The Woman Aroused

by Ed Lacy

  It was a fact.

  Chapter 3

  THERE WAS no reason why I should rush back to town—aside from the fact I think funerals are stupid anyway. I spent a curious week-end, full of secret elation that the money was mine, while my righteous self argued I must return the money. Nor did I overlook another point: I had no way of knowing whether Hank had told anybody else about the seven thousand. I was sure he hadn't, but I didn't really know.

  On Monday, when I reached the office, I played Scoundrel in the second at Aqueduct, a four to one shot, and was both alarmed and pleased when he won. I wondered how much truth there was in my hunch. I decided I better quit stalling. I called Hank's sister and a maid told me, “Mrs. Keating has gone to the country for a week, on the advice of her doctor.” I gave her my name and felt better—it all fitted in nicely with my plans. First, I had a bit of work to catch up on at the office, a feature spread we were getting out on our Georgia dealers, and a speech to write for one of the vice-presidents—which we would later run as an article. Harvey couldn't write speeches, he always made the speaker sound too sharp and acid, not realizing that the purpose of an after-dinner speech is to say nothing in the mildest way possible. Secondly, I wanted more time to think things out about Hank's money, although I didn't know exactly what there was to think out.

  Of course I could easily have gone directly to Hank's apartment, talked to his wife, but I had several phoney excuses for not doing that. He had said he didn't want her to get the money; that had started the entire mess. (Although he never said he wanted me to keep it as against giving it to his wife.) Then too, it was best I wait and see what was what. Suppose Hank had left a will, leaving the money to somebody besides his wife? If I gave her the seven grand I might be tied up in a law suit. They weren't good reasons, but they convinced me—which wasn't a difficult feat. So I waited—gave his sister another week to return from the country. The fact that lawyers hadn't called me made me feel happier—there probably wasn't a will.

  Three weeks to the day after Hank was buried, I called his sister. I never cared much for Marion Keating. She was a short woman in her middle fifties, the type that spends her time hunting for better girdles, false breasts, hair dyes that are impossible, and a raft of make-up. She was sure she didn't look a day over thirty. (Although she would have happily settled for forty.) She had been on the edge of the society-social-blueblood swindle ever since she was 20 and married Edward F. Keating—Yale, badminton, sailing, and a comfortable amount of solid securities and stocks. The frantic keeping up with the Astors had left Marion looking worn and tired, and most boring. She moved and talked with jerky, nervous movements.

  Mr. Keating was out—in fact I'd never seen him except when his picture appeared in the Sunday Times sport page many years ago. He had won a dinghy race, or something, and looked quite proud—and useless.

  Her loud make-up made her weary, tired facial muscles stand out in sharp contrast, accented her age, but at first Marion acted as coy as a deb. After pouring me a drink and telling me about her week in the country, who had entertained her, or maybe it was the other way around, and the usual small talk, I was able to get in a few words. I told her what a shock Hank's passing had been and she suddenly pressed my hand between her two small damp thin ones, said, “George Jackson, my dear, I'm very glad you have come. The war—all those years—broke Hank's ties with the boys he knew. And somebody has to do something!”

  “Yes? Do what?”

  “That bitch murdered him!” Marion shrilled.

  My mouth fell open like a ham comedian's.

  “Oh I know her. Stayed in my house, right here, for over three weeks, and I locked my bedroom door every night. I thank God that Edward was in California, on business, during those weeks. He would have horsewhipped that... slut. George, nobody knows her wickedness, the slyness, the horrible cunning! She did it, she...”

  “Hold up Marion, talk sense,” I said. “After all... well... murder. I thought Hank fell from a ladder, through the window, while hanging curtains?”

  “A likely story! You knew Hank. Was he a drunk, or a very conservative, careful man? Falling through the window—he was pushed! Oh I know what I'm talking about—he told me he was trying to get rid of her. God knows what ever possessed him to marry that awful creature. The girls I could have had for him... with position and money. But you knew Hank, his high-sounding ideals. And he had to marry this whore, and now she's killed him. She wasn't satisfied driving him crazy, she had to push him out the window!”

  Marion's voice was on a high, hysterical level. I wondered if she was tight, or perhaps slightly crazy. Still, she should be well past the change of life period and she didn't have enough sense to be-neurotic. I said, “I'm sure if there was even the smallest idea of murder, the police...”

  “The police!” Marion actually screamed. “Those stupid, stupid, fools! She said she was down in the basement using the washing machine. Mind you, no one saw her down there, but the police believed her. George, if you only knew how impossible that sounds. Washing machine! That girl's a filthy slob. And as for work, she wouldn't move a finger to take off her shoes. I swear it, I saw her go to bed fully clothed, including her shoes. My God, if you ever saw her underwear... my poor brother!”

  She turned on the tears and I wanted to leave but I had to find out about the will, if there was a will. “Marion, I don't know anything about all this. I've hardly seen Hank during the last eight years, only spoke to him on the phone once or twice when he returned. Surely the police wouldn't have believed this girl's story if they had any doubt of...?”

  “The stupid police! They said there wasn't any motive. Motive! What do they know about this evil bitch. George, Hank has to be avenged, something has to be done!”

  It was like a bad movie coming alive. There was such an unreal, melodramatic air about her ravings, I felt very uneasy. I waited a moment while she struggled with a handkerchief, then asked gently, “Hank leave a will, I mean, I suppose this girl will get everything... I mean, could that have been a motive?” I floundered rather badly.

  Marion's eyes brightened, the tears stopped. “That's where I have her. Oh I have her good! Poor Hank, he never saved anything, and then all those years in the army. There isn't any will, he hasn't an estate. Not a cent. Even his GI insurance is in my name—he never changed it. He had a piece of property the family owns downtown, but that's in my name too. Before he went overseas, he changed the title. She hasn't a cent, and she'll starve to death before I give her a dime. I wouldn't even bury her—the murderess!”

  She pressed my hand again. “George Jackson, you know I have money, that I've always given to charity, devoted my life to helping those less fortunate. I'm not a hard person. I would have done anything for Hank's wife. I looked forward to the day he'd marry, planned to give him the house in Westport as a wedding gift. Now you can realize what a she-wolf this girl is, when I tell you I pray to God she starves to death!”

  I said I was sorry for her, it sounded like quite a mess, and she probably knew what she was doing and of course she was the soul of sweetness and charity, etc. Marion babbled on: she had hired private detectives but they hadn't been able to dig up a thing, but she would spend the rest of her life avenging her brother, etc.

  I finally managed to break away before Marion wet herself with tears again. The night was cool and I walked home, thinking very objectively—or trying to. I still hadn't decided to keep the money, that was still a thought hidden in the back of my mind. But it was obvious I could—safely. There was one thing I was sure of: there wasn't any point in giving seven thousand to Marion, adding to her wealth, when she was cheating Hank's wife on the property deal.

  And since Hank hadn't wanted this Lee to get the money, she probably had money too. In which case temptation might simply overwhelm me—with ease.

  I mixed myself a drink, listened to the radio, and played with Slob. He was feeling very kittenish, making a great fuss over a ping-pong ball he had, chasing it
all over the room. And in a sense I was as restless as the cat, too restless to sleep. It wasn't simply the money—something else disturbed me, although I couldn't put my finger on it. I dressed in a sweat suit, went downstairs and danced through a dozen records, then stretched under my sun lamp till I stopped sweating, thinking of Flo, vaguely wishing I knew Stella's name and phone number. I cleaned up the house while cooling off, took a hot, pine-bubble bath. While I was sitting in the tub, listening to Slob running around the living room like a fool, and glancing over some promotion booklets Socony had issued, I suddenly knew what was troubling me—I felt damn sorry for Hank's wife. Marion was a bitch and the poor girl was getting the wrong end of the stick. I decided to call her the following evening, and I felt better.

  For what it's worth, I'll frankly admit I had a deep premonition there and then that I ought to leave well enough alone—as the trite phrase goes.

  Still, I did have seven thousand dollars that was rightly hers, and also a certain curiosity to see what she looked like. Since my last “reunion” with Flo had petered out before it started, it may have been I was a bit on the frantic side at the moment.

  The following day was humid and sticky and I skipped my cocktail to go home and shower. Despite the heat, I felt very gay, in sort of a philanthropic mood. I was on my way to do my good deed by a starving widow—maybe. Besides, I'd played a wild hunch on a nag called Mysterious, which had paid fourteen dollars and change for place. And I had amazed Joe (and myself) by actually playing her to place because I was more than a little doubtful of Marion's wild nonsense.

  The house was sandwiched between several dull and depressing tenements on 29th Street, and it looked as if it had been remodeled just before the war. Despite the new bright brisk front (up to the first story only), the brass antique lamps over the doorway and the windows with their uniform red blinds, the house still had a tenement look and air about it. It gave me a chilly feeling to think I was probably standing on the very square of sidewalk where Hank had squashed out his life. I found Conroy in the mailbox—printed in Hank's neat, trim, lettering. There were several pieces of mail in the box. I rang the bell and waited. There wasn't any answering buzz and I rang again—a long ring. I tried the hall door, found it locked.

  While I was standing there, feeling greatly excited—and relieved—sure that this Lee must be out of town, a man in a sweaty egg-yellow polo shirt came in, opened the hall doorway with a key. On the spur of the moment I walked in after him.

  The clean hallway stairs smelled of disinfectant and the musty odor of people. Their apartment, or rather hers, was on the top floor and as I walked up, I could picture poor Hank hurtling down all the space I was climbing. I was sweating a bit when I reached the fifth floor, and as I stopped to run a handkerchief over my face, I was aware of the peephole in her apartment door opening, somebody watching me. Through the little hole in the center of what looked like a tiny porthole in the door, I saw somebody's iris-blue, I thought—staring at me. I wondered why the owner of the iris hadn't answered my ring, but then the bell might have been out of order.

  I walked over to the door, rang the bell, as though I didn't see the eye watching me. The bell sounded loud in the early evening stillness. The blue iris didn't move, so finally I said, “Will you please open this door.”

  After a second, a woman's voice with a faint drawl asked, “Who you?”

  “I'm George Jackson, a friend of Hank's. If you're his wife, Lee, I'd like to talk to you. Or perhaps you can tell me where I can find her,” I added, suddenly thinking that in these days the apartment might have been re-rented by this time.

  The iris stared at me for a second longer, and seemed to become a deep dark blue, then disappeared from the peephole, leaving a friendly beam of light. The door opened. I didn't see anybody, but I stepped inside and as the door closed softly, I turned to see her leaning lazily against the door.

  She said, “I'm Lee.”

  We stared at each other and I was aware of many things—and yet my mind seemed a blank, my thoughts scattered. There was the sharp odor about her and the room—the smell of the unwashed, the unclean. It was all over the incredibly dirty room, but it was especially strong about her. And it excited me, aroused me in a way I hadn't known for twenty years.

  And there was the odd blue tattoo of a heart and an American flag on her left forearm. And she was a tall, magnificently built girl. She had on a thin, worn, armless housedress and nothing under that. Sweat stained the armpits. The dress couldn't hide any of her charms, the wonderful wide, strong shoulders; jutting breasts, firm round hips, and the oddly muscular arms and powerful legs. Her long dark untidy hair fell straight down to her shoulders, although neatly bobbed across her forehead. She wasn't a pretty girl but there was a certain unusualness about her face that made her attractive: the large eyes that stared at me with amusement, the nose that seemed to have been stuck on her face as an afterthought, maybe a plastic job, and her mouth was small, sullen, and unpainted.

  The most astounding feature, outside of the tattoo, was her hands—thick, large fingers and palms, like a laborer's.

  I stood there, amazed, not knowing what to say, waiting for her to speak. When she didn't say a word, for no reason at all, I turned my back on her, glanced around the room. It was an awful mess. At one time it had been a living room but now it was a miniature garbage dump. Cigarettes and piles of butts and ashes were everywhere, shoes and stockings and other clothing on the floor and the chairs, a crumpled sheet on the couch, torn pillows on the dirty floor. The place had not only not been cleaned in weeks, but on a battered coffee table there was a little heap of leftover food, parts of moldy bread, and some open cans of beans.

  Above all was this odor, the sharp penetrating smell of her—a lush, personal, animal smell.

  I turned and looked at her again and she hadn't moved an eyelash. For want of something to do, I took out my cigarette case, offered her one. We both lit up and she seemed to get a great deal of satisfaction out of smoking, sending out strong clouds of smoke through her nose. The silence was becoming silly and I finally said, “I'm George Jackson; I was a close friend of Hank's. I would have dropped by sooner but I was out of town. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “I am hungry,” she said in the slight drawl and I wondered on what forlorn tobacco road Hank had found her.

  “Well, we can certainly remedy that. Surely you have some money. I mean...” I didn't know what I meant. I'd never heard anybody say, “I am hungry,” before—and believe it.

  “I have no money. I have nothing,” she said, carefully pronouncing each syllable—like a school kid. “Did not Hank tell you about me? Tell you I am not very bright?”

  “No he didn't,” I said, laughing politely at what I was sure was a gag of some sort.

  She suddenly laughed and it was amazing how large her mouth became. When she laughed it was a most sensual mouth with heavy sultry lips, and strong white even teeth. She said, “I have not asked you to sit down. You will excuse. Please do.”

  She walked over to a dirty chair, kicked off what seemed to be a crumpled towel, sat down. She moved with a springy grace, with the wonderful suppleness of a young ballerina. I went over to another chair, but it was too dirty to sit on. It was covered with heavy stains. I stood there, noticing for the first time she was barefooted. Her feet were large and wide and ugly. I never saw such big feet on a woman before—but neither had I ever seen a woman as big as Lee. And I didn't mean fat—she wasn't even plump—but big. I said, “Mrs. Conroy—may I call you Lee?”

  “Yes. I like Lee very much.”

  “Lee, there's no point in our standing around. If you'll dress, I'll take you out to dinner, and we can talk about what must be done.”

  She sat there, watching me, not saying a word. I asked, “Don't you want to eat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then dress,” I said, feeling we were talking like idiots and not knowing what to do about it.

  She stood up
and walked out of the room and I pinched myself to be sure it was all real. Without her, the room looked revolting, a pig-sty with furniture. I went over to the coffee table. The food seemed days old and roaches scampered away as I watched. Large healthy roaches.

  She came in from the bedroom. She had on shoes and a thin sweater that covered the tattoo on her arm. I opened the door and she walked out. We went down the stairs without saying a word.

  There weren't many places to choose from, and if she was really hungry, no time to travel. (Not to mention her horrible clothes.) We went into a small coffee pot on the corner, sat at the counter. I ordered ice tea while I gave her the menu to read. When I asked what she wanted, she said simply, “Meat.”

  The counterman looked at us as if we were drunk, and I ordered a steak and potatoes for her. Sitting beside her on those ridiculous stools, I realized how tall she was. Well over six feet, and no slim, delicate woman, but built like an athlete. We didn't talk and when the steak came she actually wolfed it down. I asked if she wanted another and she shocked me by saying, “Yes, thank you.”

  I ordered another steak and she ate that with the same speed and zest she went at the first one. The counterman watched her, amazement and suspicion on his coarse face. Lee finished with two glasses of iced tea, which she almost filled with sugar, and some horrible-looking pie. She asked for a cigarette. We walked back to the house and people stared at us. She was sweating a little and her dress clung to her body. Her nipples were quite prominent. She walked up the five flights without breathing hard. When we were in her apartment and I had stopped puffing, I asked, “Haven't you any family, anyone you can get in touch with?”