“Well, you can just bet your life I told him where to get off at. And I told Mamma just what he was up to, trying to get his hands on our home and our money. Of course, he jumped in then and said he didn’t want any part of what we had. Everything would stay in Mamma’s name, and she could fix a will any way she wanted, but that by God—those were his very words— he wanted Alice—that’s Mamma—to be independent. She’d been dominated—imagine, dominated!—by me long enough, and he wanted her to be free to live her own life.
“Well! I tell you, I just blew up then, and did I ever tell him off! Butting into our lives and spoiling everything just when we had everything anybody could ask for. And then he started insulting me. He called me selfish and greedy—those were his very words. I will say this for Mamma; she tried to stop him.
“She said, ‘Oh, Ed, she doesn’t mean it. She just doesn’t understand. Gloria thinks she’s doing what’s best for me—’
“And he butted in and said, ‘All she ever thinks about is what’s best for Gloria—’”
Gloria’s lovely shoulders rose and fell in a shrug of righteous hopelessness. “Well, it just went from bad to worse. I could see Mamma was on his side; he’d force her to go through with this scheme, and if they went to law about it, they’d probably manage to get some of the property and things Dad left us. And I’m telling you, by that time I was so worked up I just picked up that bronze vase off the mantel and lit into him.”
The eyes went still and blank again before she spoke with impersonal reflectiveness, “I guess he had a thin skull. I didn’t hit him very many times. Anyway, now you see why I said any jury that knew the whole story would see I was perfectly justified. A man that was trying to break up my home, take advantage of my mother, practically rob me. He only got what he deserved.”
One of the reasons Robert Neilsen had gone into law was that he had always prided himself on having a glib tongue. He had entertained youthful visions of confounding opposing counsel—not to mention judges and juries—with his rapier-like quickness in debate. But now he only sat staring stupidly into the unwinking blue eyes, bereft of words.
In an appalling psychic flash, he had a vision of Gloria Ericsson on the stand. And she would be there. Nothing on earth would stop her from “telling her own story.” It made him reflect briefly as to whether he was really temperamentally suited to the practice of law.
Two for Tea
MARGARET MANNERS
Iris dressed with care, choosing each item thoughtfully. The plain beautifully tailored suit which she had bought to please herself and had never worn. A thing like that was too good to waste on a man. They never knew how well dressed one was. They responded to some sort of cloudy notion of womanhood, a softness composed of flesh, silk, wool, fur, perfume, pretty shoes and sheer stockings. Detail escaped them. Any combination picked at random from her wardrobe would produce the desired effect on any member of the opposite sex. But today she took pleasure in choosing. She was dressing for a woman.
A Persian silk blouse, in an entrancing blend of clear colors, added softness to the flattering severity of the suit. The hat was the smartest and most expensive she had, a perfectly plain piece of felt with a sharp, irrational crown and a slash of brim over one eye. It had been designed by a man, but no man would feel comfortable anywhere in its vicinity.
She added the short sable cape, even though the weather was warm, because she wanted to make her position clear. Let Blanche Herbert see what she was up against. A woman might give her husband up, but who would give up sable and silk and the power that wearing them gives? There was nothing like possession. After all, wasn’t it nine points of the law?
Of course the woman was a fool. To ask for this meeting was asking for punishment. Blanche would deserve all she got.
Iris picked up her bag and gloves, both so soft and supple that when she touched them she thought of a baby’s skin. On the way out, she stopped for a full careful look in the mirrored wall of the sitting-room alcove.
She didn’t see Oliver, though he was sitting on the other side of the arch with a view of her and her reflection. She was used to having her husband around, and she answered his gentle inquiry absently.
“Just out to tea, dear.”
“You look very nice.”
A light smile touched her lips and she turned and looked at Oliver. “Nice?” she asked.
“Silly word,” he said. “But you know what I mean. With whom are you having tea?”
She sighed patiently. She always did know what he meant. “Just a hen party, darling. Wouldn’t interest you. Meeting a friend at the Blenheim.”
“Ah,” he said. “Have a nice time.”
“I intend to.” Her eyes sparkled. “Oh, I intend to, Oliver, a very nice time.”
As the cab took her to the Blenheim, she thought pityingly of Oliver. He wouldn’t be so serene if he knew she was going to tea with his Blanche. For all his colorless and dull appearance, Oliver was intelligent. He would be mortified if he knew that Blanche was exposing herself to Iris’s refusal. He knew that she would never give him a divorce.
She pondered the situation with the quiet enjoyment of complete security. If, in all the years ahead, nothing worse than a Blanche Herbert was to challenge her, it would almost be a pity. One’s mettle should be tested by an opponent worth defeating. Here there would be no conflict. A touch of vulgarity perhaps, but she could handle that.
It was true their marriage had disappointed Oliver from the first, but she had planned that. In a polite, remote way—that he could not complain of—she had escaped him. She had seen to it that Oliver had no real cause for complaint, none at all. It was worth the circumspect years, the self-denial, to know that there was nothing anywhere to weaken her position. And she hadn’t really minded. Flirtation gave her everything worth having, the admiration, the power. Anything more was just asking for trouble.
Sometimes, naturally, she had wondered if perhaps she wasn’t missing more than she knew. Today was the vindication of every regret. Even of Robert Cressant.
She had come closest to loving Bob. He had been more to her than any man before or since, but that hadn’t distorted her vision of the truth. She had seen him as he was: on the one hand—the handsome, magnetic lover, and on the other—the dreamer with extravagant tastes and no money. She had recognized from the first that she could not afford him.
It had been hard to make the break at last. Despite all her tact and charm, it had not been a smooth transition. Bob had understood perfectly why she had to marry Oliver Teleton. He had, once she had accustomed him to the idea, welcomed it. But she had had to sugar the pill. She had told him their relationship would continue unchanged, to keep him tractable until after the ceremony. But he had taken that promise with a disconcerting literalness and, for a time, she had been forced to bear the risk of stolen meetings. At last, she had accomplished her purpose, and Robert was dismissed.
She shivered, remembering the violence of that last interview. It was flattering that he cared so much, but she had never intended to risk all she had won on such foolishness.
Oliver was hopelessly silly about his Blanche, hiding it from her, thinking she did not know. She smiled. She had known the very night he met Blanche Herbert; she had even guessed what the woman intended. She hadn’t minded. Oliver was bound to be petted and understood by women. He was so hopeless, and so very, very rich. All she asked the world to remember was that she, Iris, came first.
She flexed and stretched her fingers in the soft gloves with satisfaction. Blanche was perfectly free to comfort Oliver and understand him, but when she began asking his wife to tea at the Blenheim, she had to take the consequences.
There was a bar at the entrance to the tea salon, a softly lighted, cosy ladies’ bar. Behind it, the snowy tables and ruby leather seats gave an air of intimacy and expensive calm to the lofty-ceilinged room with its showy crystal chandelier. A lot of dirty linen had been exposed on those white tables; they would hardly be sh
ocked at what she and Blanche had to say to each other. For a moment, she played with the conceit that each table was a white ear taking in but never repeating all the scandal and cruelty that was poured out above it.
In the end, she decided, it was kinder to be cruel. To be perfectly honest, she expected to enjoy being cruel. Certain satisfactions were due one after all. She thought, I’ll let her know where she stands. And where she stands isn’t bad if she’s a sensible woman. I imagine Oliver can be quite generous if it isn’t a matter of business.
She paused and looked over the rows of tables inquiringly. She had left a little late on purpose. When two women meet in a public place, the one who waits is always at a disadvantage. She asked for Miss Blanche Herbert, and was annoyed to be shown to an unoccupied table.
For the first time, she regretted that she had not taken the trouble to see what her rival looked like. She knew everything else about her that an alert and expensive private agency could find out. It told her very little, however, beyond facts about income, jobs, friends, etc. Facts very rarely told one anything worth knowing. From the reports on Blanche Herbert, she must be either a very colorless or a very careful female.
She saw the woman appear in the archway and look toward her. For an instant she had a strange sensation, almost of panic. Then she was calm, steady, sure.
She knew immediately that Blanche Herbert had been there all the time, waiting in the lounge, and that the waiter had sent her word that Iris had arrived. Clever, but not clever enough. It showed that she was badly worried to have gone to that much trouble.
She watched Blanche Herbert approach in astonishment. Not at all what she expected! The woman in Oliver’s life was a handsome creature, and would have looked well-dressed beside anyone but Iris. Oliver wouldn’t know the difference. They would look very much alike to Oliver, she thought. But Blanche wasn’t young, not particularly feminine. A quiet, good-looking woman, every bit as old as Iris. Not blonde and busty with long legs and lashes. How queer that that was how she’d imagined her.
“Mrs. Teleton?” Blanche’s voice was low and pleasant. “I’m glad you could come.” She sat down without offering her hand.
Iris merely looked at her.
“I suppose you think it strange that a perfect stranger should ask you here...?”
After a long moment Iris said, “But you are hardly a perfect stranger, Miss Herbert.”
The woman who had invited her to tea bit her lower lip and took the card from the waiter. “Cocktails?”
“Let’s be completely original and have tea? And those little cakes? Alcohol is just as fattening as sweets, don’t you find?”
She noticed with pleasure that her rival’s face flushed darkly. She was a woman who had to watch every calorie. And that, in a sense, was related to this rendezvous. After all, this was enterprise of desperation. Last chance, marriage or nothing. And it was clear Blanche had come to the conclusion that there was no reason in the world why she shouldn’t be sitting in Iris’s sables!
Iris spoke slowly, making every word count. “Don’t feel that you owe me a confession, Miss Herbert. I have known everything about you and Oliver since you met him. I know how many hours he spends with you and where. What I cannot understand is why you should wish to talk to me.”
She felt hatred dart out at her from behind the guarded eyes.
As soon as the tea had been served, Blanche said, “Oliver is in love with me, Mrs. Teleton.”
“Oh? Well, I imagine there must be some reason he sees you,” Iris said dryly.
And she sipped her tea as she listened to the rest of it. Every word of the plea was exactly what she expected. She could have written the lines herself. In Blanche’s place, she would have said exactly the same things. The love that they could not help... Their sorrow at causing her pain... The obvious truth that must be faced: Iris and Oliver had not for years enjoyed what might be called a “real” marriage. Did Iris want to hold a man who no longer loved her? After the divorce, he would marry Blanche, quietly of course, no publicity to distress her.
Iris said nothing and enjoyed her tea. The rich little cakes were delicious.
Gradually the spate of eloquence was reduced to a trickle which grew weaker and weaker and at last petered out entirely. Then Iris spoke.
“My dear Miss Herbert, your friendship with Oliver is your affair and his. I have no objection to it. If you wish to accept presents from Oliver, even the cost of a modest establishment, to put it bluntly—room and board and a bit over, I don’t mind. So long as you don’t get greedy. But, and this is final, I shall never, under any circumstances, divorce Oliver or allow him to obtain a divorce. I am fond of him. I shall always be his wife. Ours may not be a ‘real’ marriage to you, but I assure you it is real enough for me. Oliver, like most men, is inclined to be romantic. He is apt to imagine himself in love if encouraged.”
“But why?” Blanche said. “Why will you refuse him a divorce? You don’t love him. And he’ll see that you have enough.”
“Between ourselves,” Iris said, “I don’t want enough, any more than you want room and board. And you know nothing at all of my feelings for Oliver.”
“You don’t love him,” Blanche repeated. “If you did, you’d have continued to put yourself out for him. He married you in the first place because you showed him the qualities you knew he wanted in a woman. If you’d cared at all, you’d have kept up the performance and he never would have had time for me or anyone else. But the minute you had what you wanted, you forgot about Oliver. The fact that I exist proves you stopped playing the game right after you were sure of him.”
Iris smiled thinly. “You know a great deal, don’t you? I think you would have done precisely what you say I did. You’re much too intelligent to be in love with Oliver. You’re just letting him think you are what he wants. If Oliver married you, you’d stop playing the game, as you put it, tomorrow.”
Blanche Herbert returned her look for a long moment, and Iris had the feeling that something had passed between them, something tangible and hard like a...knife or a bullet. It was ridiculous. The woman simply had very piercing eyes.
Then Blanche said, “If I did what you say, I’d be sure that there was nothing in my life that anyone could use against me. If you stop taking pains with a man, you’ve got to be sure of certain things.”
It was time to leave. Iris rose. “Exactly. Very neatly put. And I am in that position. Good afternoon, Miss Herbert. You probably won’t believe this, but I did enjoy my tea.”
“Sit down! You’re going to give Oliver a divorce and you’re going to like it!”
Iris stared. Was the woman going to make a scene in the Blenheim? She had heard of women who threw acid or pulled out a gun....
She sat down angrily, a little nervous. “Can’t you understand,” she said, “that I have nothing against you personally?”
“Shut up!” Blanche snapped. “Did you ever tell Oliver about Robert Cressant?”
The severity of the shock numbed Iris. To hear that name on Blanche Herbert’s lips! At last she managed a careful, deliberate smile. “Bluff! You haven’t a thing. I broke with him before I married. Oliver always knew that Robert was an admirer of mine.”
“He was your lover! And for months after your marriage you continued to see him.”
Iris felt as if her body was being constricted until it occupied less than normal space. “That’s nonsense! Where did you hear...? Did you know Robert? Did he tell you that? He’s lying!”
Blanche leaned forward. “I have in my possession the letter that you wrote to Robert Cressant, the day before you announced your engagement to Oliver!”
Letter? Iris was bewildered. Was this bluff? Had there been a letter? She tried to remember, but her mind was spinning. “You’re lying,” she said. “Show me the letter!”
Blanche took a piece of folded notepaper from her handbag. “No, don’t reach!” she said. “I’m taking no chances. And you don’t need to see it. I’ll r
ead it to you; that will refresh your memory.” She unfolded the paper and held it in her lap. “‘You must understand, my darling,’” she read, “‘I’m sure you do understand, that no matter how much we love each other, the chances of our being able to marry are very remote…”
Iris heard the dry, scornful voice reading the words and slowly she remembered. Fool! Fool! Fool! To have put such things in writing! She did not love Olivier, but she needed to be his wife. How often she repeated that! She loved only Robert, marriage would change nothing between them. She had sent the letter out of cowardice because Robert was given to scenes and threats of suicide. She had wanted him to work off his indignation and get used to the idea before they met again. The letter had been composed for only one purpose; to flatter Robert and lull him into acquiescence, and in that it had succeeded. But it was a terrible document now.
When she had finished reading the letter, Blanche said, “Would you really like me to show this letter to Oliver?”
Iris stared at the woman who ten minutes before had been pleading with her. Blanche had known then that Iris was in her power, and yet she had played out her little farce. What bitter hatred there was in that triumphant mouth and in those cold eyes. Iris felt herself returning the hatred. She burned with it as if she had a fever. Yet her mind was like ice, like a block of crystal in which she could see everything. She would kill Blanche Herbert. She would follow her and kill her and take the letter.
She said, “Since you have the letter, why did you ask me to come here? Why did you ask me for anything? Why didn’t you give it to Oliver and let him divorce me?”
“Divorce?” Blanche was amused. “Why, he could get an annulment with this. It’s evidence that the marriage was a fraud. I could let Oliver handle it, of course, but I wanted to give you a chance. I’m not a cruel woman, Mrs. Teleton—hard, perhaps, like yourself, but not deliberately cruel.” She turned and caught the waiter’s eye. “Two scotch and sodas, please!”
The Lethal Sex Page 6
