Death Wears a Beauty Mask and Other Stories

by Mary Higgins Clark

  He moved warily and disappeared into the seat recess. He walks like a cat, Carol thought. Or like a kitten, she amended, remembering the boyish fuzz that had brushed her face.

  It was hard to balance in the ascending plane and, steadying herself by one hand on the lounge bulkhead, she took the aisle seat by Joe, flipped a blanket from the overhead rack and threw it over him, shaking it wide. To a casual glance, the blanket might not seem unusual; to a searching glance, it would be odd that anything shapeless could make such a thick mound.

  She glued her eyes to the sign over the cabin door. FASTEN YOUR SEATBELTS—NO SMOKING. Attachez vos ceintures—ne fumez pas. While the sign was on, she had a reprieve, a safe island. But when it flashed off she’d have to turn on the bright cabin lights that would make a farce out of Joe’s hiding place and let the passengers leave their seats.

  For the first time she seriously considered what would happen to her for concealing Joe. She thought about what Tom would say and remembered unhappily his reaction last year when she’d caused trouble on his ship.

  “But Tom,” she’d protested, “what if I did let that poor kid take her dog out of the crate? She was traveling alone, to be adopted by strangers. It was night and the cabin was dark. No one would have known if that woman hadn’t gone over to her and got nipped for her trouble.”

  And Tom had retorted: “Carol, maybe someday you’ll learn to obey basic rules. That woman was a stockholder and raised Cain in the front office. I took the blame for letting the dog loose because I knew it wouldn’t cost me my job. But after seven years with a clean record, I don’t like having a reprimand in my brief now.”

  She recalled uneasily how she’d flared at him, telling him she was delighted he didn’t have a perfect record to live up to anymore—that now, maybe, he’d relax and act human—maybe he’d stop treating the company manual like the Bible. It wasn’t hard to remember everything they’d said, she’d relived that quarrel so often.

  She tried to picture what Charlie Wright, Northern’s station manager at Frankfurt, would do. Charlie was a “company man” too. He liked the planes to arrive and depart on schedule, the passengers to be satisfied. Charlie would definitely be upset at having to report a stowaway to the front office and would undoubtedly suspend her immediately or fire her outright.

  Joe’s blanket moved slightly and her mind jolted back to the problem of finding a safe hiding place for him. The plane leveled off. As the seatbelt sign died, she rose slowly. Hating to do it, she reached for the switch on the bulkhead and turned the cabin lights from dim to bright.

  • • •

  She started to pass out magazines and newspapers. The man who’d been nervous about takeoff was no longer strained-looking. “That pill helped a lot, stewardess.” He accepted a newspaper and fumbled for his glasses. “They must be in my coat.” He got up and started toward the rear.

  Carol said numbly, “Let me get them for you.”

  “Not at all.” He was passing Joe’s hiding place—Carol following, scarcely breathing. The blanket was glaringly out of place in the tidy cabin. The passenger got his eyeglasses, started back down the aisle and stopped. Carol swiftly reflected that this man was the neat type—hadn’t he straightened his coat on the hanger, smoothed the edges of his newspaper? In just one second he’d pick up that blanket. He was bending, saying: “This must have fallen—”

  “Oh, please!” Carol’s hand was on his arm, her grip firm. “Please don’t bother. I’ll get it in a minute.” She eased him forward, scolding lightly. “You’re our guest. If the Captain saw me letting you tidy up, he’d drop me out the window.”

  The man smiled, then went amiably to his seat.

  Carol’s eyes searched the cabin hopelessly. The blanket was too obvious. Anytime someone went to the rear of the plane Joe could be discovered.

  “Magazine, stewardess.”

  “Of course.” Carol brought a selection to the passenger seated behind the Commissioner, then walked forward. “Would you care to see a magazine, Commissioner Karlov?”

  The Commissioner’s thin fingers were tapping the armrest, his lips pursed in concentration. “Some piece of information eludes me, stewardess. Something I have been told does not fit. However”—he smiled coldly—“it will come back to me. It always does.” He waved away the magazines. “Where is the water fountain?”

  “I’ll get you a glass of water—” Carol said.

  He started to rise. “Don’t bother, please. I detest sitting so long. I’ll get it myself.”

  The water fountain was opposite the seat where Joe was hiding. The Commissioner was not a naive observer. He’d be sure to investigate the blanket.

  “No!” She blocked the way into the aisle. “The flight’s getting bumpy. The Captain doesn’t want the passengers to be moving.”

  The Commissioner looked intently at the unlighted seatbelt sign. “If you will let me pass—”

  The plane tilted slightly. Carol swayed against the Commissioner, deliberately dropping the magazines. It was getting rough.

  If she could just stall him, Tom was sure to flash the sign on. The Commissioner, looking exasperated, picked up a few of the magazines.

  Still blocking his way, she slowly picked up the others, carefully sorting them by size. Finally, unable to delay any longer, she straightened up. And the seatbelt sign was flashing!

  The Commissioner leaned back and studied Carol intently as she went to the tank, drew him a glass of water, and brought it to him. He didn’t thank her but instead observed, “That sign seemed like a direct answer to a plea of yours, stewardess. It must have been important to you that I did not leave my seat.”

  Carol felt panic, then anger. He knew something was up and it amused him to watch her squirm. She took his barely touched glass. “Sir, I’m going to let you in on a trade secret. When we have a very important passenger on board, a mark is made next to his name on the manifest. That symbol means we’re to show every courtesy to that person. You’re that passenger on this flight and I’m trying to make your trip as pleasant as possible. I’m afraid I’m not succeeding.”

  • • •

  The flight deck door opened and Tom stepped down. The passengers were all seated near the front half of the cabin. Carol stood by the last one. The odds were that Tom merely wanted to say hello to them. He wouldn’t bother going all the way through with no one seated in the back.

  Tom welcomed the Commissioner, shook hands with the man behind him, pointed out a cloud bank to the two friends playing checkers. Carol studied his movements with vast aching. Every time she saw him a different memory flashed back. This time it was Memorial Day in Gander and their flight was canceled because of a freak snowstorm. Late that night, she and Tom had had a snowball fight. Tom had looked at his watch and said: “Do you realize in two minutes it will be June first? I’ve never kissed a girl in a snowstorm on June first before.” His lips brushed against her cheek and were cold, found her mouth and were warm. “I love you, Carol.” It was the first time he had said it.

  Carol swallowed against the hurt and came back to reality. She was standing in the aisle and Tom was before her and Joe was in danger and there was no way out.

  “Sure you don’t want help with dinner, Carol?” His tone was impersonal but his eyes searched hers. She wondered if he had flashes of remembering too.

  “No need,” she said. “I’ll start on it immediately.” It would mean going up to the galley and leaving Joe for anyone to discover, but—

  Tom cleared his throat and seemed to search for words. “How does it feel to be the only woman on board, Carol—”

  The words hung in Carol’s mind for seconds before their full import sank in. She gazed from passenger to passenger: the Commissioner, the man afraid of takeoffs, the mild fortyish one, the elderly man sleeping, the two friends at checkers. Men, all men. She’d prayed for a hiding place for Joe, and Tom of all people had pointed it out! The ladies’ lounge! Perfect. And so simple.

  Now,
as Tom studied her, she said casually: “I love being the only woman here, Captain. No competition.”

  Tom started to go forward and hesitated. “Carol, have coffee with me when we get to Frankfurt. We’ve got to talk.”

  It had come. He missed her too. If she said to him now, “I’ve discovered a stowaway on board,” it would be so easy. Tom could take the credit and Danubia would be grateful. It might mean Northern’s charter being extended and make up to him for last year’s trouble. But she couldn’t murder Joe even for Tom’s love. “Ask me in Frankfurt if you still want to,” she said.

  After Tom had gone back to the flight deck, she returned to the seat beside Joe and studied the passengers swiftly. The checker game was absorbing the two players. The elderly man dozed. The fortyish man watched the clouds. The neat one was bent over his newspaper. The Commissioner’s head was leaning against the back of the seat. It was too much to hope he was napping. At best he was in deep thought and might not turn around.

  She leaned over the blanketed form. “Joe, you’ve got to get to the rear of the plane. The ladies’ lounge is on the left. Go in and lock the door.”

  Just then she met the Commissioner’s glance as he turned in his seat. “Joe, I’ve got to turn the lights off. When I do, get out of there fast! Do you understand?”

  Joe slipped the blanket from his head. His hair was tousled and his eyes blinked in the strong light. He looked like a twelve-year-old roused from a sound sleep. But when his eyes got used to the light, they were the eyes of a man—weary, strained.

  His faint nod was all Carol needed to assure her that he understood. She got up. The Commissioner had left his seat and was hurrying toward her.

  It took her a second to cross to the light switch and plunge the cabin into darkness. Cries of alarm came from the passengers. Carol made her cries louder than the rest. “I’m sorry! How stupid of me! I can’t seem to find the right switch—”

  The click of a door closing—had she heard it or merely wanted to hear it?

  “Turn on that light, stewardess.” An icy voice, a rough hand on her arm.

  Carol threw the switch and stared into the face of the Commissioner—a face distorted with rage.

  “Why?” His voice was furious.

  “Why what, sir? I merely intended to turn the microphone on to announce dinner. See—the mike switch is next to the lights.”

  The Commissioner studied the panel, uncertainty crossing his face. Carol turned the mike on. “I hope you’re hungry, everybody. I’ll serve dinner in minutes, and while you’re waiting we’ll have a cocktail. Manhattans, martinis or daiquiris. I’ll be right there to get your orders.” She turned to the Commissioner and said respectfully, “Cocktail, sir?”

  “Will you have one with me, stewardess?”

  “I can’t drink while I’m working.”

  “Neither can I.”

  • • •

  What did he mean by that, Carol wondered, passing the cocktail tray. More cat-and-mouse stuff, she decided as she yanked prepared food from the cubbyhole refrigerator in the galley and made up trays. She took special pains with the Commissioner’s dinner, folding the linen napkin in creases and pouring the coffee at the last minute to keep it steaming hot.

  “Aren’t there usually two attendants?” the Commissioner asked as she placed the tray in front of him

  “Yes, but the purser’s ill. He’s lying down.”

  She served the others, poured second coffees, brought trays to the crew. Tom turned over the controls to the first officer and sat at the navigator’s table. “I’ll be glad when we get to Frankfurt,” he said uneasily. “With this tail wind, we should be in in half an hour. I’ve been edgy this whole flight. Something seems wrong, but I can’t put my finger on it.” He grinned. “Maybe I’m just tired and need some of your good coffee, Carol.”

  Carol pulled the curtain from the crew bunk up slightly. “Paul has certainly been asleep a long time.”

  “He just woke up and asked me to get his jacket. He wanted to give you a hand. But I made him stay put. He feels rotten.”

  Joe’s fate was hanging in such a delicate balance. If Paul had come back, he’d have seen Joe. If Paul’s jacket hadn’t been hanging in the cabin, the police would have found Joe. If Tom hadn’t said she was the only woman aboard—

  “I’ll pick up the trays since we’ve only a half hour to go.”

  • • •

  She started collecting trays from the passengers, working her way forward. The Commissioner’s tray was untouched. He was staring down at it. A premonition warned Carol not to disturb him. She cleared and stacked the other trays. But then her wristwatch told her they’d land in ten minutes. The seatbelt sign came on. She went for the Commissioner’s tray. “Shall I take it, sir? I’m afraid you didn’t eat much.”

  But the Commissioner stood up. “You almost got away with it, miss, but I finally realized what’s been eluding me. At Danubia the search party said the purser was ill and the stewardess was checking baggage declarations with the steward.” His face turned cruel. “Why didn’t the steward help you with dinner? Because there isn’t any.” His fingers dug into Carol’s shoulders. “Our prisoner did get on this plane and you’ve hidden him.”

  Carol fought rising panic. “Let me go.”

  “He is on board, isn’t he? Well, it’s not too late. The Captain must take us back to Danubia. A thorough search will be made.”

  He pushed her aside and lunged for the door to the flight deck. Carol grasped at his arm but he flung her hand away. The other passengers were on their feet, staring.

  Her last hope was these men who with bitterness had watched the search. Would they help?

  “Yes, there’s an escaped prisoner on board!” she shouted. “He’s a kid you’d love to shoot, but I won’t let you do it!”

  For a moment, the passengers seemed frozen as they clutched seat backs for support in the sloping plane. Carol, in utter despair, thought they wouldn’t help. But then, as though they finally understood what was going on, they lunged forward together. The mild one threw himself against the Commissioner and knocked his hand from the doorknob. A checker player pinned his arms behind his back. The plane was circling the field, the airport lights level with the window. A faint bump—Frankfurt!

  The passengers released the Commissioner as the flight deck door opened. Tom stood there, angrily taking in the scene. “Carol, what the devil is going on?”

  She went to him, shutting her eyes against the Commissioner’s fury, and against the impact of her words on Tom. She felt sick, pained. “Captain—” her tongue was thick, she could barely form words “—Captain, I wish to report a stowaway. . . .”

  • • •

  She gratefully sipped the steaming coffee in the station manager’s office. The past hour was a blur of airport officials, police, photographers. Only vivid was the Commissioner’s demand: “This man is a citizen of my country. He must be returned immediately.” And the station manager’s reply: “This is regrettable, but we must turn the stowaway over to the Bonn government. If his story checks, he’ll be granted asylum.”

  She stared at her hand where Joe had kissed it before being taken into custody.

  He’d said, “You have given me my life, my future.”

  The door opened slowly and Charlie Wright, the station manager, walked in, followed by Tom. “Well, that’s that.”

  He looked squarely at Carol. “Proud of yourself? Feeling real heroic and dying to see the morning headlines? ‘Stewardess hides stowaway in thrilling flight from Danubia.’ The papers won’t print that Northern won’t be welcome in Danubia anymore and will lose a few million in revenue because of you. As for you, Carol, you can head home and there’ll be a hearing in New York but—you’re fired.”

  “I expected it. But you’ve got to understand Tom knew nothing about the stowaway.”

  “It’s a Captain’s business to know what goes on in his plane,” Charlie shot back. “Tom will probably get away
with a stiff calldown unless he gets heroic and tries to take the blame for you. I hear from the grapevine he did that once before.”

  “That’s right,” Carol said. “He took the blame for me last year and I didn’t have the decency to thank him for it.” She looked into Tom’s strangely inscrutable face. “Tom, last year you were furious with me, and rightly so. I was completely wrong. This time, I’m truly sorry for the trouble you’ll have over this but I couldn’t have done otherwise.”

  She turned to Charlie, fighting tears. “If you’re finished, I’m going to the hotel. I’m dead.”

  He looked at her with some sympathy. “Carol, unofficially I can understand what you did. Officially—”

  She tried to smile. “Good night.” She went out and started to walk down the stairs.

  Tom caught up with her at the landing. “Look, Carol, let’s put the record straight—I’m glad the boy got through! You wouldn’t be the girl I love if you’d handed him over to those butchers.”

  The girl I love.

  “But thank God you won’t be flying on my plane anymore. I’d be afraid to sit at the stick wondering what was going on in the cabin.” His arms slipped around her.

  “But if you’re not on my plane, I wish you’d be there to pick me up at the airport. You can hide spies and dogs and anything you darn please in the backseat. Carol, I’m trying to ask you to marry me.”

  Carol looked at him, the splendid tallness of him and the tenderness in his eyes. Then his lips were warm against hers and he was saying again the words she’d wanted so long to hear, “Love you, Carol.”

  The waiting room of the terminal was dim and quiet. After a moment, they started down the stairs toward it, their footsteps echoing ahead.

  When the Bough Breaks

  . . . Michael clutched frantically at the dead tree branch, his small body suspended high in the air. He looked beseechingly at Marion for help, but she was holding a huge telephone receiver because she had to call a man to attend to the tree. Peter was jumping on the dead branch and it broke with a sickening crunch. Peter grabbed the trunk of the tree for support, and Marion stared spellbound as Michael’s graceful little body fell swiftly down until it lay crumpled and broken on the terrace. Marion looked at the telephone receiver in her hand but it had turned into a dead branch. She dropped it and screamed, “Michael, Michael!” Her voice a thin, piercing wail . . .