Devil Take the Blue-Tail Fly

by John Franklin Bardin

  She shuddered and held herself stiff and rigid on the bed. Despite Dr Danzer’s good advice, it did not work. She had reached the link but all she remembered was the substitute fancy, the thing that she knew had never happened, could not possibly have happened – had not Dr Danzer gone to the trouble of checking the records? – that could only be a figment of her neurosis. And yet it was the only reality for her. If that had not occurred, what had? But, worse than that, why could she not turn and look around now? What was she afraid of finding? Why was she afraid that what had never happened, what Dr Danzer assured could not possibly have happened except in her mind, had happened again?

  She would feel better if she knew how she came to be in this strange hotel room that was so uncomfortably like the one in that other city many years ago. But, although she tried, she could not yet remember the events of the recent past, of last night and yesterday. The only way she would discover them, she had long since realized from experience, was to use the doctor’s method, to finger the links of the chain of memory – even if one of them were vague and dubious, she could by-pass that one – to follow them up one by one until they led her to the present.

  After that night she had been jealous of Jim and had run away from the night club; after what had probably never happened the next morning she had been terrified and had left the city, had taken a train to her home half-way across the country, had returned to her father’s house to find a funeral wreath on the door. Her father had died of heart failure in the night only a few days before, a neighbour told her. They had tried to reach her, but the conservatory thought she had come home. After this shock she had stayed at home the rest of the waning summer until her father’s affairs were settled. The bookstore was sold, the house and all its furniture, even her piano, was sold, and she found that she had money and could travel. That fall she had not returned to the conservatory, but had gone to New York and applied to Madame Tedescu. She had played for Madame, a frail old lady with ash-white hair whose name was known on two continents, and Madame had accepted her for a pupil. Her life for the next ten years had consisted of music: three years with Madame in New York from nine to twelve each morning, from one to six each afternoon, each day in the year with no vacation and only Sundays off; two years in Rome, after she had won a prize, with a spirited Italian master of ancient instruments; and then five more years, with Madame again, all over the face of Europe, concertizing in Paris, Brussels, Vienna, Berlin, Naples, Moscow, London. And, finally, not so many years ago, her first concert in New York’s Town Hall, the bouquets of roses and one particular corsage of brown orchids from a tall, blond man who was that season’s sensation as a conductor – Basil.

  The happy years had been next: their marriage and those idyllic weeks on a New England farm, days like butter with its white froth in the chum, their new house in New York, their friends, Madame Tedescu, the kind words of the critics. And then another summer had come, and with it the difficulty, the blackness that arose out of her harpsichord, even when she played her beloved Bach, and overcame her. That memory had haunted her, the things that went wrong, the little pieces of days that somehow got all mixed up or irretrievably lost, her wanderings. And then her sickness, the days and weeks when there was only blackness, the hospital, the latticed window and the view of the elms…

  She had that much of it straight, she could think of it, put each link in its rightful place. Except for the early, black, lost weeks, she could remember every incident of her stay at the hospital, recall all the nights when she had fought against the past and emerged victorious. All the days of the last week, the day she left the hospital, the days she went shopping, the interview with Dr Danzer, the luncheon with Nancy and the afternoon at her studio with its terrifying episode – yes, all this fitted into place, even her meeting Jim Shad, the ride in the taxi, her escape, the woman descending the front steps of her house against the setting sun, the letter in the console table that was inexplicably missing … And now she remembered what had happened next. She had gone into the library and found Basil seated at the piano; she had stood looking at him, afraid to speak lest her words betray her thoughts. She had watched him play for many minutes and then had turned about and left the house. As she walked the streets, going towards the midtown section and a small French restaurant where she might have dinner quietly, she had thought of the queer squarish bag she had found in one of her drawers and of the vulgarly scented powder spilled on her dresser. While she sat by herself in the little restaurant, drinking a glass of claret, she had thought of the doctor’s warning that her husband might have changed, and she remembered the way Nancy had hinted at the same thing during lunch. And she had grown frightened and sad, and had drunk a few too many glasses of claret.

  Later, on an impulse, she had bought a newspaper and looked in the advertisements for the name of the night club where Jim Shad was singing. She knew that in view of what had happened that afternoon the last thing she should do was to go to where he worked; but she wanted badly to hear him sing again, she wanted to be part of the anonymous crowd, to be there near him and yet in no way connected. She had stopped in another bar and had one more drink, this one a martini, to gather up her courage, and then had hailed a taxi to take her downtown to his night club, a Village cellar.

  Once inside the small, low-ceilinged room with bizarrely painted walls that seemed to converge on the minuscule bandstand and even more minute dancefloor, she could not escape. She had not realized that the place would be so intimate – in her mind she still imagined Jim Shad singing in the great barns that were Middle-Western dance-halls – nor that at ten-thirty at night there would be so few people there. The head waiter had shown her to a table near the dance-floor, and only when she insisted had he allowed her to seek a darker corner where she hoped she could not be seen as readily. But no sooner had she seated herself than she realized that out of the dozen people at the bar and at tables around the room were the two she did not want to see her – one of whom she would never have thought would be there – Jim Shad and Vanessa. Even worse, Shad, who sat facing her, had seen her, had apparently watched her discussion with the head waiter over where she should sit, was smiling at her over Vanessa’s shoulder, winking at her to let her know that he knew she was there, that he wanted to see her and would be around as soon as he could get rid of Vanessa.

  She had wanted to leave, but she had known it was useless. If she had gone, he would follow her. As it was, she was safest in the night club. When he did his act, she would call Basil and get him to come for her. Sooner or later she would have to tell Basil about this although she feared that if she did it would give Basil the opportunity for which he was probably seeking to ask for a divorce – tonight was as good a time as any. But in the meantime she had known that she would have to deal with Shad.

  She ordered a drink and kept her eyes averted. This stratagem was ineffective: although she did not look at him, she could feel his eyes persistently on her, could not keep the image of his face, his casual smile, from rising up before her, could not divert her thoughts from him. The waiter brought her a drink and a bowl of popcorn and pretzels; she drank the martini slowly, intent on each sip, took pretzel after pretzel, crumbling each one until she had an ant-hill of cracker meal built up on the tablecloth. The cellar filled slowly; she could hear the head waiter speak to each couple as they came down the stairs, and by listening closely to the sound of their feet on the hardwood floor she detected where they had been seated. The piano-player trundled his midget piano to her table, placing it so that it blocked her view of Jim and Vanessa – or the view she might have had if she had looked up; he played several pieces rather badly, but it was a relief to be able to raise her eyes for a time, and when he had finished she gave him money. The orchestra came in – a small combination made up of piano, double-bass, trumpet and drums – and began to play the classics in a modified Dixieland style; they played cleanly, and if her mind had not been on Jimmy she would probably have liked the
ir music. Suddenly she realized that the club was packed with people. They seemed to have come all at once – she glanced at her watch and saw that it was nearly midnight. The orchestra’s playing became freer, the solos grew longer and the improvisation more ingenious. She began to watch the trumpet-player, a lean reed of a man who seemed to have the shakes, but he kept to the beat and knew how to develop a melody. A few minutes later she was watching the drummer, and then the big, dark-coloured man who slapped the bull-fiddle. Casually, as if it were accidental, she let her eyes flick over to the table where she had seen Jim and Vanessa. The auburn-haired woman was gone, but Shad saw her look at him, and instantly rose to his feet. Her fingers rolled the stem of her glass back and forth and her lips trembled as she watched him thread his way to her table. Then he was standing over her, a dark shadow on the circle of white of her table-cloth, saying, ‘May I?’ Of course, she had nodded her head.

  Jim had sat down opposite her without another word. He had turned around and signalled to the waiter, who immediately brought him a bourbon. He had thrown this down his throat, squinting as he had used to do as he did it, but making no comment. She said nothing. He took a handful of popcorn and began to roll it kernel after kernel at her tiny, crumbling tower of broken pretzels. By the time he had rolled the last bit of popcorn across the table the mound was demolished.

  ‘I talked to the boss,’ he said. He did not drawl.

  She did not look at him and gave no sign that he had said anything.

  ‘I don’t have to sing tonight.’

  She sipped at her drink and looked away from him at the orchestra.

  ‘I thought we might go some place. It’s been a long time, Ellen.’

  His voice, his presence, moved her, was by turns comforting and stimulating. She did not trust herself to look at him, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to avoid his eyes.

  ‘If you are worried about her, don’t be. I’ve taken care of that.’

  To her surprise, she realized that she believed him.

  ‘You are the only one I have ever cared for, the only one who has ever mattered. I would have come to you sooner, but I didn’t know how to approach you. You’ve made yourself somebody, Ellen – you are great. I don’t know why I acted the way I did this afternoon. I guess it was the way you looked at me … you looked at me as if you were afraid of me.’ His voice was quiet, hesitant she had not heard him stammer before – sincere.

  ‘Let me get your coat,’ he was saying. ‘I love you and I want to be with you.’

  And she had nodded her head.

  She opened her eyes again. She sat up in bed, but she kept her eyes fixed on the brown-varnished door. That was the way it had been. She had gone with him. They had walked in Washington Square and sat on a bench and necked like a couple of kids. She had wanted to ask him what had happened that night so long ago, she had wanted to find out if what she remembered was true … or if the doctor was right and she had only imagined it. But it had hardly seemed the time.

  He had taken her to a small hotel nearby, a place where he knew the night clerk. The only room available was a small one without a bath. She had looked up at the ceiling. She remembered that she had noticed the crack in the plaster when the bellboy had shown them the room, except that it had looked worse in the bald glare of the electric light than it did now in the soft morning sunshine. Jim had bought a bottle, and they had had a couple of drinks – then she had turned out the lights and waited for him while he went down the hall.

  That was all she could remember.

  Still looking at the door, she threw back the covers and got out of bed. She had nothing on, and there was a dark stain on her hands, her breasts and her thighs. She held her breath and determined to be calm this time, to reason it all out before she did anything, so that she would be sure to remember.

  She found Jim’s body between the bed and the door. His face was scratched and his throat was mottled. A dark stem of blood had spouted from his mouth and grown a black bud along his chin; when she touched it, it flowered redly. His head, the top of it, had been flattened, and his hair was matted with dried blood. When she looked back to the bed, she saw that there was blood on one of the posts, that there were dark stains on the sheet and the mattress. There was no doubt that he was dead – although she felt for his pulse – and that he had been dead for a long time.

  She dressed quickly, opened the door a crack and looked to see if anyone were about before going down the hall to wash her hands. She scrubbed the bowl to make sure that she left no stains, then peered into the hall again and returned to her room. Once back inside, she slowly and cautiously searched the room to be certain that she was not leaving evidence of her presence. She found a bobbypin, three curling hairs, one with a split-end, and her lipstick. She stood over Jim’s body, looking at it, trying to remember. It was no use. She opened the window and stepped out on the fire-escape.

  As she was easing the window down from outside, her hands slipping on the dusty glass, someone began to hammer on the door of the room. The sound frightened her more than the sight of Jim’s body had; her hands fell away from the window, allowing it to fall to the sill with a loud, slamming sound. She shrank back from the window, colliding with the railing of the fire-escape, losing her balance for an instant, catching a dizzying glimpse of the street many storeys below. It was all she could do to keep from pitching off the iron stairs, and when she had regained her balance she was so weak that she sank down on her hands and knees.

  In this position she looked through the window into the room once more – in time to see the door bulge, the flimsy bolt break and the key fly out of the lock, the door swing open. A tall, auburn-haired woman, her face grey with anxiety, lurched into the room. Her hands spread apart as she saw the body; she ran forward and collapsed at Jim’s side. Ellen saw that she was Vanessa.

  Slowly Ellen crept down the gritty iron stairs of the fire-escape. Not until she was within jumping distance of the alley did she stand erect; then she leaped the last ten feet and landed on the kerb. When she reached the street, she stood on the corner and hailed a taxi.

  Vanessa must have followed them when they left the night club; she must have waited outside the hotel all night for them to reappear. When, out of jealousy, she had at last been forced to pound on the door, she must have expected to confront Ellen with Jimmy. She could not have known what she would actually discover.

  Ellen sat forward in the cab and, as it turned the corner into Fifth Avenue, looked back at the hotel. She did not think that she had been seen.

  5

  She did not think that she had been seen. She had stood looking down at the pale stalk of her arm, the white flower of her hand and the glittering crystal of the wine-glass it held, watching the wine-blood pour out on the hearth. A sound, a rubbing of cloth on cloth, made her glance up and into the mirror, where she had met Basil’s eyes gravely regarding her own, Basil’s head slowly, slightly – so that no one else might see – shaking in disapproval, remonstrating with her. ‘Wine is for drinking, Ellen,’ he said.

  She turned about and faced him, archly bringing the wine-glass back to her lips, pressing its cold edge against them, ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why I had to do that. Truly, I don’t.’

  ‘You did not have to do it, Ellen. No one made you.’

  She thought about this for a moment, considering each word of what he said, listening to the sound of each syllable in her mind. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I didn’t have to. I just wanted to. I did it because I wanted to.’

  He continued to look at her, without speaking, his eyes clouded with worry.

  She smiled at him and held out the glass. ‘Fetch me another glassful, please, Basil. I promise I shall drink this one.’

  He took the glass from her hand, but he did not smile. He hesitated, seemed about to speak – she saw his lips move. But then he walked away towards the butler.

  There was something pathetic a
bout him, she decided as she watched him walk between the chatting couples. Perhaps it was the way he held her glass stiffly in front of him, as if it were a signal or a warning. Or it might be that she was watching him in the mirror, that his reflection diminished him, made him seem smaller, almost childlike. But whatever it was that caused her to pity him – if it were pity she felt and not just heightened sympathy – did not matter; what mattered was that this was the way she felt, this was the way it was, the way it had to be. She shut her eyes as she turned around swiftly, her long, full, black velvet skirts swirling and whispering. She felt for the diamond choker at her throat, the choker that Basil had given her earlier that evening as she sat backstage trembling, waiting for the time to come, waiting to walk out of the wings and into the brilliant space, to stand with her hand on the chill mahogany of her harpsichord, to close her eyes and bow to the great, many-faced beast. Basil had approached her from behind then, too; she had heard his knock on the door, heard her maid greet him, had seen his face swim out of the dim reaches of her mirror into the foreground. She had spoken to him, shutting her eyes then, too, because she had been afraid that she might read on his face evidence of the same fear that she felt; she had only opened them as she felt the hardness, the heaviness at her throat, as if a metalled hand had caressed her reassuringly – but she had opened them to grandeur, to bright fire and glory, to Basil’s smile. This time when she opened her eyes, having completed her manoeuvre, having faced about, she saw only the smoke-palled drawing-room, the confusion of bare arms and backs, of dark suits and white shirts and dresses of many colours – and the pinkly enamelled wrinkles of her hostess’s face, poor, doddering Mrs Smythe.