There. Someone was knocking. In his pajama pants and scuffs, Voss shuffled out to the veranda. Frank Dallas—good old Frank—was waiting at the screen door, peering in through the swarming purple bougainvillea. He looked fresh and hearty. His white linen suit had not yet had time to wilt; his thinning hair still showed the marks of a damp comb.
“Rise and shine, you lazy bum! Top of the morning to you!”
Was there perhaps a hollow ring in Frank’s voice? Voss could detect none. Nor any trace of trouble in the man’s open, beaming face. Relax, he told himself; it’s too soon—he’s come for some other reason.
“Hi. What’s the idea, rousing the citizenry at this hour...” Yawning, Voss unhooked the screen door. “What the hell hour is it, anyway?”
“Quarter of eight. Time you were up. Look, Voss—” Frank lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “—Myrtle’s gone, isn’t she?”
“Sure.” He said it automatically, without hesitation. “She’s gone up to her sister’s for a couple of days. Left early, before six this morning.”
“Yeah. She told me she was planning to. That’s why I figured it was safe to stop by. I’ve got this letter Enid wanted me to give you. She was all upset yesterday, poor kid, resigning the way she did. Well, it kind of threw me too. Anyway, this letter, I promised to see that you got it...”
Poor old Frank had never gotten over being nervous about his role as go-between. He was as jittery—and, Voss supposed, as secretly thrilled—today as he had been six months ago, when Voss and Enid started their clandestine affair. Happily married himself, Frank had the romantic, inquisitive disposition of a maiden aunt. Besides, as American consul, he was Enid’s boss. Very natural, very convenient for him to get into the act. Fun for everybody. Great fun at first. Lately—well, it was over-simplification to say that Enid was too serious, too impetuous, too intense. Those were the very qualities in her that made this affair different from the others, that made Enid herself such an irresistible magnet to Voss. Only he couldn’t respond to them any more. He did not want to be a philanderer; he wanted to be a true, star-crossed lover—and he had lost the power. It was as if Myrtle had withered his heart.
This envelope in his hand, addressed in Enid’s headlong writing—her farewell note, or so she must have thought when she wrote it—even this could not penetrate his benumbed and crippled soul. To be losing, through his own inertia, a love like Enid’s, and to feel nothing more than a kind of guilty weariness...
He had felt something more last night, all right. Sudden and vivid as lightning, Myrtle’s face flashed into his mind. Alive with malice, as it had been last night—the vulgar, coarse, knowing face of his wife. ‘‘So your girlfriend’s leaving,” she said. “I hear she’s resigned. My, my, I never thought you’d let this one get away…”
Gloating over her own handiwork—because it was her doing; the deadly years of being married to Myrtle had very nearly destroyed in him the capacity for feeling anything. Very nearly. But not quite; last night proved that. Hate was left. And if he could hate, he could also love. So Enid need not be lost, after all.
It was going to take time for the numbness to wear off. Voss was still stunned by the impact of release—which, considering everything, was really very fortunate. This morning, if ever in his life, he needed a mind uncluttered by emotion—a mind as cool and accurate as a machine.
“You’re all right, aren’t you, old man?” Frank was asking anxiously.
“I’ll be all right.” He paused, conscious of his own pathos as he placed Enid’s letter, tenderly, on the wicker table. “It’s just that—well, I guess you know how I feel about Enid.”
“I know. It’s rugged.” Frank was brimming with sympathy. It would be unkind—more than that, it would be indiscreet—to deny him the chance to spill over.
“Have a cup of coffee with me,” said Voss. “We’ll have to make it ourselves. Myrtle always gives the maid time off when she’s going to be away. I’d rather eat at the club than up here alone. The maid’s a lousy cook, anyway, but we’re lucky to get anybody to come this far out.” Their house was set off by itself, on the outermost fringe of the American colony. What a break that had turned out to be last night!
Voss felt a spasm of nervous excitement rather like stage fright, as he led the way to the kitchen. Here was where it had happened, right here by the sink... Another break—the tiles had been a cinch to clean. But might there be some telltale sign?
There was none. Not the smallest. He breathed easy again.
Back on the veranda, with the coffee tray between them, Frank launched into earnest, incoherent speech. The way he looked at it, it was just one of those things. Not that it was any of his business. But look at it one way, and it was the best thing all around—for Enid to pull out, that is. She was really too young for Voss, so she’d get over it. And there was this much about it, a man just couldn’t walk out on a wife like Myrtle, not if he had any conscience.
“No,” agreed Voss with a wan smile. “I couldn’t walk out on Myrtle.” But not on account of my conscience, he added to himself. He thought about last night, probing for some tiny qualm, some flicker of remorse. There was none. This extraordinary lack of any kind of feeling...
“Myrtle’s a good egg, too, you know.” Frank took out his handkerchief and mopped his moist red brow. “I’ve always liked Myrtle.”
Oh, sure! Myrtle was more fun than a barrel of monkeys. Everybody said so. The life of every party. Suddenly the memory of the endless chain of parties, monotonous, almost identical, pressed down on Voss like a physical weight. He used to sit and drink steadily, with every nerve stretched rigid in protest against Myrtle’s raucous voice, against the flushed, blowzy looseness of her face. For some reason, maybe because it was her lushness and vivacity that had attracted him in the beginning—her antics had a kind of excruciating fascination for Voss. Your wife, he used to tell himself; look at her, listen to her—she’s all yours.
“What I say is,” Frank floundered on, “when two people have made a go of it like you and Myrtle for this many years, why, they can’t just throw it away at the drop of a hat. Myrtle doesn’t know, does she?”
Unprepared for this particular question, Voss hesitated. But it took him only a moment to see the danger in assuring Frank—as he would like to have done—that of course Myrtle did not know. Only a romantic innocent like Frank could imagine that the affair had been a secret; in all likelihood Myrtle herself had unloaded to everybody she knew. Much better to play it safe, just in case the question should arise later.
“She probably suspects,” he said slowly. “But I don’t think she has any idea that it’s serious. You know how it is in a place like this—flirtations going on all the time.”
“Sure. I know,” said Frank, very much the man of the world. “Well, one thing, with her away for a couple of days, you’ll have a chance to kind of pull yourself together. She couldn’t have picked a better time.”
“She certainly couldn’t,” said Voss sincerely. As Frank stood up to leave, he added, once more conscious of his own pathos, “Many thanks for bringing me the letter, Frank. And for the moral support.”
Things couldn’t have gone more swimmingly, he was thinking. With his mind clicking away in this admirable, mechanical way, there was no reason why he shouldn’t breeze through the rest of the morning without turning a hair. All it took was careful planning and a cool head. He had the cool head, all right. And—thanks to Myrtle—the withered heart that would nevertheless come back to life, all in good time.
It was at this self-congratulatory moment that Frank dropped his bomb. Casually, as an afterthought, a final pleasantry that occurred to him when he was halfway out to his car. “I suppose Myrtle took Pepper with her, didn’t she?” he called back. “Of course. I never knew her to go half a block without that dog.”
Voss himself remained intact. The world around him reeled, and then, with a stately, slow-motion effect, it shattered. Except for Frank, who still waited out there, smil
ing expectantly.
“Oh, yes.” Voss’s voice rang, remote and dreamy, in his own ears. “Of course she took Pepper. Myrtle never goes anywhere without Pepper.”
“In his traveling case, I suppose? Only dog in the country with his own specially built traveling compartment.” Another cheery wave, and Frank was gone.
It was incredible. Only gradually was Voss able to grasp the magnitude of his blunder, the treachery of his own mind, seemingly so faultless in its operation, which had remembered every other detail and had forgotten—of all the ignominious, obvious things—Pepper.
For Pepper and Myrtle were devoted to each other. She referred to herself as his “Muwer.” He was a small, beagle-type dog, a cheerful extrovert whose devotion to Myrtle did not prevent him from indulging in an occasional night out, and he had chosen last night for one of these escapades.
Voss closed his eyes. The veranda seemed to echo, as it had last evening, with Myrtle’s strident summons: “Here, Peppy, Peppy!” But they had waited in vain for the sound of Pepper tearing through the shrubbery and up the driveway, for his joyful voice proclaiming that he was home. Ordinarily, Myrtle would have kept on calling, at intervals, until Pepper showed up—as he always did, sooner or later—looking ashamed and proud in equal parts. Ordinarily, it wouldn’t have mattered that he was still not back.
But there was nothing ordinary about last night and this morning. That was just the point: Voss had to make this extraordinary, deranged, secret stretch of time seem ordinary. He had to. And it was impossible, because all his calculations had been made minus Pepper.
A current of panic ran through him. He willed himself to stand still and think. Now was no time to lose his head, or to dissolve in futile self-recrimination. He must think, the way he had thought last night, with that beautiful, unhurried precision...
Pepper at large, perhaps galloping around the neighborhood calling attention to himself, was a shocking hazard. But to call the little beast would only advertise more fatally the fact that he was not where he ought to be, and furthermore that Voss knew it.
There was nothing to do, then, but wait. He rubbed his clammy hands against his pajama pants. His knees threatened to buckle under him. But it was somehow unthinkable to sit down. He stood in the middle of the veranda, staring at the screen door, where the bougainvillea climbed, trying to get in. It was the personification of Myrtle, that burgeoning vine. Its harsh purplish flowers were her color, and the way it swarmed over everything, its boundless vulgarity—it was Myrtle to the life.
There was nothing to do but wait...
Then, all at once, Pepper was there. He barked, in an apologetic way, as if he were anxious to make clear that he was only suggesting—by no means demanding —that he be let in. And when Voss tottered to the screen and opened it, the dog swaggered in with an uneasy attempt at bravado.
Trembling all over, Voss collapsed in one of the wicker chairs. He could hear the little dog clicking off in search of a more demonstrative welcome. And in spite of all he could do, memory re-enacted for him last night’s whole flawless (almost) project, after— Well, just after.
It had seemed to work itself out with such magical accuracy. First of all, the heaven-sent circumstances of Myrtle’s visit to her sister, who lived (bless her heart) in an inland town, the road to which was infrequently traveled, curving, and in spots precipitous. Ideal for Voss’s purposes. Who was likely to be abroad at three-thirty in the morning to see him, either when he left the house—with Myrtle’s body and the bicycle bundled in the back seat of her car—or when he returned, alone on the bicycle?
The answer was, no one. He had had the whole moonless, empty world to himself; he had managed the crash—like everything else—with dreamlike precision.
And when Myrtle’s body and her car were found smashed to bits at the bottom of the gorge, who was going to pry too much? Accidents happened all the time, and Myrtle was a notoriously rash driver.
He had thought of everything, including Myrtle’s suitcase which, obligingly enough, she had already packed, and the new hat she had bought for her trip. It had a red veil, not quite the same shade as the flower trimming. Trust Myrtle. He had been very proud of remembering about the hat.
Only he had forgotten Pepper. She never went anywhere without him; she would as soon set out stark naked as without Pepper. She did not trust him to ride on the seat beside her; the possibility that something in the passing scene might prove too much for his inquiring temperament terrified her. So she’d had a special traveling case built for him. The case, with Pepper inside, was placed on the floor of the front seat, during even the shortest trips.
When not in use, the case was stored in a corner of the garage. That was where it was now, along with Voss’s own car, the one he used to drive back and forth to work. If only, last night, he had happened to glance in that particular corner... He must get rid of it. And he must get rid of Pepper.
At least Pepper was here, under his control, no longer prancing around in public. Perhaps he had already been noticed? Perhaps, Voss answered himself grimly. In which case it would simply be his word against someone else’s. All right, his word. But there was no way whatever to account for a hale and hearty Pepper here in the house; or for the telltale case, sitting undamaged in the garage. Voss recalled his own remote voice, replying to Frank: “Oh, yes. Of course she took Pepper.” That was his story, and to make it stick, both Pepper and the traveling case ought to be in the car at the bottom of the gorge.
Well, he could get them there. He had his own car. He saw, with a flash of excitement and renewed hope, that there was time, that he still had a chance. A much chancier chance than the one he had taken last night, when no one had been around to notice his coming and going. It was broad daylight now. Even so, he would be safe enough, once he (and Pepper, and the case) got on the road that led to the gorge.
Getting there was the tricky part; to reach the turn-off he would have to drive through one stretch of the American colony—dark and silent last night, but buzzing with activity now that morning was here. Someone would be sure to hear Pepper, who invariably barked his head off the minute he was put in his case, and kept it up until he reached his destination. No, it was a risk that simply could not be taken. Pepper must be disposed of, silenced forever, before he set off on his final trip.
How to do it? This was the problem, stripped to its basic bones.
As if on cue, Pepper appeared in the doorway between the veranda and the living room. His expression was one of friendly inquiry. If this turned out to be a game of hide and seek, his manner seemed to convey, then they could count on him; he was always ready for fun and games; if, on the other hand, his favorite human being had actually gone away and left him—
Well, Pepper was no dog to brood. You would never catch him stretched out on somebody’s grave, or refusing to eat and moping himself away to a shadow. Love came easy to this sturdy, lively little creature.
Voss eyed him, and Pepper, mistaking speculation for interest, trotted over, all sociability. My God, thought Voss, he’d even get attached to me, given time. Which, of course, was precisely what Pepper was not going to be given. He did not know this, however. He did not know that Voss’s heart had all but withered, that he was not capable of the tiniest flicker of sympathy for any living thing. In cheerful ignorance, the dog sat down beside Voss’s feet—tentatively, with his tail thumping and his Spotted head cocked upward. He seemed to be smiling.
“Go away,” said Voss coldly.
Pepper could take a hint; still smiling amiably, he ambled over to the living-room door.
A gun would be the easiest way. One neat shot—it would sound like a car backfiring, in case anyone happened to hear it—and a quick, unobtrusive burial. No problem there, with a body as small as Pepper’s. But Voss did not own a gun.
Well, there was gas. Except that there wasn’t. Everything here was electric.
Where did you stab a dog? That is... Voss glanced toward the door, wher
e Pepper sat, alert for the smallest sign of encouragement. His anatomy must be roughly like that of a human being. But somehow his front legs became, in Voss’s mind, a hopeless complication. Pepper wasn’t large, but he was strong and wiry. And he loved life; he would hang on to it with all his might.
Voss turned away from Pepper’s trustful gaze, and, as he turned, his eye fell on the bougainvillea. One strand had thrust its way inside the screen door, probably when he let Pepper in; it swung there, searching for a toe-hold. He went over, shoved it out savagely, and hooked the screen door against it.
From time to time Pepper left his post to make another fruitless tour of the house. After each trip he looked a little less debonair, a little more anxious. Now he pattered over to Voss’s side and uttered a series of barks. Not loud, but insistent.
He would have to be kept quiet until the method of permanent disposal had been decided upon. Food would do it. Voss stood up. Here at least was something he could handle. And anyway, Pepper, being condemned was entitled to a hearty breakfast. The dog bustled out-to the kitchen ahead of Voss, all eagerness and good humor again.
The business of opening a can of dog food and filling Pepper’s water bowl was calming. But Voss was startled to see that it was now nine-thirty; he should have been at the office an hour ago. He phoned at once, with the first excuse that occurred to him.
His secretary, a flip type, said sure, she understood about his headache, and had he tried tomato juice? Or a hair of the dog?
He had a perilous impulse to laugh and laugh. “I’ll see you after lunch,” he said icily, and hung up.
Meanwhile Pepper, full of peace and breakfast, had retired to his favorite spot under the dining-room table for a nap. His round stomach rose and fell rhythmically. Now and then his forehead puckered, or his paws flicked busily, in pursuit of a dream-rabbit. Watching him, Voss felt a drowsiness, almost like hypnosis, creeping over him.
The jangling of the telephone jerked him to his feet, wild-eyed and suddenly drenched in cold sweat. After three rings, however, he had collected his wits and was able to answer in a normal, deliberate voice.
The Lethal Sex Page 10
