There was a point, I thought, beyond which frivolity becomes almost magnificent.
Betsy was watching her anxiously. “So you went to Jaimie’s apartment?”
“I certainly did. I got my car out of the garage and hurtled there. And can you imagine what he was doing? He was in the kitchen—that disastrous little kitchen! You should see it!—cooking spaghetti for his dinner. Isn’t that touching? He was absolutely poverty-stricken, you know. He didn’t have a single cent to his name. And not only that, he was stripped to the waist. You have to be, in that kitchen when the oven’s on, if you want to stay alive. I can’t tell you how divinely husband-worthy he looked. And he was, thank heaven, drinking Martinis, too. So I pulled him out of the kitchen and started drinking the Martinis—and explained my plan.”
“When was this?” I said.
“Oh, I guess I got there around seven something, but it lasted hours and hours. I mean, the Martini drinking and explaining my plan.” She stubbed her cigarette in an ash tray. “And was he a dope! You always went on yelling about Jaimie as if he was a monster of evil and corruption. My dears, you couldn’t have been wronger. He was just as prissy as you two—prissier, if possible. At first he was horrified. Doing such a terrible thing? Doing it to the Great C. J.? I could have killed him, but I didn’t. I just talked at him and talked at him and talked at him—and you know me. I’m old Miss Water-Drop when I want to be. And it worked. Around ten or something, I’d worn him down. It was divine. You should have seen us. Me twirling my black mustache and dear little Jaimie with all that torso, fluttering his lovely lashes and simpering and saying, ‘Oh, no, no, not that…’”
Betsy broke in, “But he agreed to this plan?”
“Oh, yes, he agreed in the end. But he was fantastically elaborate about it. It was all something about the neighbors. The people in the next apartment. They were out at some party and he had invited them in for a drink when they got back. He couldn’t possibly put them off because he sublet the apartment from their mother for nothing, and they would have to come in for the drink, but if they saw me, there would be hell to pay because they were terribly strict about women in the apartment. They’d raise a stink, throw us out and… I don’t know. He went on about it as if it was the end of the world. I’d have thought anyone would have adored being thrown out of that apartment. But that’s beside the point. The point is he said he knew a friend. It was a cinch. We could use this friend’s apartment. I was just to sit and he’d go off and work things with this friend. So he made me some more Martinis and he went off, leaving me alone.”
I was warily alert now, for the story was coming dangerously into my ken. The friend, of course, whose apartment Jaimie had gone to get must have been Angelica. The story he’d given to Angelica about its owner’s unexpected return had been, as she had guessed, a lie.
Daphne had reached out and grabbed Betsy’s pocket-book and was searching it for the cigarettes. She found one and pulled it out. I lit it for her.
“I was quite high by that point,” she said. “And it all seemed deliriously funny. I mean, Jaimie being such an old maid. I even got the idea that I had scared him so much with my shameless advances that he’d fled into the night like a stricken deer. But he hadn’t. Quite soon he came back. It was all fixed, he said. His friend had moved out of the apartment of another friend. We could go. So we got in the car and went.”
“Where was this other apartment?” asked Betsy.
“Oh, I don’t know. Somewhere sordidly in the bosom of the Village. Jaimie did the driving. But, my dear, it was hideous. You can’t conceive. It was painted shrimp pink and there was a chair—you won’t believe this, but it’s true. At least, I think it’s true unless it was a Martini hallucination—but it was entirely, but entirely, made out of stags’ antlers. And once he’d dragged me there, Jaimie started explaining about his goddam neighbors. I wasn’t caring much one way or the other by then. In fact, the most dreadful doubts were assailing me. What was I letting myself in for? In the past he’d always seemed divinely virile, breathing down my neck, knocking me about, doing the most acceptable things. But suddenly there he was fussing around like an agitated scout master and I thought: Is this what I’ve decided I want? Am I recklessly plunging into matrimony with just another fine clean-cut American boy—another Bill Harding?”
She smiled at me. “Darling Bill, I didn’t think that at all. I’m just being bitchy. But there he was, going on and on and on, saying that the neighbors were coming back from the party around midnight to have the drink with him and that he had to be there to let them in. So he was going back. He’d be through with them in half an hour—and after that he’d return and our glorious night of love would begin. So that’s what he did. He left me there. I guess it was about eleven-thirty. And there I was stuck with no Martinis and that terrible antler chair. And, my dears, the most humiliating thing happened. Sheer emotional exhaustion, faintly tinged with gin, set in. I just lay down on the bed a moment for a brief period of spiritual reflection. And the next thing I knew, the dreary light of morning was oozing through the window. It was six-thirty A.M. and there I was, not ravished at all, just mussed and tawdry and toothbrushless and hung-over—and completely alone.”
chapter 12
My anxieties that she might have known about Angelica had completely subsided now, but I had been listening with close attention. Either she was telling the truth or she wasn’t. She was such a good liar, as she had proved that morning with Trant, that it was impossible to tell. Part of the story, however, must be true. She must have been in Angelica’s apartment. She couldn’t have thought up that antler chair. But had she, in fact, just passed out? What if she had become furious at Jaimie’s nonappearance, gone back to his apartment, started a drunken brawl and seen the gun? I put that hypothesis out of my mind. It was far more comfortable to take her story at its face value.
Even then all sorts of things were wrong. The Browns had told Trant that Jaimie, in refusing their offer to take him to the party, had said he had a date. The date certainly hadn’t been with Daphne who had descended on him unannounced. The Browns, too, had said nothing about a planned drink with Jaimie after the party. In fact, they hadn’t come back from it at midnight; they hadn’t come back until after four. And Jaimie’s explanation about the Browns’ objections to women in the apartment was obviously bogus. If he’d really told Daphne that, he’d almost certainly had a private date which she, barging in with her wild plan, had imperiled. Being unable to get rid of her any other way, he’d given that limp explanation and had been forced into the elaborate necessity of throwing Angelica out so that he could store Daphne there for the time being. If Daphne was telling the truth, Jaimie had gone back to his apartment to keep the date, whatever it had been—and had been murdered. If Daphne wasn’t telling the truth…
Once again I stopped that train of thought.
I glanced at Betsy. She was looking relieved. “So that’s all that happened?”
Daphne nodded. “Yes, darling, I told you there was nothing to cluck about. I drove my own car. There were no taxi-drivers, no one at all who could possibly have seen me with him. Don’t you think I’ve got enough sense to have thought that out already? That’s absolutely all that happened. Except, of course, that I was livid with rage at Jaimie and scared silly that Daddy would have got back from Boston. I rushed home, but, of course, I was too late, and Daddy was there with the newspaper. He challenged me with it the moment I came in. And, really, I felt so deathlike, apart from anything else, and he was such a monstrous bully that he forced the whole thing out of me.”
“The whole thing?” asked Betsy.
Daphne giggled. “Well, darling, not quite the whole thing. At least I wasn’t that infantile. I didn’t say anything about my plan. I just said I’d been out with Jaimie and had got a little tipsy and had been scared to come home so I’d got Jaimie to put me up at a friend’s apartment. But that was bad enough. You know how Daddy is about the Evils of Alcohol for Gr
owing Girls, and then all the other earlier things came out. Of course, I did everything I could to put all the blame on you and Bill, but even so…”
She got up from the chaise longue and stretched herself with a theatrical yawn. “Oh, what’s the point of going into it all? There’s not a thing in the world to worry about. Daddy’s furious at the moment, but he’ll get over it. By tomorrow he’ll be crawling to me. ‘Piggy, darling, dearest Piggy, perhaps I was too harsh…’” She swung around to Betsy. “You’ve heard it now and you promised not to deliver one of your high-school graduation addresses on The Home, Honor and The American Way of Life. So get the hell out of here—both of you. I still feel terrible. I’m going to bed.”
Betsy got up. I moved toward her. We both stood looking at Daphne. Suddenly she grinned at us—it was a broad, affectionate grin.
“You poor dear creatures! Why do you worry so much? You’ll be the death of yourselves—worrying like that. Haven’t you gotten used to me yet? Haven’t you resigned yourself to the fact that I am Daphne Callingham, the Scourge of the Bistros?”
She went to Betsy, put her arms around her and kissed her. “Betsy, darling, you’re my lovely, dreary older sister and I adore you.”
She turned to me then and kissed me long and caressingly on the mouth. “And you—you’re a doll. I didn’t mean that about the scout master. You’d make a lousy scout master; you’d be terrible in birdlore. You’re divine too.”
She broke away from me and made shooing gestures with her hands.
“Now, scram. Run away about your little businesses. The Scourge of the Bistros has to roll out her prayer mat.”
She could be disarming when she wanted to be and she knew it.
We didn’t stop to see C. J. Betsy was dead tired; I was all in too. On the drive home, Betsy said, “Did you believe her?”
“Yes. I think so. Did you?”
“It could have happened that way, couldn’t it?”
“Sure.”
She gave a bleak little shrug. “Thank heaven you and Father acted so quickly. Think how it would have been if the police and the papers had got onto that story!”
I could imagine it all vividly and, looking back, I shuddered to visualize what would have happened if I’d lost my nerve and not backed C. J. up with the alibi.
My wife glanced at me. “Daphne is pretty awful, isn’t she?”
“She is a little frightening.”
“It’s Father’s fault, of course. Poor Father, though. Do you think he’s afraid she did it?”
“Maybe. We’ll never know anyway. He’d never admit it.”
“Perhaps we should have stopped in and seen him. But I don’t suppose it would have done any good.”
“No good at all.”
For a moment she didn’t talk; then she asked, “What do you think actually happened?”
“If Daphne’s telling the truth, Jaimie had a date with someone. So he dumped her at the other apartment and went back to the date.”
“And was killed.”
“And was killed.”
“Let’s hope so.” My wife moved closer and let her head drop down on my shoulder. “At least, let’s hope we’re out of it now.”
“I don’t see why we shouldn’t be,” I said, and I didn’t. The day of disasters had come to an end miraculously with none of the disasters having destroyed me. During those moments, with my wife’s head nestling, quiet and trusting, on my shoulder, I felt almost completely safe. Daphne hadn’t known about Angelica. Angelica was out of the way. Trant, with any luck, might turn out to be just another policeman whom we would never have to see again. And, beyond everything, Betsy was back. Betsy suspected nothing. Betsy would never have to know.
Nothing’s the end for you because it can always be fixed. Angelica’s parting taunt came back to me, but now I found I could treat it with amused complacency. I contrasted her life with mine which had been preserved for me by fixing. Poor Angelica, she could have done with a little fixing in her own life.
When we let ourselves into the apartment, Ellen appeared around the corner of the passage from the kitchen. She saw us and stopped with a little gasp. She always did that. It was part of her elaborate behavior pattern to consider casual meetings between employers and employees as unseemly. But this time I was sure that the meeting had been contrived. She was all smiles and bright, calculating eyes.
“So you’ve been out, Madam.”
“We just went to see Daphne,” said Betsy.
Ellen turned the smile on me. “I wonder if you’ve had time yet, sir, to tell Madam about little Gladys.”
Betsy said, “Mr. Harding’s told me that Father’s planning to fly her over here for an operation.”
“Oh, it’s not only that.” Ellen was purring. “Mr. Harding suggested that, after the operation, she should have a lovely long stay here. It will be so nice for me—and so nice for Master Rickie. A little companion.”
She disappeared down the passage. For a moment, Betsy stood looking after her. I thought she was going to say something, but she didn’t. We went to our bedroom. Betsy went into the bathroom and I undressed. When she came out of the bathroom, my wife stood in the doorway, looking at me.
“Bill, did you really say Ellen could have that child living here?”
I couldn’t remember blushing in years, but I felt the blood warming my cheeks. “I just thought, since C. J. was bringing her over, we ought to make the gesture.” As I said it, I knew that would seem an improbable explanation. I also knew that, with her sensitive stepmother’s love for Rickie, she would feel puzzled and hurt that I hadn’t consulted her before deciding on something so drastic as the random importation of a perfectly unknown influence into his life.
“But we—we don’t know anything about Gladys.” Betsy crossed to the bed and pulled down the covers. “She may be a horror. If she’s anything like Ellen, she probably is. Bill, I don’t quite see. Why did you do it?”
“I guess I got carried away. I’m sorry. But I don’t see how we can get out of it now.”
She climbed into the bed with a little sigh of contentment and smiled up at me. “Oh, well, I’m far too stuffy about Rickie anyway. Probably Gladys will be a monster but probably a monster’s exactly what Rickie needs.”
I might have known she would let it go. Betsy never made a fuss. Gratitude merged with my repentant love for her. I went to the bathroom. When I came out, Betsy had turned out the light. I got into the bed with her and she moved toward me. I put my arms around her.
“Oh, darling,” she said, “it’s so good to be home.”
I ran my hands down her body, feeling the familiar lines, marveling that she was there again and that incredibly it was all right.
“Betsy,” I said.
“Philadelphia was quite an ordeal—even with Helen.”
“I know.”
For a moment she relaxed completely. Then she said, “I’m so glad you told me the truth.”
“The truth?”
“You could easily have pretended that Daphne really had been here.”
“Why should I have done that?”
“It would have been like you. You’re always trying to protect me from unpleasant things. You don’t need to, you know. I’m as tough as a mountain goat. And I’m so glad you didn’t this time. Now I’m as implicated as you or Father. That’s what I want.”
Guilt was stirring again, marring everything.
She edged closer. “Bill.”
“Yes, baby.”
“What did you actually do last night? Were you here all the time alone?” She hesitated and then added in a little awkward whisper, “Missing me?”
The guilt was like something lying in the bed between us—like Angelica. My body ached with a sensation of unworthiness and shame. But it wouldn’t always be like this, I told myself. Of course it wouldn’t. Everything was over now. Soon I would forget it. And I would make it up to her. Lying there, with my arms around her, I swore I would make it up to her
.
“Yes, baby,” I said. “I was missing you.”
She kissed me suddenly, almost fiercely.
“I’ve got you,” she said. “I don’t have to be like Daphne. I’ve got a husband who loves me. I’m all right. I’ve got you…”
chapter 13
I was right about forgetting. After a few days, it was almost as if nothing had happened. Or rather, as if everything had become better. My promotion to Vice-President in Charge of Advertising was officially announced at Callingham Publications. Everybody in the department was friendly about it—even Dave Manners. C. J. was at his most benign. I was busy and Betsy was busy too with Paul on the Drive, but we had our evenings together and we even managed to get away with Rickie for an unseasonably warm and sunny week-end at Oyster Bay. Paul and the Prop were there, and Daphne came too with Larry Morton, her richest and most eligible beau. It was all frivolous, luxurious and Callingham at its best. Sometimes—very occasionally—I thought of Angelica but only with astonishment that I should have made such a fuss about something of such little importance. In fact, in my re-established happiness with Betsy, I was beginning to feel that the whole episode had been beneficial. I had got out of my system the last, unwholesome vestiges of my first marriage, and no harm had been done.
Preparations for the importation of Gladys had begun and Ellen never let us forget it. Apart from that, there was nothing to remind me of Jaimie at all.
And then, one evening after dinner, about ten days later, the phone rang. Betsy answered it and said, “It’s for you, dear. It’s that Lieutenant—Lieutenant Trant.” She handed me the phone and stood beside me, obviously curious. The sensation of uneasiness which I had almost forgotten came rushing back and with it the alarming realization that Betsy, standing there, would hear whatever it was Trant had to say. As casually as I could, I asked, “Baby, would you get me a drink?”
The Man with Two Wives Page 10
