The innocent Mrs Duff

by Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

  Chapter 17

  He bought a pint of rye and put it into his overcoat pocket; he went to a hotel near the Grand Central and got a room for twenty-four hours. He registered as Harold Carlton, from Buffalo, without thinking at all about it. He tipped the bellboy and locked himself in, to write that note.

  But he could not use the hotel letterhead; he had to go out again at once, to buy some plain paper. Every detail was so laborious, so painful. He bought a box in a drug-store and, coming back, he laid out the envelope and the letter Nolan had given him.

  Dear Wilfred

  I am so sorry about

  “I cannot do this!” he cried to himself. “I don’t know what to say. I can’t do it!”

  All initiative, all power, mental and physical, had drained away from him. He could not think. He could scarcely move his heavy limbs. He put his head down on his folded arms and cried.

  But if this thing did not happen tonight, the other thing would happen. The police would come, or Reggie would go to them. I’ve got to get rid of this damn bag! he told himself, with a sob. I’ve got to get out of this. I’ve got to be done with this.

  He hated and dreaded the thought of a drink, but he had to try one, to see if it would give him a little strength and clarity. It nearly made him sick, but he got it down, and in a few moments he felt surprisingly better. I’ll have to have courage, he thought. And it would have to be quick courage. He could not count on it; it might go, as fast as it had come. He made a draft first.

  Dear Wilfred:

  Something has happened that I have got to talk to you about. I have fixed things so that I will be alone in the shack at Driftwood Beach tonight. Please come by nine o’clock. It is honestly terribly important.

  In haste,

  Reggie

  That’ll do, he thought. That sounds like her. ‘Honestly terribly important.’ He was pleased with himself. Then he tried to copy it, in writing like hers, even a little like hers. He could not. His unsteady hand made an almost illegible scrawl.

  He tried again and again, but he could not.

  She knows how to type, he thought, suddenly. I’ll take it to the office and type it.

  He got into a taxi, with that damn bag. Every detail so laborious, so painful.

  “Going away?” Hanbury asked him.

  “Oh, no!” he said. “Just some things my wife wanted me to get. Easiest way to carry them.”

  He went into his office, where Miss Fuller sat typing.

  “I’d like to use your machine for a few minutes, Miss Fuller,” he said.

  “Can’t I do it for you?” she asked.

  “No, thanks, just a little personal note,” he answered.

  He had to do this, with Miss Fuller in the room. He didn’t know how to type. He made mistakes. And when he pulled a sheet out of the machine, he dared not throw it away; he had to put it into his pocket. He sat there, sweating, pecking at the keys, horribly aware of his queerness in the eyes of Miss Fuller.

  “Your chauffeur is here, Mr. Duff,” she said.

  “Tell him to wait,” said Duff.

  He got the thing done. He addressed an envelope, and spoiled it, a second, a third; his pockets were stuffed with crumpled paper.

  “Send Nolan in, will you, please, Miss Fuller?” he said.

  There was something unhuman, he thought, about Nolan’s alert vitality.

  “Oh, you typed it?” Nolan said.

  “I couldn’t manage the other way.”

  “Let’s have a look,” said Nolan, and took it out of the envelope. “Well, you signed it, anyhow,” he said. “Now then. He’ll be there by nine, and she’ll get there around ten. That gives him time to take his little drink. A little after ten, I’ll turn on the gas. Ten minutes later, you’ll come by, and you’ll look in the window. Then you’ll drive somewhere, fast, and call the police. Say there are two people in there, apparently unconscious.”

  “How will you turn on the gas?”

  “I’ll just reach in the kitchen window. The stove’s right there.”

  “Nolan… The gas might—”

  “Not in that short time. And they’ll probably have some windows open.”

  “But if they’re not asleep?”

  “They will be.”

  “You’re damn sure of yourself,” said Duff, angrily.

  “I have a right to be,” said Nolan. “I haven’t had many failures in my life.”

  “It’s a dangerous thing, to be so cocksure.”

  “Could be,” said Nolan. “Now there’s this. Are you able to drive yourself for a few miles?”

  “What d’you mean ‘able to’?” Duff demanded.

  “No offense,” said Nolan. “You could rent a car at the filling-station at the beach and you could park outside the railroad station, until you see me go by, in your car. I’ll give you a signal.” He made a V with two fingers. “You give it back to me. Then you’ll know I’m on my way, to turn on the gas. Give me ten minutes’ start, and then you drive along to the shack. Right?”

  “But if they’re not asleep, and you don’t turn on the gas?”

  “Then you’ll meet me coming back and I’ll tell you.”

  “I ought to meet you anyhow.”

  “No. Because when I’ve turned on the gas, I’ll go on past the shack and back to Vandenbrinck by the new highway. I don’t want to be noticed.”

  “When I telephone the police, I suppose I’ll have to say that something had made me suspicious…?”

  “God, no!” said Nolan. “Don’t say who you are. You’re just someone passing by. You’ve lost your way, and you saw a light in the shack, and you stopped, to ask for directions. When you look in the window, and smell the gas, you’re worried, so like a good citizen, you call up the police.”

  “Where can I telephone from?”

  “Filling-station, drug-store, anywhere.”

  It was disgusting, to be obliged to turn to Nolan for advice all the time.

  “You’re sure there’s no danger from the gas?”

  “Not if you come along, ten minutes after me.”

  Miss Fuller came in and out, but that did not trouble Nolan. Nothing troubled him. All the monstrous burden lay upon Duff, with his damn bag, his shaking hands, his misery and fear.

  “Would you like to clear up this WMC thing, Mr. Duff?” asked Miss Fuller.

  “Not now,” said Duff. “I’m going out to lunch now.”

  “You’re early today,” she said.

  He looked at his watch and it was only quarter past eleven. Everything he did was queer. He knew that… And his worst ordeal still lay before him—his visit to Mrs. Albany. I’ve got to pull myself together for that, he thought. Only, could he pull himself together better by taking more drinks, or by not taking any? I don’t know… he thought. I don’t know.

  He was sure enough that he could not eat any lunch. He did not know where to go, or what to do with himself, until four o’clock. Back to the hotel room, which was still his? No, he thought. I couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t sit there alone. I want to be where there are people around.

  The only places where there were people around, yet where you were not bothered and questioned, were bars. I could have a beer, he thought. That’s nourishing.

  He had to take the damn bag with him and, to his dismay, tears came into his eyes while he was riding down in the elevator. This won’t do! he thought. I’m in a bad state. This whole thing is a strain. He put his hand into his pocket, for a handkerchief, and there was all that crumpled paper. It’s—just too damn much! he thought, compressing his quivering lips.

  He walked, carrying the bag, downtown, at random, until he came to a bar he had never seen before. He had two double whiskies there, and then he took a taxi uptown to the hotel. When he got out of the cab, he was very unsteady on his feet. He knew that, for the first time in many years, he must appear obviously, grossly drunk. And yet—I’m not! he thought. I can take twice— three times that much, and not show it. It’s—this ot
her thing…

  When he got into the bleak, neat hotel room, he lay down on the bed, still in his hat and light overcoat; he buried his face in the pillow and cried for a time, and then he went to sleep.

  When he waked, the magic refreshment had taken place again. He turned over on his side, and felt for cigarettes in one pocket after another, and met with all that crumpled paper. That could be coped with here, in peace and quiet. He lit a cigarette and looked at his watch, and he was shocked to find that it was after four.

  He got up; he tore the papers into small scraps and flushed them away. He washed in cold water, combed his hair; he looked narrowly in the mirror at his tired, ruddy face; then he picked up the damn bag and went downstairs.

  A thin rain was falling as he came out into the street.

  “Taxi,” he said to the doorman.

  “I’ll do the best I can, mister,” said the doorman.

  Duff did not like to be called mister; he felt a strong dislike for this man. There was something impudent in his swarthy face; in his light-blue overcoat, much too big for him, he had the look of a swaggering old soldier from a Napoleonic campaign. A stream of traffic was rushing past, one taxi after another, dozens and dozens of taxis. But none of them stopped and all that fellow did was to blow his silly whistle.

  “Go up to the corner,” said Duff, frowning. “Then you can get them coming two ways.”

  “It isn’t no better at the corner,” said the doorman.

  “Of course it is!” said Duff. “When the cabs come past here, they’re running on a light. Go up to the corner. I’m in a hurry.”

  “Well, you’re not the only one,” said the swarthy doorman.

  “What!” said Duff. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

  The man shrugged his shoulders inside his big coat, and blew his silly whistle. Duff stood rigid, struggling against the fury that shook him. He wanted to knock that fellow down, to kick him, to yell at him. No! he told himself. No! You can’t do that. It’s—not a good thing, to feel like this. Upsets you. Take it easy.

  A taxi drew up before the hotel and two women got out. As the doorman came toward them with his big umbrella. Duff got into the cab and slammed the door. He gave the driver the address of Mrs. Albany’s hotel. If only she’ll understand… he thought. If only she’ll take my side, wholeheartedly.

  A black anxiety filled him. Her approval was vital to him, indispensable. And she’s so damn stubborn, he thought. She’s got it into her head that Reggie’s an angel, and facts won’t bother her. Just now, when I need her, she’s as likely as not to be pig-headed and critical and utterly unsympathetic.

  She opened the door of the suite herself.

  “Well?” she said, looking at him with bright sharp eyes.

  “Well…” he echoed, with a sigh, and set down the bag.

  “Are you going away, Jacob?” she asked.

  “No,” he answered. “I had a lot of papers and so on to carry, and this seemed the handiest way. I’m sorry I’m late, Aunt Lou.”

  “You didn’t mention any special time, Jacob. Sit down and light a cigarette. There’ll be tea in a few moment. You look tired.”

  “I’ve had a shock,” he said.

  “Some friend overseas, Jacob?”

  “No,” he said. “No. It’s Reggie.”

  Glancing at her, he could see her inward resistance expressed in the set of her thin lips, and a sort of desperation came over him.

  “It’s no use!” he cried. “I wanted to tell you… I’m so damn miserable, I don’t know which way to turn. I’ve been through… I couldn’t tell you. It’s no use, anyhow. You’ve made up your mind already not to believe anything against Reggie.”

  “No…” she said. “It’s simply that you’re not just and fair toward her, Jacob. You’ve got tired of her—and when you’re tired of people, you’re inclined to be ruthless, Jacob.”

  “‘Ruthless’… That’s a nice word,” he said, somberly. “I can’t recall that I’ve ever injured anyone in my life.”

  “You’ve hurt a great many people, Jacob.”

  “All right!” he said. “It’s no use. I’m ‘ruthless’. Anything you like. No good.”

  “I never said that, Jacob.”

  “You think it. You don’t believe I’m capable of any feeling. You don’t believe I could be hurt—miserable—just about at the end of my tether.”

  “Tell me about it, Jacob.”

  “It’s no use!”

  “Come now!” she said, with a sort of kindly severity. “The only thing I don’t like and don’t believe is the nasty, spiteful gossip you listen to about the poor girl. If there were anything serious—”

  “Probably you won’t think it’s serious. It’s simply that she’s been seeing this man under my roof while I’m in the office. And she’s given him a thousand dollars—of my money.”

  “Jacob! Are you sure?”

  “I’m so sure that I looked at her check-book stubs. I suppose I shouldn’t have done that. I should have had ‘faith’ in her.”

  “Who is the man?”

  “Some Englishman. Ferris.”

  “Oh… Captain Ferris?”

  “Why? D’you know the name?”

  “I’ve heard Jay speak of him. An Army officer, isn’t he?”

  “So I’ve been told. I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Captain Ferris. He doesn’t call when I’m at home.”

  “Have you spoken to Reggie about this, Jacob?”

  “I have not. She’d deny everything. There’d be a scene.”

  “She must have a chance to defend herself, Jacob.”

  “I’m going to give her a chance,” he said.

  Rose came in with the tea.

  “Muffins,” said Mrs. Albany. “With real butter. You like muffins, Jacob.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Mrs. Albany and Rose exchanged a glance of infinite complicity; they looked, Duff thought, like two underground workers communicating, and he did not believe in the real butter.

  “How are you giving Reggie a chance, Jacob?” she asked, when Rose had gone.

  “In a way you won’t like,” he said. “You won’t think it’s gentlemanly.”

  “Tell me, Jacob.”

  “I’m telephoning her that I won’t be home tonight. But I am going home, later, and I hope to meet Captain Ferris.”

  “Oh, Jacob! Jacob! In your own home, with your son there? An open scandal, Jacob?”

  “That’s what I want,” he said. “I’ve gone through such hell… You wouldn’t believe it. No one would. But I’ve known, for a long time, what she is. She’s a cheap, slovenly, lying little tramp.”

  “Jacob!”

  “That stands,” he said.

  “Eat a muffin, Jacob, with real butter.”

  “Sorry, but I can’t. I haven’t been able to eat anything for days. I saw another doctor this morning—but doctors can’t help me, in a thing like this. Don’t tell me it’s all my own fault. I know it. I know I shouldn’t have married a little tramp I picked up in a cheap restaurant. But she looked like a saint, and I believed she was one. So did you.”

  “Jacob, try not to be so bitter.”

  “What else could I be? I suppose the whole neighborhood’s known about this Ferris for weeks, months. They’ve been laughing at me.”

  “But don’t do it this way, Jacob. Get a lawyer. Get Harold Mallinger. He’ll advise you. But don’t have a scandal in your own house.”

  “It’ll be a lesson for Jay. When he’s old enough to marry he’ll think twice before he picks out a girl like that.”

  “Jacob, stay away from home. I’ll go out there, and I’ll talk to Miss Castle—”

  “No,” he said. “I’ll handle this myself, my own way.”‘

  She was greatly distressed, and that was balm to him. That made him feel strong, quiet, confident.

  “I don’t like it, Jacob,” she said. “Setting a trap—”

  “Don’t you think I have a right t
o set a trap for the man who’s stolen my wife—and my money?”

  “Well…” she said, and was silent for a time, her thin hands clasped in her lap. And she’s not blaming me, he thought. She can see for herself it’s the right course for me to take.

  “Of course,” she said, presently, “in a way, you’ve brought it on yourself, Jacob. You’ve neglected Reggie—”

  “And that justifies her for this?” he cried.

  “No…” said Mrs. Albany. “No. But give her the benefit of the doubt, Jacob. If you don’t find this Captain Ferris in the house—”

  “Then I’ll see a lawyer. All I want is to feel that you’re standing by me.”

  “I wish you’d do this another way,” she said. “Especially on Jay’s account. But—Yes, I’m standing by you, Jacob.”

  “That’s all I want,” he said, with a deep sigh.

  He rose, and she rose, too; he kissed her on the temple. She was his conscience, and when she gave her approval, the whole weight of dread and wretchedness was lifted from his spirit.

  “You won’t use violence toward this Ferris, Jacob?”

  “I don’t promise not to kick him out of my house.”

  “Whatever you do, Jacob, think of Jay.”

  “I will.”

  “You’re forgetting your bag, Jacob.”

  Suddenly he thought of the solution.

  “May I leave it here for a while?” he asked. “There are some rather confidential papers in it, and so on.”

  “I’ll look after it,” said Mrs. Albany.

  So that burden, too, was gone. It was the one right thing to do; she was the one person to be trusted without reservations. If he had left it half open, she would never even have glanced into it. I’ve got the green light now, he thought, as he left her. I’m all right now.

  Chapter 18

  He bought newspapers and magazines and took them to the hotel room; he ordered his dinner from room service. He ate fairly well, and he took no drinks and wanted none.

  When he had finished eating, he sat in an easychair under a lamp by the open window and read. He felt quietly composed and resolute. I’ve got the green light, he told himself. Aunt Lou saw that. I’m doing the right thing. The only thing.