“Maureen!” he said.
“Something’s happened to her?” said his mother. “Where is she?”
“The bedroom,” he said.
“Go, Lem. Into the bedroom. Go and see.”
“Sure, chickie.”
Lem hurried away. Andrew could feel himself losing balance, and dropped backward so that he was sitting on the couch again. His mother sat at his side. Her hand gripped his arm.
“Andrew, what have you done to Maureen? Tell me. You must tell me.”
Done to Maureen. He heard that. He knew it had to be refuted. Not even his mother could … He tried to think of the right words.
He heard his voice saying, “Get me a drink.”
She fluttered away. Dimly Andrew thought: “When has anyone ever asked Mother to get anything?” She was back in a flash, holding a tumbler.
“Here. It’s whiskey. Straight.”
He took the glass in both hands. He raised it to his lips and gulped. Through the glass, he saw that Lem had come back. He could see his stepfather’s face, distorted by the glass into a Halloween pumpkin ghost with a painted mustache and two round buttons for eyes.
“She’s dead.”
“Maureen?” cried Mrs. Pryde.
“She’s lying on the bed … shot.”
Mrs. Pryde spun back to Andrew. “Andrew!” she said.
It was amazing how, in spite of his dazedness, Andrew could catch every overtone in his mother’s voice. “Andrew!” That exact accusatory timbre echoed back through his life to his earliest childhood. “Andrew!” meaning, “Of course it was you and not Neddy who broke the window.” “Andrew!” meaning, “For heaven’s sake, don’t maul me about. Can’t you see I’m dressed for the evening?” And now, “Andrew!” meaning, “Why have you let this dreadfully embarrassing thing happen to me?”
He looked up at her over the glass, realizing, with nothing but a faint, abstract surprise, that for all the pretended understanding of his later years, he’d never forgiven her.
“She’s dead,” Lem was saying. “The bedroom’s in a state of chaos too. It’s burglars. They must have broken in and killed her.”
He put his hand on Andrew’s shoulder. It was heavy, and improbably comforting.
“You just came home, didn’t you, Andrew, old boy?”
“Yes.”
“And you found her?”
“Yes.”
“Poor Andrew. What a ghastly thing. What an appallingly ghastly thing.”
Andrew was still looking at his mother. Her pretty metal face had no change of expression at all.
“Andrew, have you called the police?”
He shook his head.
“Why not?”
Lem’s voice came: “Chickie dear, he’s in shock. Can’t you see? Poor fellow, he doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“If he doesn’t, then someone’s got to. You call them, Lem. Call this minute. We don’t want them to think we sat here for hours doing nothing. Oh, dear, it’s incredible. Quite incredible.”
Lem called the police. He came back to the couch. He was clumsily gentle with Andrew. He wanted to put the pillows back so that he could lie down but Andrew knew he had to fight the stifling lethargy rather than give in to it. Lem got him another drink. He sat sipping it. The rage was coming back. The hoodlums would have to be caught. They would be made to pay. A violently sadistic vision came of two indeterminate thugs, heads shaved, bodies strapped to electric chairs, screaming as the voltage roared through them. Andrew clung to it as the only antidote to despair.
His mother demanded a martini. Martinis were the only drinks she ever touched. Even then, there had to be the elaborate ritual of chilled glass and flaked lemon peel. Lem went in and out of the kitchen preparing it. He brought it to her. She put a cigarette into a long jade holder. Lem lit it. Then he got a drink for himself. It was all done in dumb-show—the television with the sound cut off, Mrs. Pryde puffing the cigarette, tilting the martini glass, Lem standing beside her, Andrew sitting on the couch.
“Lem.”
“Yes, chickie.”
“You’d better call the Raffertys. Just say we’re sorry but we can’t come after all. Don’t tell them anything. Don’t say a thing.”
“No, dear.”
Lem called the Raffertys.
“Andrew.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Where’s Neddy?”
“Ned?”
“I called him after lunch. I told him we were dropping in here on our way to the Raffertys’. He said he’d try to join us … Andrew.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“He seemed very upset about the Hatchard girl. Maureen was causing trouble, he said. I didn’t understand. Why should Maureen…?”
“Chickie,” said Lem. “Not now.”
Through the open front door Andrew could hear the clatter of the elevator opening. There were voices, footsteps.It was like an army advancing. Andrew put down his drink. The apartment was suddenly full of policemen.
Whatever they did they did without him and around him. There were at least three of them if not four. Mostly they were in the bedroom but occasionally one or two of them would be lumbering about the living room, big, red-faced men, moving with the cautious purposefulness of bird dogs. Every now and then a flashbulb flared. In the babel, Andrew was constantly conscious of his mother’s voice, high, imperious, as if she were dealing with hotel clerks or customs’ officials who didn’t quite understand who she was.
He knew he was in shock, but he was coherent enough in his mind to realize it was wiser to pretend an even greater confusion than he felt. That way they would leave him alone, give him a little more time before he had to face the reality of Maureen’s death.
It seemed like hours—and probably was—that he sat alone on the couch. Then his mother and Lem and another man came over to him.
His mother said, “Andrew, this is Lieutenant Mooney.”
Lem said, “Andrew, old boy, you all right? Can you answer a few questions?”
“Yes,” he said.
Lem handed him a lighted cigarette. He took it and inhaled, looking at Lieutenant Mooney, who had sat down in a chair opposite him. The lieutenant was big, with a big square face out of which small but very blue eyes watched with a wary scrutiny. A typical cop, bringing with him a whole alien world of bleak squad rooms, white-gloved hands directing traffic, a wife and kids in … where? thought Andrew madly … Queens? … Sunday poker games in floral sports shirts and slacks.
“Okay, Mr. Jordan?” he said.
“Yes,” said Andrew.
“We’re checking on valuables—objects which could have been stolen.”
“Her jewel box,” said Mrs. Pryde. “She must have had a jewel box. Didn’t she have a jewel box, Andrew?”
“Yes,” said Andrew. “A red-leather box in the right-hand top drawer of her dressing table.”
“You see, Lieutenant,” said Lem. “It’s not there now. They took it—and the money from her pocketbook.”
Lieutenant Mooney’s big face still loomed in front of Andrew. “Anything else, Mr. Jordan? Any money kept any place?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t think so. There’s her mink coat.”
“It’s on the floor in the bedroom,” said Lem. “They dropped it. When they shot her, they got scared. They just ran with the jewel box and the money from her pocketbook and whatever rings she was wearing.”
Memory returned to Andrew of his wife’s hand, palm upward, fingers curved, the pink circular band where the wedding ring had been.
“Andrew!” It was his mother’s voice, sharp, disciplinary. “You just came home from the office in the ordinary way and found her, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Have trouble with the front door?” asked the lieutenant.
“Yes. I saw marks on the lock. I leaned my hand against the door and it opened.”
“This was just before Lem and I came,” said Mrs. Pryde. “It was, wasn’t it
? Just a few moments.”
“Yes,” said Andrew.
Lieutenant Mooney’s large hands were on his large knees. “What’s a bunch of carnations doing on the bedroom floor, Mr. Jordan?”
“I brought them for my wife,” he said.
Heavy, short-lashed lids flicked over the blue eyes. “Had a quarrel?”
“Quarrel?” echoed Mrs. Pryde. “Why on earth should they have had a quarrel?”
“Husbands bring their wives flowers when they’ve quarreled,” said Lieutenant Mooney.
“How absurd,” said Mrs. Pryde. “How utterly absurd. My husband brings me flowers every day.”
Lieutenant Mooney ignored her. “Had you quarreled with your wife, Mr. Jordan?”
“No,” said Andrew.
“And there wasn’t anyone else who could have wanted to harm her?”
“No.”
“That your gun, Mr. Jordan?”
“Yes. I kept it in the bedroom for protection.”
“You got a license?”
“Yes.”
“Then the way you figure it, Mr. Jordan—hoodlums broke in, they found your wife here, she made a grab for the gun, they got it and shot her?”
“Of course,” said Lem. “That’s what he thinks because that’s the way it happened.”
There was a clattering sound. Two men in white coats had come in with a stretcher. The lieutenant got up and left Andrew. His mother and Lem closed ranks. Andrew knew people from the morgue had come for Maureen. He knew too that his mother and Lem were hoping he didn’t realize it. Soon they carried the stretcher out again with a sheet thrown over it. Lem and his mother went away. The cops came back into the living room. One of them picked up the golden dress and carried it into the bedroom, carefully stepping over Andrew’s legs as he passed him.
Andrew heard his mother’s voice again, clear and irritated. She and Lem and the lieutenant were back.
“… really, it’s too disgraceful, Lieutenant. The poor boy! Persecuting him at a time like this! Don’t you realize how he feels? Don’t you have any sensitivity?”
Lieutenant Mooney came to rest solidly in front of Andrew. He said, “You got anything more to tell us, Mr. Jordan?”
“No,” said Andrew.
“Okay. Then I guess that should do it for tonight. But I’ll want you tomorrow at ten o’clock at this address.”
He handed Andrew a card. Andrew put it in his jacket pocket.
“At ten, Mr. Jordan. Okay?”
“Yes,” said Andrew.
“I’m leaving a man here. Got to go over this place with a fine-tooth comb. Your mother’s fixed it for you to sleep at her place, she says.”
He was holding out his hand. “And I’m sorry, Mr. Jordan. This is tough for you. You have my sympathy.”
Andrew took the hand.
“Good night, ma’am. Good night, Mr. Pryde.”
They all went away except one cop, who stayed in the bedroom. Mrs. Pryde sighed. She took out her jade holder and had Lem light a cigarette for her.
“Well, they could have been worse, I suppose. Andrew, it’s all arranged. I’ve called the Plaza and got a room for you.”
“It’s much better that way, old boy,” said Lem. “Wouldn’t want to leave you hanging around here.”
“Just sit quietly,” said Mrs. Pryde. “Lem and I will pack some things for you.”
They disappeared into the bedroom. Andrew got up. What did he want? A cigarette. He took one out of a box on the coffee table, lit it and, moving to a chair against the far wall of the room, sat down again. Shock and his mother’s unlikely presence had had the strange effect of turning back the years. He felt like a child again, a little boy in knee pants sitting obediently as he had been told to sit, while his mother packed the wrong things—always the wrong things—for him to take to a friend’s house for a shore weekend.
A sausage of ash had formed on his cigarette. He got up, brought an ashtray and balanced it on the arm of his chair. As he flicked ash into it, his elbow jogged it and sent it spinning off the chair arm. He got up and pulled the chair away from the wall. There was the ashtray with ash scattered around it. Lying beside it was a neatly folded paper dart.
He picked up the dart. On its broad end, its tail, he read the name of a book club …
In his mind he was back again on the couch with his breakfast tray in front of him. He was opening the mail. He was reading the circular from a book club. It had come this morning, so the dart could only have been made today.
Ned must have been here today.
“I called Neddy,” the echo of his mother’s voice came. “He seemed very upset about the Hatchard girl. Maureen was causing trouble, he said.”
Suddenly the sanity-preserving image of the hoodlums, shaven-headed, strapped to electric chairs, became blurred. Ned … Rosemary … You’ve got to stop Maureen.
The taste of the cigarette in his mouth was sickening. It was, he realized, the first unmuted physical sensation he’d had since that moment by the bed when he realized his whole life was destroyed.
His mother and Lem came out of the bedroom. Lem was carrying a little overnight bag of Maureen’s.
His mother said, “Andrew, what on earth have you got in your hand?”
He crushed the dart into a ball and put it in his pocket.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Well, do come along then,” said his mother. “It’s almost ten o’clock and I’m faint with hunger.”
SIX
Andrew awoke next morning with no bearings. He didn’t know where he was or what was happening. Then simultaneously he realized that the phone was ringing, that he was in a room at the Plaza and that Maureen was dead.
He reached for the phone. Lem’s voice, bluff, hollowly avuncular, said, “Andrew, old boy, it’s eight-thirty. I thought I’d give you a call. You’re due at the station house at ten.”
The station house. The card Lieutenant Meehan? O’Malley? had given him last night.
“The lieutenant just called us. He wants your mother and me too. But later. Your mother says come up here for breakfast.”
Andrew thought of his mother decoratively seated at a room-service breakfast table with the decorative view over Central Park behind her.
“No,” he said. “Thanks, but no.”
“But, old boy, your mother says …”
“Tell her I’m all right. And, Lem, call the office later on. Let them know I won’t be in today.”
He took a shower. Both of the shirts his mother had picked for him had buttons missing. He put one on anyway. In the pocket of his jacket, he found the card. Lieutenant Mooney. He found the crushed paper dart too. For a moment he stood with it in his hand, feeling below the ice of despair a faint ripple of uneasiness. Then he put it back in his pocket.
He knew he hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before. He went into a coffee shop across Fifth Avenue. A woman came in and sat down next to him. She unfolded the Daily News. Headlines glared at him. NORMA PRYDE’S DAUGHTER-IN-LAW SLAIN BY HOODLUMS. Norma Pryde’s daughter-in-law, Mother’s daughter-in-law, Maureen … He put down his coffee cup. He got off the stool and paid the check.
At the station house, Lieutenant Mooney was waiting for him in a drab little office with a desk and rickety wooden chairs. Outside in the squad room a radio was playing rock and roll. Big, placid, gum-chewing, the lieutenant received him quite impersonally, as if he were just another paper going across his desk. There were stilted words of sympathy, then Andrew was asked to describe his discovery of “the deceased.” He told about buying the carnations, going home, finding the lock broken, finding Maureen. Lieutenant Mooney took notes on a block of yellow lined paper. Andrew was still completely icebound. Nothing had any reality or any ability to inflict pain. Either Lieutenant Mooney caught the hoodlums or he didn’t. Even if he did, what would be changed?
“You haven’t thought of anything else valuable that could be missing?”
“No.”
“J
ust the jewel box, whatever money she had in her purse, and the rings she was wearing?”
“That’s all I can think of that was valuable—except clothes.”
“How valuable were the jewels?”
“She had diamond earrings, pearls, not much else. As I remember, the whole lot was insured for five thousand.”
“Five thousand.” Lieutenant Mooney looked up at Andrew, tapping with his pencil on the desk. “By the way, Mr. Jordan, it’s okay for you to go back to the apartment whenever you want to. We’re through.”
“Thank you,” said Andrew.
“And you won’t have any trouble with the lock on the front door. There was nothing wrong with it.”
The small, inexpressive blue eyes were watching Andrew with what seemed like the mildest curiosity. Vaguely Andrew realized he was waiting for him to say something.
When he didn’t, the lieutenant went on, “I could have told you that last night, but your mother was fussing. Don’t worry him, she was saying. Got to respect a mother’s feelings, don’t you? Someone scratched the lock and chipped the wood around it, but the lock itself wasn’t broken. There was nothing wrong except that the catch on the lock was released from the inside. Get it, Mr. Jordan? Nobody busted into that apartment.”
His massive jaws were chewing in rhythm to the rock and roll. He leaned a little closer to Andrew over the desk.
“If there was hoodlums, they were let in or they got in with a key. But if they were let in or had a key, why would they bother to scratch the lock and chip the wood? They wouldn’t, would they, Mr. Jordan? Sure, someone took the jewel box and the money and the rings off her fingers. But that was a phony burglary. I saw it right away. Didn’t need to look at the lock. Pillows pulled off the couches, drawers left open, suits and dresses tossed around. I’ve seen enough genuine breaking and entering. I know how it’s done and how it isn’t done. Even with kids, delinquents, it isn’t like that.”
He dropped the pencil on the desk with a little clattering sound. “There’s no chance of suicide, even if the M.E. hadn’t ruled it out on account of the nature of the wounds. So, Mr. Jordan, any idea how come someone murdered your wife and faked it like a breaking and entering?”
Andrew listened. He knew what the words meant. He was perfectly capable of following the logic of what the lieutenant said. But, for the first second, he had no reaction at all. It was as if a very dull man at a very dull party had told a very dull story to which he’d paid polite attention but from which self-protecting boredom had kept him completely detached. It was only gradually that he started to feel, but once it started, it was as if he had suddenly emerged from hours of anesthesia. Since there had been no hoodlums, the disaster which had seemed as meaningless as a train accident, demanding nothing of him beyond endurance, had completely changed its nature. It had moved into an area where he could do something about it, and, because he was essentially a doer, Andrew was himself again.
The Green-Eyed Monster Page 5
