The man looked stolidly at the China teapot and the crumbs of the Blenheim’s little cakes before going off for the order.
I wonder if I could kill her, Iris thought. I have no weapon and she is easily as strong as I am. Her life hasn’t been sheltered, after all, she is a blackmailer…
She watched Blanche pour whisky into the soda and stir. A drink, she needed a drink. She looked at the glasses in front of her in amazement. The soda was untouched, but her liquor glass was empty. She had tossed the scotch down.
“What do you want?” she said harshly.
Blanche smiled. “Cheer up! If you play your cards right, Oliver will take care of you.”
Iris’s hand twitched violently. It took all her will to keep from slapping Blanche.
Blanche understood the abortive movement. “You learn fast,” she said admiringly. “Now take it easy. If I give the letter to Oliver, you won’t get a cent and you know it. But if you go home now and tell him that you value his happiness enough to set him free, if you do it yourself, generously, as a loving woman should, I’m sure he’ll provide for you. Of course, if you ask for anything extravagant, I’ll have to act. But room and board and a bit over... As Oliver’s future wife, I can’t have him cheated. I’m sure you’ll be sensible.”
Iris tried desperately to control the quivering of her lips. She knew Oliver and his business instincts. She’d have to haggle for every penny. It would be enough, of course. She could live fairly comfortably in California, not a fashionable place, of course, but some “fringe” area. She could dress passably if she shopped with care at the sales. “A planned wardrobe!” She had seen the phrase in a fashion magazine catering to office girls. Good God! She’d end up looking like Blanche Herbert.
No, she decided. Never.
“Just one thing more,” Blanche said. “Don’t put it off. I’ve waited a long time and I’m impatient. Tell Oliver at once, when you get home. I made him promise to call me later this evening. If he doesn’t fall over himself giving me the good news about the divorce, I’ll tell him about Robert Cressant.”
She signaled the waiter and paid him. “This is on me,” she said to Iris. “It was a pleasure to have this chat with you.”
Iris watched her leave. She counted to ten and then rose and left the hotel by another door. She hoped Blanche wouldn’t take a cab, because then she’d have to follow her to her apartment and that would be dangerous. It was such a pleasant spring day and Blanche was so puffed with triumph, surely she would want to walk and discharge some of that intoxicating energy.
She spotted her rival and let out a sigh of relief. Blanche was walking, strolling rather, looking in shop windows.
Good. Her mind worked quickly. She needed a weapon. A gun? That was impossible; you couldn’t just buy a gun. And guns made noise. A knife. That was it. She shuddered at the thought, but continued to plan; this was no time for squeamishness. Following well behind her quarry, she remembered the sporting goods store a few blocks down. A scout knife, she decided, a present for a...a nephew would do. But if she went into the shop, she would lose Blanche. She must think of something quickly. She hurried forward and caught up with her victim. “Miss Herbert, she said.
Blanche turned her head, her eyes hardened.
Iris tried to look humble, frightened, a woman on the verge of hysteria. “I ran after you because I thought of something, something important. No,” she added quickly, “don’t worry, I’m going to do what you want. But there’s one thing. I have some jewels in a safe deposit box in the bank. Some of them are mine from my family, some Oliver bought me. I don’t suppose he’ll question my right to them but...I want to get them now, just in case. Oliver’s clever and he’s peculiar about property. If you’ll wait for me... At the entrance of the Park would be a good place. I’ll get them and meet you there. Some of them are really beautiful. I’ll share with you. You can have a choice. If it comes up later, I’ll think of something to say.”
Blanche’s eyes narrowed, and Iris saw her mistake. Of course Blanche wouldn’t believe that. She knew that Iris had only to take the jewels herself. Why give any to Blanche? She cursed her stupidity. “You see,” she added quickly, “there’s something I want you to do. After all this is over, when you’ve got Oliver, I want that letter back. I don’t want you to tell him about it, or show it to him, ever. I’ll give you some of the jewels now, and some later when you give the letter back to me. I know it sounds foolish, but I can’t bear the thought of Oliver ever knowing that you forced me to do this. I want him to think I did it myself because I wanted to.”
She held her breath.
Blanche was studying her. Then she smiled as if she had just heard a funny story. “Why not?” she said.
How stupid she is, Iris thought. It doesn’t occur to her that I might try to take the letter from her.
But when the other woman spoke again, she realized that Blanche had found a reason for her request that seemed perfectly natural. “You’re afraid that later on if I show him the letter, Oliver might get any settlement he’d made on you set aside. All right, I’ll look at your jewels, but remember I’ll drive a hard bargain. After all, I have only to ask Oliver for what I want now.”
“I’ll have to rush,” Iris said before Blanche could change her mind. “This is the late day at the bank, but it will close soon.” It was closed already, but Blanche wouldn’t know. “If you’ll just walk slowly up the avenue to the entrance of the Park, I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
She turned and walked swiftly away. When she glanced over her shoulder, she saw that Blanche was walking back the way she had come, going to the rendezvous.
Iris went into the shop and bought the knife, a fine sharp one in a little leather sheath. After she left the shop, she stripped off the wrappings and put both wrappings and knife into her bag. Then she walked slowly around the block. It wouldn’t do to get there too soon.
Blanche was waiting for her on a bench at the entrance.
“I was just in time,” Iris said breathlessly. “Look, I can’t show you this stuff here.” She patted her bag. “If anyone saw us we might be followed and robbed. Let’s go into the Park. There’s a spot behind the lake. It’s like being in the woods. There’s a little stream, a tiny waterfall, you can’t even see any buildings. It’s usually deserted. There are caves and it’s pretty damp, but we’ll only be there a couple of minutes.”
She went on babbling, afraid to stop, afraid that if Blanche had time to think she would become suspicious. She felt very much as she had felt when she was a child about to recite in the Assembly Hall. How funny, here she was going to kill someone, and her fear and excitement was no more than childhood stage-fright.
“You know,” she said slyly to Blanche, “I don’t envy Oliver. Once you get him, you’ll be quite a burden. You don’t love him either, do you?”
Blanche’s smile was bitter. “We’ll be good friends,” she said blandly. “Why not? We are now.”
“Well,” Iris went on with an air of philosophical acceptance, “now it’s decided I don’t mind so much. I’ll get enough from Oliver...to...er...to manage. I’ll go to California, I think. There are other men.”
Blanche looked at her. “Yes,” she said, and the bitterness was still lurking at the corners of her mouth. “There are other men. But men as rich as Oliver are rare. The next time, try to remember that a man wants love from a woman.”
Iris felt she had two brains, one that was busy with this crazy conversation and one that was wholly devoted to the task of steering their course. She chose winding paths, without seeming to choose at all, paths which people avoided. There had been so many vicious crimes in the Park lately, the newspapers were warning people not to walk there alone. That was how it must look, as if a woman had unwisely wandered into a secluded spot and had been attacked.
And then at last, they were there. In the leafy, rocky region above the lake, with its landscaped, rustic, little water course falling through the cleft rocks. Sh
e glanced around. Yes, the spot was well chosen. She hadn’t been here in years, not since a few furtive meetings with Robert.
“Let’s climb up a little,” she suggested. “There’s a flat rock behind those bushes; we can sit there. If anyone saw what’s in my bag, we might possibly be attacked and robbed.”
“Hurry,” Blanche said. “Let’s get it over. This place gives me the creeps.”
As she followed Blanche up the miniature ravine, Iris had to fight an impulse to laughter. How silly they would look if anyone came. Two smart, gloved and hatted matrons, tottering up the rocks on high heels.
Just before Blanche reached the rock, Iris pulled off her gloves and said, “Sit down and look around; be sure there’s no one watching. I’ll bring them out one at a time and you can look at them. While you’re looking, I’ll sort of be on guard.”
She had opened her bag, the knife was in her hand. Just before Blanche turned to sit down, she plunged it in her back.
The woman made almost no sound, just gasped and fell forward on the rock.
Iris pulled out the knife and struck again. She had to be sure.
She then leaned down, holding the weapon in the stream. When both hand and weapon were clean, she sheathed the knife, wrapped it in the paper she had saved and put it in her bag. Then she put on her gloves. It took her only a second to open the dead woman’s handbag, take the folded letter and transfer it to her own. Then she took all Blanche’s money, quite a lot, she noticed, so that the motive for the murder would look like robbery.
She picked her way down the rocks and looked back. There were no footprints.
Luck was with her. She met no one until she reached the main paths, and was able to lose herself in the crowd of baby carriage pushers, children and idle strollers.
She felt calm now; she walked in security. It had been easy after all. It was hard to believe that in a few minutes she had conceived and executed a murder.
When she entered the apartment, Oliver was busy in the library with his lawyer, Mr. Simmons. That was a common enough occurrence. Oliver sought legal advice for everything. Every decision was investigated and weighed, signed and sealed.
Before she reached her bedroom door, Oliver came out of the library. His glasses glinted at her like the blind, emotionless eyes of an owl. “Nice tea, my dear?”
“Very nice, Oliver, but I have a slight headache. I think I’ll lie down for a little while.”
His head lifted with a quick jerk. Apprehensive? Fearful? Or was it just husbandly concern? It annoyed her that she could not see into the eyes behind the glittering shield of his glasses. She moistened her lips. How would he look if he knew that his wife had just murdered his mistress? A tantalizing idea crossed her mind. How nice it would be to have all Oliver’s money without Oliver. If she had time to plan... She had all those sleeping pills. Sometimes Oliver borrowed one. Suppose... Accident or suicide? Of course, she would have to know just what the provisions of his will were first.
In her room, she took the knife out of her bag and carefully washed and dried it again. She’d have to get rid of it. Drop it down a sewer somewhere after dark. She put it under the gloves in her drawer. Then she took out the letter. She struck a match and held it and the letter over the bathroom sink so that she could wash the ashes away immediately. But before the flame caught, she dropped the match and stared at the paper she held.
For a moment she thought she would faint. The words were right, but the handwriting was wrong. It wasn’t the original. It was a copy. Why hadn’t she made sure? Blanche must have the letter hidden in her apartment. And she had left Blanche’s keys in her bag in the park. She couldn’t even take the risk of going there to search. How could she get in? She thought about the body on the rock. It was well screened by bushes. Perhaps they wouldn’t find it for hours. There was still a chance. But if they found the body...then the police would search her apartment and find the letter. Oliver would know. And she... Murder! Oh God!
But Oliver had a key to Blanche’s apartment, of course he had. It would be on the key ring he carried. She ran out into the hall again. She had to get that key from Oliver and search Blanche’s apartment before the police arrived.
She stood at the library door, the knob in her hand. She could hear Oliver talking to his lawyer, he sounded annoyed. “I wonder,” he was saying, “if you would mind waiting in the little sitting room, Mr. Simmons. There’s been a delay. I don’t understand it. I expected some news that would make your services necessary. There’s been a hitch, I’m afraid.”
She darted back into the bedroom and waited until she heard the lawyer go into the sitting room Oliver used as a waiting room for business acquaintances.
Then she went back to the library. How could she get the key? Which pocket did he keep it in? The door to the library was slightly ajar; as she tried to plan her strategy, she heard the clicking of the telephone dial. Then a long silence. Evidently the number didn’t answer. She heard the click as Oliver cradled the phone.
Before she could enter the room, he was dialing again and this time there was an answer.
“Hello, darling,’’ he said, his voice was warm and throbbing, a voice Iris had never heard. “No, not yet, not a word. I don’t understand it.”
‘Darling!’ Iris thought. He’s calling Blanche already? And then she felt sick and dizzy, because she realized it couldn’t be Blanche he was talking to. Blanche was lying on a rock in the Park. Blanche was dead.
She pressed her ear to the crack and heard Oliver again. “I just called Blanche, but there was no answer. Oh yes, Iris came back. Looked awful, said she had a headache. I suppose it will take a little time for her to put it all together, probably suffering from shock, but she should make her little speech soon. Quite a comedy I’m directing. I’ve got Simmons waiting so we can settle everything on the spot. But I couldn’t have you involved in a thing like this, my dearest. Blanche was just the type. Very much like Iris, as a matter of fact. No, I was very careful. I didn’t give her the letter, just dictated a copy to her. Iris always underestimated me, and while Blanche understands me or pretends to, I don’t trust her. No, of course she doesn’t expect me to marry her. I made that quite clear, and she’s being well paid. Nonsense. I’m going to marry you, my dearest, you know that. I know. It would seem cruel to anyone as sweet as you. I did it this way for you. If I’d wanted to do it the other way, I’d have used the letter myself months ago when Cressant brought it to me. He was down at the heels and panting for revenge. So I paid him generously and promised him his revenge.
“Yes, my sweet, she’ll get the divorce, and the settlement will be extremely modest, I assure you. I suppose I am enjoying it. The thought of those two women... Poetic justice. I must hang up, darling, Iris will be here for the big scene any minute now.”
Iris clung to the door. Oliver had had the letter all along. He hadn’t intended to marry Blanche at all; he was using her services. There was somebody else he wanted to marry. Probably leggy, she thought, busty, and empty-headed. She began to laugh and then stopped because Oliver had opened the door and was looking at her.
But she was safe, safe! Because there was no letter in Blanche’s apartment for the police to find. Oliver had the letter. Nobody knew.
She stared at him. Of course, Oliver knew. He knew of her tea with Blanche, for it had even been his idea. When the murder was reported, he would know that she had killed Blanche.
“Oliver,” she said brokenly.
“Yes, my dear?”
“Oliver, I want to divorce you. I mean, if you would like it, I’m willing.”
He blinked at her. Oh, how he was enjoying this moment.
“It can be handled very quietly,” she went on. “I ask for very little, Oliver. I killed Blanche Herbert this afternoon in the park. But no one need know if you... Please, Oliver, I’ll go away tonight.”
He gaped at her. His skin turned faintly green, as if he were going to be ill. Then he pulled her into the room and shut th
e door.
“When?” he asked. “How?”
She told him. “It will look like one of those cases,” she said, “robbery with violence. Hoodlums. Please help me. I did it for you.”
She thought how characteristic it was of Oliver to consider it all so carefully, not looking at her, but methodically devoting his energy to the problem.
Finally, he turned. “Get the knife and the copy of that letter and bring them here immediately. And the money you took from her bag.”
She took a deep breath of relief. “But the money can’t be identified,” she pointed out. “It might easily be mine. There was quite a lot. You paid her well, Oliver.”
“Bring them here!” Oliver ordered. “Everything!” She thought he sounded very strange, but then what she had told him was enough to floor any man.
She had no time, as she collected the things he wanted, to think very much about the incredible trick he had played on her with Blanche Herbert. She had her own neck to think about now. It had been malicious, that was all, childishly malicious.
She went back and put the pile of currency, the knife, and the copy of the letter on the library table.
Oliver studied them.
She thought, I’ve always considered him a foolish man, but that’s only part of him. He’s a shrewd and ruthless businessman, thank God.
“The wrappings,” he said, pointing to the knife, “can be identified by the salesman, and the knife itself, and you. He’ll remember you all right, and he’ll remember the time he sold it to you. The waiter at the Blenheim will remember you both. That places you with Blanche. A few minutes after you leave the hotel, you buy the knife. Blanche is found stabbed. There will be traces of blood on the knife...”
“Really!” Iris said. “It’s not as bad as that, Oliver. The police won’t be looking for me. Why should they? They’ll consider it one of those Park crimes. They’ll hardly go to the Blenheim or to the store. The only thing that would have put them on to me is the original letter, and thank heaven you have that. We have only to get rid of the knife. And there won’t be any traces of blood. I washed it in the stream in the Park immediately, and just now I washed it again. I’m not an absolute fool.”
The Lethal Sex Page 7
