another hand before realizing it was only a workman’s glove left on one of the gilt chairs that lined the room.

Hesitantly, she made her way to the piano forcing herself to look at the keyboard. She stopped in limp relief. The hand, or whatever it was that was there, was gone. After a moment, she crossed to the French window and started to close it when she heard a sound from outside. She looked out into the darkness to see a figure moving hastily out of sight and away beyond the shadows of the hedges. Thoughtfully, she pulled the window firmly closed and locked it.

The next day the workers returned to continue the packing. As they worked, they made speculations among themselves. Through
the previous day’s familiarity, the house had become less menacing to them.

“My mama,” said one of the women, “she always claimed that if it wasn’t for her Daddy payin’ ever’body off, she’d of come up for trial sure as sin. She was the last one to see John Mayhew alive out there in that cabin. And they say she had a temper like a wildcat when she got goin’.”

“She’s still got that, all right. Stealin’ another woman’s husband… and she was pretty enough in them days. She coulda had any young bachelor in the county.”

“What I heard, her Daddy had to get her out of town. It wasn’t just to keep her from comin’ to trial he shipped her off to Europe… there was another reason.”

“You reckon that’s so?”

“But her cutting him up that way…! They found one of his hands right here on this property.”

“So it stands to reason that the rest of him’s likely to be around here someplace…”

“It gives you the creeps, her here in this house all these years. Where’d you suppose you got to hide something like that—a head of somebody?”

“Ain’t nobody goin’ to do a thing like that. Not even her.”

“Oh yeah. Then how come they found that one hand…” the woman picking up the drapery suddenly uncovered another workman’s glove. The other woman saw it and let out a scream. They all laughed at her.

“That old hand could be just about anywhere inside this house. The woman turned and pointed to the boxes stacked around. “In there… in there… or…” she turned her attention to a large ornately carved box, “or it might just happen to be in this little coffin box here.”

“Coffin…?” the other woman gasped. “Oh, no, don’t you open that!”

Just then Charlotte suddenly appeared. “No!” she said with
controlled fury, “Don’t put your grubby hands on that… don’t you dare!” She regarded them with eyes filled with blazing hatred. “Get out!” She picked up a nearby candlestick and hurled it blindly at them. “Get out, the lot of you!”

Miriam appeared and tried to get Charlotte back under control, but it was too late. Neither Charlotte nor the workers could be reconciled. The workers hadn’t wanted to come there to that death house anyway.

Charlotte took the carved box and headed back up stairs in heavy retreat.

“Must have something mighty private in there to carry on thataway,” one of the workers grumbled, picking up her things to leave.

As bad as it was to lose the workers, Miriam’s day was made even worse when Hugh arrived to announce that old Judge Grannie was on his way out to talk to Charlotte. The Judge had been a friend of Charlotte’s father and had been prevailed upon by the commissioner and others to come and talk reason to Charlotte. Miriam was close to throwing up her hands as she told Hugh, “The whole situation is impossible. Charlotte is quite mad and should be committed.”

“Then why not discuss that with the Judge? Charlotte is in no condition to talk to him.”

Charlotte, it just so happened, was a witness to the Judge’s arrival when he came to the house hours later. Below, Hugh and Miriam welcomed the Judge but explained that Charlotte was too ill to see him. The Judge, a very old man, seemed to have forgotten the purpose of his visit. The sight of the house excited all sorts of reminiscences in him—of the good times they had there and the tragedy that had occurred. It seemed impossible to get him to discuss the matter of Charlotte and getting her out of the house.

“Charlotte…,” the old judge finally said, “it’s a terrible thing how they’ve crucified that poor child… frightful… frightful.
You’d think they’d be satisfied they drove her poor Mama and her poor Daddy into their graves with grief and scandal…”

“Yes, of course,” said Miriam. “That’s why someone must persuade her to leave here…”

At this point Charlotte, fully dressed now in her finest, and every bit the vivacious southern debutante of forty years ago, swept into the room.