The Smiling Tiger

by Lenore Glen Offord

  “No indeed. We can drop the discussion, or finish it now.”

  Georgine continued to smile, to sit tight, and to think, —Why don’t you leave, then?—

  “You’re always dropping it. That’s one of the ways you keep me dangling.” Shere jammed his hands into his pockets, and went to stand in front of her. Again, from several feet away, Georgine could feel the physical emanation of vitality that came from the big frame; but as far as she could tell, Cass Johnson was either unaware of it or impervious to it, sitting relaxed as she was in the corner of the sofa. “All right, let’s have it out. Seems as if it’s the dangling itself you enjoy, not any emotion—any decent human emotion. Why won’t you ever come out and say you’ll marry me?”

  The gay, pretty face twinkled up at him. “What did Ryn say when you asked her?”

  “Leave her out of this! It’s you I’m asking!” Shere’s jaws clamped together for a moment before he added, “And don’t try to tell me you resent my having singled her out first.”

  “Why, David, I don’t care which of us you chose first. It’s all for one, one for all in our family.” Cass smiled at him again, and then abruptly her face grew sober, her eyes fell. “Don’t be angry. I know you want me to be serious sometimes. You won’t like it, though, because it does seem as if—neither of us should ever marry.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” Shere groaned. “What kind of a life do you think you’re going to have, a sort of nunnery existence like your Aunt Chloe’s?”

  “What’s wrong with her existence?” Cass inquired cheerfully. “Looks pretty good from where I sit: pots of money, every beautiful thing she wants to keep around her, a devoted companion—” Cass interrupted herself, screwing up her face comically. “If I were choosing, of course, I wouldn’t have the Godfrey! But aside from that, every detail is perfect.”

  “Including that damn-fool religion?”

  “Oh, that!” said Cass lightly. “But aside from the Godfrey, what’s wrong with it?”

  “Everything,” said Shere. “Ask her.” He swung around and waved at Georgine.

  “Who, me?” said Georgine, startled.

  “Sure. You’re happily married.”

  “Well, you needn’t shout it like an epithet.”

  “David,” said Cass patiently, “Aunt Chloe was married.”

  “You call that a marriage? Beyond-Truth style, fleshless and all in the mind—no children, nothing but an abnormal sort of prison-camp love where you wave at each other over barbed wire fences!”

  Cass laughed again. Her eyes were fairly alight with teasing. “But you have companionship! Don’t forget how important that is!”

  “Before God,” said Shere with a despairing gesture, “if I didn’t think you were baiting me again, I’d take you over my knee.”

  “Why, I mean it,” Cass told him demurely. “Now it’s my turn to appeal to Georgine. Isn’t companionship important?”

  “It has its place.”

  “But that isn’t all?” Shere fairly shouted at her. “Tell her! Maybe she’ll listen to you. She can’t get any sensible advice from the rest of her family, Lord knows. What kind of experience have they had? But you—”

  “She hasn’t any children by this marriage,” Cass said, smiling.

  “Are you two inquiring,” said Georgine with deadly sweetness, “into the nature of my relations with my husband?”

  Shere fell back a little. “No. Well, of course not. I—I’m sorry if it sounds like that.”

  “Or are you asking me for a sex lecture? Because if so, I’ll be glad to recommend a couple of good books, and that’s as far as I’ll go. But of all the cast-iron, brass-bound, copper-plated nerve—” She stopped, remembered that she was talking to a metallurgist, and began to laugh.

  Shere remained in deadly earnest. “Can’t you answer one simple general question without getting upset?” he yelled at her. “Can you have a complete marriage without…”

  “Certainly not,” Georgine yelled back.

  Cass got to her feet, shaking her head with mild maternal deprecation. “Come on, David, let’s go somewhere and plunge your head into cold water. He always gets this way over something,” she confided to her hostess with a sigh, “but I never know what, ahead of time.”

  “Think nothing of it,” said Georgine, still quaking with laughter. “It isn’t often we have such drama in the front parlor.”

  Shere paused at the door, and turned to look at her. It was a curious look, made of exasperation and pleading and something else she couldn’t define. “You’re a big help!” he said between his teeth, and most unfairly plunged through the door before she could select a retort. Cass went flying after him.

  Georgine sat down and ran her hands through her hair. In a minute, however, she got up and went toward the kitchen. For some time she had been aware of a curious resonance through the dining-room, which did not occur when the door between the two was closed. It was propped open a few inches, she discovered, and behind its shelter sat Todd. On the table beside him were a much-depleted quart bottle of milk and the cookie jar.

  Georgine looked with deep suspicion into the jar and saw only five cookies remaining. “Uh-huh,” she said.

  Todd had risen to his feet and was saluting her gravely. “Dear Georgine, may I compliment you on your defense of that grand old institution known as Sex?”

  She sat down wearily. “How much of that preposterous conversation did you hear?”

  “All except Cass’s girlish confidences. I arrived a few minutes before Shere, but at the time she was murmuring too quietly for me to hear her. Anything interesting?”

  “I don’t quite know,” said Georgine slowly. She ate one of the cookies while Todd’s agate eyes absently followed her movements. When she had finished, “I’ll tell you what she said, as nearly as I can remember…”

  Todd listened. “Someone who’s believed in something wrong,” he repeated, “and is ‘near the edge of the pit’ because of it. It’s a woman, and she’ll be ‘utterly lost’ unless things go right. You know what it sounds like to me? Something the Beyond-Truthers clawed back out of cosmic space.”

  “Or just plain double-talk.” Georgine stirred uneasily. “You know, Todd, I think I booted one there. I was so bored and cross, and feeling so martyred, that I wasn’t receptive. But that little talk with Cass had a sort of delayed action, and I’m just getting the impression now. Even if she wasn’t able to get it into clear words, she was talking about something terribly important to her, something that came up out of the—deepest part of her mind. It was pushing at her so that she said more or less than she meant. I still don’t understand it, but I think that’s what was happening.”

  “It was someone she loved,” Todd said, “and a woman. That lets out the Godfrey, and leaves two contenders.” He regarded her soberly, and as if unconsciously reached into a pocket for his mouth-organ and began to tap it against his palm. “But she didn’t say whether that person was the victim or the aggressor, did she?”

  “Well, no. Nor whether it was a crime or just a loss of reputation. Maybe she was just putting on an act, but somehow I don’t think so.” Georgine paused and smiled reminiscently.

  “That really was a good act she put on for Shere, though. The little brat—she had him jumping through hoops.”

  “That’s funny,” Todd said slowly, “that you should get that impression. From just hearing it, I couldn’t help feeling that he was the one who was directing that li’le scene, and not making such a bad job of it either. But then, I wasn’t watching him.”

  “And if he was, what was it all about?”

  “Now there, my dear,” said Todd, “you have me.”

  ***

  Early on Tuesday afternoon, another day of sharp wind and blinding sun, Todd drove Inspector Nelsing toward the “lair of the Beyond-Truth.” Sedately, for the sake of the McKinnons’ elderly car, they trundled through Walnut Creek and on in an easterly direction between undulant hills where cattle huddled
and even the stiff branches of live-oaks stirred jerkily in the dry gale. There were miles of orchards, more miles of brown hilly meadow; then they turned down a well-kept side road and came to the Colony.

  It looked as far removed from the eccentric as anything one could imagine. Except that there were no well-defined streets, it might have been a prosperous small village. Pleasant smallish houses, built in different styles but each well-kept almost to the point of looking brand-new, were dotted at a fair distance from each other over an expanse of land that seemed to be one continuous garden. The lawns were velvet green, the shrubs were clipped to the perfection of a junior executive’s haircut, and from one or two garages shone the paintwork of cars, modest enough in make, but also groomed to within an inch of their lives. There was a roughly circular expanse of grass just beyond the gate, around which ran the only paved road in the Colony, and on the far side of it stood a white building, larger than the rest and with wide doors and high windows, which looked like a community hall.

  Todd drove around the green, and parked in front of this hall. For a moment after he shut off the engine, the two men sat still, looking about them. In spite of the surge of wind, this was a quiet place. Still and shining-clean and almost lifeless it lay under the hard blue of the sky.

  “What does it remind you of, Nelse?” Todd said.

  Nelsing glanced around. “Expensive sanitarium, I guess,” he said. “Or, no—maybe it’s a cemetery. Very high-class one.”

  McKinnon nodded. “One of those. ‘You pay for peace in Patrician Park,’ something like that.”

  “No kids,” said the Inspector, evaluating the scene further. “Not a tricycle, or a sand-box, or a path across a handy corner. And no yelling.”

  “Me,” Todd said, “I’ll take a few yells.” He got out of the car and turned to face a woman who had come walking along the grass verge toward the hall. She was a nice-looking elderly person, with white hair carefully arranged, and a simple, suitable and extremely good wool dress in a grayed powder-blue. As she came nearer, it was possible to see that she also wore a subdued and tasteful make-up, and that there was a singular innocent sweetness about the set of her eyes.

  She asked if she might help them, and Todd introduced himself as a writer and Nelsing as nothing at all. The woman seemed to take visitors as an every-day occurrence. She seemed only faintly hesitant about finding someone to show them around; after thought she went into the community hall and telephoned, and presently a little spruce dried-up man who appeared to be about seventy years old appeared, stepping along briskly between rows of red-berried shrubs. He was Alvah Burke, it appeared. He looked at the visitors with the same sweet and hopeful eyes as the woman had, and at once undertook to escort them on a grand tour.

  Throughout the subsequent half-hour Todd McKinnon was acutely aware of the sardonic observation of Inspector Nelsing, following along in complete silence about half a pace behind and doubtless comparing Todd’s methods with those of the police—not favorably, either. The gentlemen were treated to another description of the Beyond-Truth, about one-third of which was intelligible and all of which they had heard before. They met other members, all well dressed and all above the age of fifty; except for that look about the eyes, which all of them possessed in varying degrees, they might have been any elderly middle-class citizens in any part of the country. Todd, who had vaguely expected a few monastic habits and expressions of burning fanaticism, was conscious of disappointment.

  “Is it always as quiet as this?” he asked Mr. Burke, who gave a dry little chuckle and responded that this was Tuesday and something of a holiday. “Other days you’d see the ladies brisking around at their housework. They take pride, our ladies do. The men are like as not out somewheres, watching investments, talking to the farmers—we own lots of this land around here, rent it out for one thing and another, mostly nuts and fruit. But Tuesdays we kind of take time off and get dressed up; then about an hour before sundown, there’s a testimony meeting in the hall. Mighty interesting; we’d like you to stay for that if you’d care to.” Alvah Burke, who had announced himself earlier as one of the charter members of the Colony, turned peaceful eyes on his charges. “We’ve shown Truth to a lot of people at those meetings; yes sir, a lot of ’em.”

  “I’m afraid I am not a suitable subject,” replied Todd gravely, “but this gentleman is much interested.”

  For a moment he saw a fanatical gleam, but it was in Nelsing’s eyes and presaged no good for himself. The next moment both men were impassive as usual, and Nelsing was able to turn aside with great courtesy the efforts of Mr. Burke to fasten on him.

  They saw gardens, the beginning rows of orchards, the immaculate interiors of some of the small houses. They heard more snatches of history, the life and works of Dr. Nikko Majendie, and the virtues of his relict. At one point Todd managed, with exactly the right degree of casualness, to mention the name of Stella Dubois, and found that seemingly it made not the slightest impression on Mr. Alvah Burke. “I do not know that name,” the little old man said mildly.

  There was nothing, there was no single thing that could be interpreted as murderous fanaticism. There was no trace of fear. The only departures from the normal were the quiet and the arid neatness, unless you counted the other-worldly look in the colonists’ eyes; this last, innocent and pleasant as it might be at first glance, had begun to affect Todd with a curious chilly sensation.

  They met one more serene elderly woman, a Miss Cortelyou, and stopped to talk with her. No, she said in answer to Todd’s question (Nelsing preserving his sardonic silence), this colony didn’t house the entire congregation of the Beyond-Truth, there were many of them out in the world. Sometimes they came back for visits, sometimes not, but the members here felt that no one ever really left them, not in Truth. Anyone who had ever embraced the principles was welcome to return at any time. There was a guest cottage, kept especially for these returning ones, would the gentlemen care to see it? She was sorry that no refreshment could be offered, but since this was Tuesday, they would understand. Here was the cottage; there were two guests staying at the moment, but they were at the hall, helping with the arrangements for the Fast-breaking Supper. Yes, welcome at any time…

  “Have some of the charter members gone out into the world?” Todd asked. Miss Cortelyou said that one or two had done so, and others had passed beyond. She mentioned Dr. Nikko again, and sighed.

  —Hell, Todd told himself, I’ve got to test it once more. I can’t use good old Stella, I’ve tried her on the li’le guy already and he’s listening. Well, here goes—

  “There was Frances Sagers, too, wasn’t there?” he said, mounting the porch steps of a honeysuckle-covered cottage in the wake of the two guides.

  Miss Cortelyou said nothing, but turned to give him a smile of quite piercing sweetness. At the same moment, two women who had been sitting in porch chairs behind the heavy vines rose to their feet.

  “Our Leader,” exclaimed Mr. Alvah Burke in tones of pleased surprise. “Mrs. Majendie, are we disturbing your meditation? Then—might I present these two gentlemen who—”

  “The gentlemen and I have already met,” said Chloe Majendie in a voice like cool steel. She walked to the top of the steps and stood looking down at them with eyes to match her tone. Behind her, Joan Godfrey gazed at them, and made no sound although her lips moved. “I had thought,” old Chloe added, “that the gentlemen were satisfied with my answers to their questions.”

  Todd McKinnon was accustomed to finding himself in odd or ludicrous situations, and could generally get out of them by the use of some well-calculated absurdity of his own. At this moment his thought processes went literally blank, although his senses took in the scent of greenery, the dazzling white paint of the frame cottage, the gravity of Mrs. Majendie’s expression and some subdued murmurs and rustles behind him, terminating with a dry official cough from Inspector Howard Nelsing.

  “I am here unofficially, Mrs. Majendie,” said Nelsing in his most ap
pallingly polite voice, “in the capacity of friend to Mr. McKinnon. We understood that your members were glad to give out information.”

  Old Chloe gave him one of her long, measuring looks. She transferred it to Todd, who afterward confessed that he would have given anything he owned to be able to drop his eyes and shuffle his feet. By an Herculean effort he resisted this. “We owe you an apology, Mrs. Majendie,” he said in his usual light voice, “for forgetting that Tuesday was your fast-day, and that you might very well be visiting the Colony.”

  “I am sure you do regret it,” replied the old lady in her driest tone. “Since you are here, however, I should like to entertain you gentlemen alone, in the guest cottage.”

  Like three wisps of ectoplasm, the others seemed to melt away into the surrounding air. Old Chloe turned and led the way into a little parlor, all fresh chintz and glittering mirrors. “Will you sit down?” she ordered rather than asked, and took her own seat in a stiff chair facing them.

  —Here I am in the innermost lair, said Todd to himself. —And if it weren’t for Nelse over there on that window-seat, damned if I couldn’t get a bit scared—

  Nelsing seemed to be suffering neither fears nor compunctions. “I think you’ll see, Mrs. Majendie,” he said, “what the chief difficulty has been throughout this investigation. The best and most virtuous witnesses have been answering our questions with what we’d call lies and you’d call Beyond-Truth. That does not satisfy the police.” He looked sidewise at Todd. “McKinnon, a few minutes ago, mentioned a name to Mr. Burke, and Mr. Burke said he’d never heard of it. Since he was a charter member, and you yourself had given a complete history of Mrs. Dubois’ death, it’s completely absurd to suppose that he wouldn’t know the name. He was speaking in the Beyond-Truth sense, wasn’t he? Mrs. Dubois had proved herself unworthy, so he thought she’d never existed.”