The So Blue Marble

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  Griselda’s throat was tight. “Don’t go!”

  Ann showed her surprise.

  She made it matter-of-fact “Of course Arthur would mind.”

  “But there’s no reason for him to know.” She was a child pleading the cause of green apples. “He has to go to Washington tomorrow on bank business. He won’t be back until Sunday night”

  She pleaded now, “Don’t go, Ann. Arthur wouldn’t like it. Those things are always found out You know that.”

  Ann wasn’t quite truthful and she knew it She was almost pious, Ann in her violet velvet hostess gown, her fingers tipped with mauve red. “But, Griselda, you surely don’t think I mean anything wrong! There’s nothing like that. It isn’t going away with a man for the week end.” She perished the thought! “I’d merely be their guest, nothing uncivilized.”

  Griselda shook her head. “It isn’t that.” How to tell Ann and not tell her, how to frighten what lived under the precious lacquer mask. “Listen to me, Ann. You remember that night at the Persian room.”

  “Which night?”

  “When the twins were with us.”

  Ann did remember. It came a shadow into the pupils of her eyes, was pushed back into the beyond of things not to be remembered, not ever to think upon. “What are you talking about, Griselda? You always did have the queerest ideas.”

  Griselda sighed. You couldn’t put things across to Ann obliquely. She understood but would continue to refuse. That was the why of Ann; she was as she was, nurtured, masked, because she would see and understand only that which she wished.

  They moved into the living room. Griselda flopped into the yellow quilted chair. You couldn’t tell Ann in indirect motion, why did she try? Because she didn’t want Ann hurt, although it would serve her right to be hurt, badly, in the face of such stubbornness. But Ann was her sister, beautiful if empty, too normal to be put to death, or worse, to be put to use as was Missy. She struggled again. “You don’t want to be murdered in your bed, Ann.”

  Ann didn’t stir from her pose on the laureled couch. But the fingers on her velvet skirt rose and slowly fell. “No, I don’t, Griselda.” She raised her eyelids. “I don’t fear that. I trust David.”

  Griselda spoke slowly. “Of them all I too trust David. I don’t believe he kills.” If only she could put this much across to Ann. “But there is such a thing as arousing the Furies.”

  Now Ann did stir. She was not comfortable. And the mask went away from her face. She leaned towards Griselda, whispered it “Who killed Nesta Fahney?”

  Griselda saw that room again, saw it so horribly that Ann’s couch became an old white-iron bedstead; the green laurel, dried blood. She put her fingers to her eyes.

  Fright shrilled the whisper now. “Who killed Nesta Fahney?”

  Griselda stared at her sister with empty eyes. Beneath the lipstick Ann’s mouth had the color of quince. Griselda continued to stare with a child’s curiosity at the elder; she had never before seen Ann without blood and bones, nothing but a flabby shape. This was fear, stark horrible fear. She wondered if this was as she herself had been that day in the farmhouse room, that night in the bank, that other when Mr. Grain spilled blood on Con’s carpet, and that first night when the twins spoke to her on the corner of Fifty-fifth and Fifth. She shivered. This had been going on for many years; it would go on forever, as long as the twins…

  “Who killed Nesta Fahney?”

  She answered without meaning, “I don’t know.”

  Whispering again. “Did Missy kill her?” There was nothing of Ann but eyes, not eyes, round black pupils. The rest of her was gone.

  Griselda repeated, “I don’t know.”

  Those black circles were furied from fear, that sightless panic of fear. “You do know. You were there. You saw her. Did Missy kill her?”

  She repeated, “I don’t know.” And then she broke out again with, “Don’t go up there with David, Ann. Don’t do it. It isn’t for you.” But her pleading only made Ann come to life again, the Cheshire eyes filling out with cheekbone, head, shoulders, thighs, green velvet sandals.

  The lovely masked Ann was there again, putting her ivory cigarette holder to her lips, saying, “I don’t know as yet what I will do, Griselda. I may go. It might be amusing. And then again…” The fear went down into dark again, but there was left a shadow of it, something that wouldn’t go away so soon.

  Under her breath Griselda kept repeating, urging, “Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go.” But not aloud. Too much dissent and Ann would go.

  Arthur was interruption. He came in on his key, looking important, broad. He kissed Ann’s dark hair, not as Con would kiss. Arthur’s lips made habit, not emotion. She half-spoke, “You’re early. Are you still going to Washington?”

  “Yes, in the morning.”

  Griselda mentioned, “Ann said bank business. Anything more on it?”

  He was so important. “Well, yes and no. At any rate Tobin thought it would be wise if we’d talk to Barjon Garth.”

  He pretended to be everyday but he wasn’t. It was something to be going to Washington to see the famous X head.

  Her pretense was better. She took a brown wafer from Ann’s always-filled china box, nibbled it. “Just what’s it about? Or is it secret?”

  “Well, we don’t care to have it in the press, naturally. There’d be a hullabaloo. But Tobin thinks if we went through the deposit boxes, there might be some clue. He wants Garth’s advice.”

  She could hide her fear, sucking at the chocolate. Only one box Tobin wanted to touch.

  “Temporarily we’ve placed a guard at the vault. Nothing is to be removed from it without a record.”

  “Won’t that cause trouble?”

  “No, indeed,” he said. “Everyone has been most co-operative.”

  And naturally. Anyone with legitimate business would be co-operative. If it weren’t legitimate-no one would go to the vault now. She couldn’t go. But Con must not see that letter. She flushed. It had been foolish to tell in it how she felt about him. Not that that really mattered now; humiliation was as nothing. But if Con took the marble, the twins would move against him.

  She finished the chocolate, wiped her fingers on her tongue. “I’d better run. I must see Gig. He must have wondered about me.”

  “I like him,” Arthur decided. “Something solid about him.”

  Always, either of them, undermining Con, but they couldn’t. Con was Con, beloved, even if he scorned social graces, social lines.

  She looked straight at Ann. “Call me.” It was a command. Her sister understood.

  “Yes, I promise I’ll call you.”

  Arthur saw her to the door. She went down, out into the cold sunshine. She walked the block over to Fifth, skirted down towards the shining towers. Buses elephanted down the street but she didn’t hail them. Walking was better. It made her head clear; it let air into her lungs. She hadn’t breathed for so many days. Tomorrow the twins would go upstate again. Or was it to be only Ann and David? What did David want with Ann? Merely diversion? But he was not Danny; women were nothing to him. Did he want Ann for another reason, to take Missy’s place? Griselda was colder than the breath frosting from her mouth. Had Missy bungled things slaughtering Nesta? Had she outworn her use? And Ann, cool, casual Ann, without emotion, would she fit better into their mold-with the help of those drugged cigarettes?

  She shivered in the sunlight. They couldn’t do it to Ann. No, they actually couldn’t. She walked briskly again. They didn’t know. Ann’s civilization would defeat them. She would do nothing that kept her from being invited to the Potters and the Van Rensaellers and the Kingdoms. They couldn’t offer anything good enough to take the place of the right invitations. The very qualities that would make Ann valuable to them were those which would keep her out of their madness. But what did David want with Ann? Surely not for Ann to die. That didn’t make reason. And they couldn’t think that Ann was in any way tied up with the blue marble. That was impossible.

/>   She couldn’t figure it. There was something more important to her. Con must not read the letter, know where to find the marble. She would give it up first. She didn’t know what to do. She only knew she must keep free until Arthur brought Garth’s decision. Only if she were free to get that letter first would Con stay safe. She crossed the width of Fifty-seventh, two blocks to Fifty-fifth, turned, but she turned back again to Fifth, rounding the corner with even, unhurried steps. Was that Tobin down the block, down by No. 21, idling before the window where there was an old Chinese vase and two tapestries? There was no other hat like to that. Tobin, looking towards Madison. Usually Griselda came from Ann’s on the Mad. bus. Tobin, waiting to spy her, to pretend casual meeting? But nothing was casual now. Suppose he had come to arrest her! Panic seized her. She couldn’t go home. She could go to Gig.

  PART XIII

  1

  She hailed a cab. “Columbia.” She held tight to the edge of the seat as they bounced up Broadway to One Hundred Sixteenth Street. The driver let her off at the corner and she pushed a bill into his hand, not waiting change. She didn’t know which of these buildings but there was a boy smoking on the steps. He directed her.

  She asked at the registrar’s window. “J. Antwerp Gigland.”

  The girl stared at her strangely. “He isn’t here.”

  “Not here?”

  “No.” That strange look again, then the girl said anxiously, “Wouldn’t you like to sit down? You look ill.”

  Griselda tried to smile. “I’m all right. Only I was surprised. When did he leave?”

  “He’s been away about a month. Dr. Wilkes Gigland is taking his classes. Would he-could he help you?”

  She said, ‘I’ll see him.” She followed directions, to that first red brick building, up in the creeping elevator. The certain office; inside was Gig.

  He too looked at her so strangely, pulling forward a chair. “Griselda, sit here. What’s happened? I’ve been trying to reach you. Your sister said you hadn’t been in.”

  “Ann said that?” Was all the world crazy?

  “Not Ann. The other one. At Con’s.”

  “Oh.” She touched her throat Missy had been there, was there. Why?

  He was calm. “What has happened, Griselda?”

  She held his hands, tightly. “I don’t know. I’m in a funk, Gig. I want to run away, and I can’t now. I’m in it too deeply.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Go where we can talk. To my apartment.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t dare. Tobin’s outside. And Missy’s already there.” Everything closing in. She couldn’t breathe.

  He put on his hat, coat. He was gentle. He rested you. Even if he weren’t Gig. She asked, “Are you Gig’s brother-J. Antwerp Gigland?”

  He flushed. “I’m his cousin. I should have told you.” He was so embarrassed. “But I didn’t think you’d be interested. You had your own troubles.”

  “Where’s Gig? Con’s Gig I mean.”

  He said, “He had a chance to go to Persia on a survey. He asked me to take his place. It was arranged at the University. I’d been teaching in Germany, before things changed there…”

  It didn’t matter.

  He opened the door. “I suppose they told you at the office when you asked for him.”

  She said, “Yes-I…” She mustn’t say she knew it before, that would give Con away. “I asked by the full name.” She even laughed. “I don’t know why.”

  They went down in the elevator. He asked, “If you don’t go home, where will you stay?”

  “I don’t know.” No place was safe.

  “Why can’t we smuggle you into my place? We could do it. No one need know. You’d be near home to get clothes and things.” He thought of a way. “The fire escape. The back apartments have them. I’ll go up in the elevator and open the window.”

  They did it. She standing below in the dirty, dank courtyard, her heart in her mouth, until his head stuck out four stories above. She climbed the damp treachery of the old iron ladder. No one saw. And she was inside, rubbing her hands together for warmth.

  “You’re safe here. Why don’t you take a hot bath? That would relax you, maybe sleep. I’ve papers to correct. I won’t leave until you’re awake. You’ll be safe with me here.”

  “Yes.” There was much he hadn’t explained but maybe it was true. Whether he was safe or not, she felt comfortable with him. She went into the bedroom, closed the door.

  When she woke it was dark. But light shone under the door from the living room where Gig was working. Or was he gone? She put on the lamp, opened the door a crack. He was there and alone, but the gate-leg table was loaded with food.

  He saw her. “I called ‘L’Apertif and asked for service for two.” He blushed. “I believe the waiter thought I was having a rendezvous.”

  She patted his shoulder. “You’re an angel. And I do feel better.” She was rested, ravenous, almost gay. She ate hungrily. “I don’t believe I’ve really tasted food in a week. I’m not scared now. How long do you think I’ll be safe here?”

  “Until someone finds out. And why should anyone find out? I can bring in food, do your telephoning. You stay away from doors, windows and phones; you should be safe enough.”

  “Bette?”

  He was surprised she didn’t know. “She won’t be coming. She was shot.”

  “Not…” She couldn’t speak it

  He shook his head. “Her arm, I believe. I found her. In your apartment. She’s all right. Griselda, don’t look so distressed. But she won’t be here for some days.”

  “I could do her cleaning for exercise.”

  They laughed a little then finished dinner almost in silence. Over cigarettes her eyebrows folded together. “It is important that I reach Con. He must know where I am. You don’t know him, do you?”

  He was embarrassed again. “I’ve met him with my cousin. I doubt if he’d remember.”

  “If you saw him?”

  “I’d know him, yes.”

  She said, “You write a note, leave it in his box. Say: ‘Con, get in touch with Gig immediately. Important.’”

  He wrote. “Shall I take it down now?”

  “Yes. Here…” She handed him the key to the box. “Take your door key with you too and let yourself in. I won’t open the door. If there’s mail for me, will you bring it?”

  He nodded.

  She wasn’t ill at ease with him away. She smoked quietly until he returned. He brought a note in Con’s writing. It had been dropped in the box, not mailed. “Be good a day or so. Watch your step.” The heart went out of her again. She flung it towards Gig, sat down. She laughed, uncertain. “He may be in Chapala by now. With Con you never know.”

  He read it looked at her, touched it. “Anything I can do, Griselda? You know I’d do anything for you.”

  She was silent, wondering. “Dear Gig.” But she couldn’t ask him to break into a bank vault for her. And suppose it were not true, his simple explanation of two Gigs. Suppose the other Gig, the real one, were somewhere face down in a pool of blood. She shuddered. “No. No, Gig.”

  He spoke softly. “You needn’t be afraid-for me.”

  She touched his hand. “I know. But you’ve involved yourself enough as it is, Gig. Too much. There’s nothing more you can do. Give me something hard to read while you’re at your night class. Maybe that will put me to sleep again.”

  He handed her “The Art of Weaving in Medieval Persia,” presenting it with a sweeping bow.

  2

  Gig was, of course, gone in the morning. He’d left the papers, food in the icebox, the percolator ready to be plugged. It would be a peaceful day, not to be fleeing from one place to another. It was ten o’clock before she got up, rolled her pajama sleeves, took broom and mop, and emulated the good Bette. She would have liked to sing but that might be heard; further, despite her carefree spirit, something was listening for the whine of the elevator.

  She washed the breakfast t
hings. Everything spandy. Then she dressed lazily; it was nearing noon. And then she remembered-Ann! She took up the phone. She couldn’t reach the operator; the line was dead. It would happen now. She’d have to risk going out. She put on coat and hat, took her bag, gloves.

  She couldn’t open the front door. She wrestled it; it wouldn’t open. She stood soundless, then tried again, in panic now, but it was fast. It took all her courage to attempt the back way. That door also would not budge. She was locked in.

  Had Gig done this? Was it so she could not get away; was the telephone no accident but that she could not communicate? She couldn’t believe that; she wouldn’t. The phone an accident; the doors for her own safety.

  There was a way out, the fire escape, or was that barred too? No way to shut off that escape. Had he thought she would’t dare go that way? The danger of being seen-but she had to risk it She opened the window, peered below. There was no one in sight. She stepped out, pulled the window after her, hearing as she did the whine of the ascending elevator. You couldn’t hurry on those precarious iron rods. It took hours to climb down, expecting every moment sound from above, a window opened, to be caught.

  She took the leap to the ground. She didn’t dare emerge the front way. She crossed through another court, through dirty passageways, out on Fifty-sixth Street. Whether to go towards Fifth or Madison, she didn’t know. The Mad. buses were faster but Tobin had been watching Madison yesterday. She was afraid of cabs. She half-ran to Fifth, caught a bus, chafed at traffic delays. At Seventy-eighth she got off, walked up the block and looked carefully down Seventy-ninth before almost fleeing towards the apartment house. It was surprising that the doorman should be the same one; she’d never really noticed his face before; it was round and ruddy, kind. And the elevator man, dark and square, looked as if he had a wife and children. Olga seemed surprised to see her. “Mrs. Stepney?”

  Olga didn’t close the door quickly enough. You were safe only with doors closed and bolted. Griselda took the knob from the maid’s hand, put her back against its shutness.