“Thank you, my dear. But I would never be permitted to leave. I’ve trapped myself. It’s as I’ve told you—I can only live from day to day. If Leigh will come and stay for a while, this will help me, perhaps save me for a time.”
“Save you from what?” I pressed her.
She shook her head. “I only know that if I’m left alone the sword will fall in some way and I will be destroyed.”
I waited for Gunnar to calm her, to try to reassure her and deny so nebulous a danger. He did not. He was concerned for her, and he did not disparage her words. Nevertheless, though he did not offend her with reassurances, I had the feeling that he did not take the ominous tenor of her words too literally. He knew there was trouble, but I suspected that he thought it mainly of her own making, and he knew she liked to dramatize. If he believed this, then she really had no one to turn to—except me. I could believe that some evil lived in that house in Kalfaret.
“If you want me to, I’ll go back with you,” I said.
I was surprised at my own words. I hadn’t meant to speak them. Gunnar was looking at me with guarded approval. I knew he had not forgiven me, but he could at least endorse my going back to the house with her. Laura’s smile was tremulous and touching. I glowered at them both and wondered what was wrong with my head that I should make so reckless an offer.
“This is what I came for,” Laura said. “I hoped you would come back. Thank you, Leigh.”
I did not trust her in the least. She would always find the means to get her way and to use others. That was her nature. That I might let her use me did not make me pleased with myself.
The waiter brought our sandwiches, and they were small works of art—rounds of bread thickly buttered, then topped with an array of tiny mayonnaised shrimps, anchovies, cucumber, tomato and lettuce, all arranged like miniature flower gardens. Like good Norwegians, we drank beer with our meal. For the time being, all that was ominous left, and we seemed like anyone else dining on top of Flöyen that day. Outwardly, we seemed that way.
“While Leigh is here, I must make plans for you both,” Gunnar said, though I knew it was Laura he planned for, not me. “There is still snow on Ulriken and you must come up there to visit my hut. Tomorrow is Saturday—let us arrange for it then.”
“Miles has never been up the mountain,” Laura said. “I would like to show it to him.”
“But of course. You must bring your husband and his sister as well. We will make it a cheerful day, and you will feel well and strong, with no fears.”
Laura nodded agreement. “Yes, this is the way it has to be—living from day to day. And Leigh must have some outings. We’ll come, Gunnar. I’ll persuade Miles.”
No one had consulted me. He leaned toward me, showing that hint of exuberance I’d seen coming up the mountain, when he had forgotten his anger with me in his own private response to nature. The look became him, and I had an unexpected wish that it could have been for me.
“You will see something of winter in Norway, and this you will enjoy. You have the proper clothes to wear?”
“I’ll loan her whatever she needs,” Laura offered. “We’re not far apart in our sizes. When we go home we’ll look over my clothes together, Leigh.”
“Then for next week we will plan a theater party,” Gunnar went on, and again I knew he was planning for her, trying to get her away from that house. My presence was only the excuse he used. “I will get a box and—”
“No!” Laura was shaking her head. “Not the theater. I haven’t been to the theater in years, and I’ve no wish to go.”
“As I say, I will get a box,” Gunnar went on calmly. “And you and Leigh shall sit together in front. Everyone will look at you and whisper, and you will hear your name spoken. You will know you are not forgotten.”
She was still trying to shake her head, but a slight smile had parted her lips and there was something in her eyes that remembered what it had once been like for her.
“At the hotel,” I said, on impulse, “when I asked the porter where Laura Worth lived, he knew at once. I called you an American actress, and he reminded me that you were half Norwegian and belong to Bergen now.”
Once more Gunnar gave me his approving smile, even though he did not trust me, and I shook myself in inward disgust. Why was I now playing this game—trying to coax her and help Gunnar in his efforts to get her away from the house in Kalfaret? I had not really changed. I didn’t like her any better than I had in the beginning, and I must not let this pretended softening toward her go too far. Nor must I sacrifice my own strong purpose in some foolish effort to please Gunnar. If I did that I couldn’t bear myself.
“We’ll see,” Laura said.
Gunnar nodded at her firmly. “You will wear your most beautiful gown. And in the Tidende the following day they will print that Laura Worth appeared in a box at the National Theater looking more beautiful than ever.”
“You almost make me believe it can happen,” she said, and they smiled at each other across the table.
It was hard to believe that this was the woman who had fainted yesterday at the sight of a gown—or a candlestick. That she had clawed across her own portrait with a pair of scissors, and that this morning I had seen her fling a paperweight through a picture window with a spectacular gesture of rage. My sense of confusion and disbelief returned. Only here and now was real. Nothing else.
But our luncheon could not last forever, and all too soon we had finished our coffee and were rising from the table. We would not have to walk down the mountain, Gunnar said. We would take the funicular one station and then walk along the hillside to where his car was parked.
We threaded our way across the terrace, and Laura went first, walking with that arresting grace which made heads turn to look at her. Gunnar bought tickets and we found a red car waiting at the platform.
He helped us into a seat which ran crosswise of the car. The vehicle was built on a slant to match the steep hillside, with the seats in tiers like steps. The doors closed, there was a humming of machinery and cables and we started down the mountainside track. Trees and rocks rose to meet us as we slipped past, and the highest row of houses drew near. In a few moments we had reached our stop and were out on the platform. From the street, where we stood for a moment, we watched the car descend, while its opposite number—a blue car—came up from below.
We had only a short walk to Gunnar’s car, and then I was climbing in the back seat, because I had no wish to sit with them, while he and Laura sat up in front. It could have been such a lovely morning, but at least I was not the same driven girl who had rushed desperately to meet Gunnar earlier. I was still disturbed and resentful, and I had forgiven neither of them, but I was no longer wildly distraught, and I felt better able to deal with the house and its occupants than I had a few hours before.
Chapter 8
My new confidence lasted a very short time. Gunnar did not come in. He urged Laura to let him know about the possible trip up Ulriken the next day—Saturday—thanked us for our company, and drove off. Laura stood at road level near the foot of the steps, and watched him go.
“If I were twenty years younger …” she said, and looked at me.
“As it is, he can’t see anyone else when you’re around,” I told her lightly, and ran up the steps toward the house. I did not in the least welcome any matchmaking efforts on Laura’s part.
“I must tell you sometime about his wife, Astrid,” she said, mounting the steps behind me. “A lovely, charming girl. Her death was a tragedy from which he hasn’t recovered.”
I didn’t want to hear any more about Gunnar. I certainly didn’t want to hear about his wife.
“What has happened now?” Laura asked.
Irene Varos waited for us at the door as we followed the walk along the side of the house. The moment she ushered us in, the climate of the house engulfed me again. Irene’s expression was enough to tell us something was wrong.
Irene crossed the inner hall and stopped at
the door to the room which contained Laura’s memorabilia.
“You must look,” she said to us both.
Laura cast a yearning glance at the stairs—her line of escape—and sighed deeply. “I used to be fond of this house. I’m not any more. Coming back here is like returning to prison.”
“Perhaps you make your own prison,” Irene said dryly.
We stepped past her into the room. It was not shrouded in gloom as it had been when I’d first seen it yesterday. Windows and garden doors stood open to the warming air and light. Not even the Tiffany lamp burned overhead. In the center of the room stood Laura’s trunk that she had locked yesterday. The lid was propped open, the contents spilled out upon the floor. Someone had unpacked the entire trunk in a thoroughly untidy manner, so that clothes and objects had been burrowed into and tossed out in any order. Dresses of rich materials hung over the lid and the sides. Boxes and pictures and a file of letters were spread carelessly about on the floor mixed with a scattering of costume jewelry.
Laura’s look was strained, but at least it did not appear that she would faint. “Who did this?” she said to Irene.
“Mrs. Jaffe.” Irene was curt. “I heard sounds from this room a little while ago, and I came in to find her tossing out the contents of the trunk as you can see.”
Laura picked up a dress and shook out its blue folds. I had stood back, watching her, and she tossed me the dress across the room.
“I wore that one night in Stockholm—about a hundred years ago,” she said. “Hold it up—you can still see the streaks made by the rain that night. The water marks never came out. I could never wear it again. Not that I’d have wanted to.”
I dropped the soft stuff from my hands as though it burned me and let it fall across a chair.
“What did Donia say when you found here here?” Laura asked Irene. “What was she looking for?”
Irene answered uneasily. “She said she was looking for—evidence.”
“Evidence? Evidence of what?”
“She wouldn’t say.”
“I shall take this up with Miles, of course. Her behavior is outrageous. At least she might have put everything back.”
“I told her to leave it,” Irene said. “I wanted you to see what she’d done.”
“All right—I’ve seen it. Will you put these things away, please.”
A note of strain had come into her voice, but she was still a stronger, more confident woman than the one I had seen yesterday.
“I’ll help you pack it away,” I said to Irene.
“So that you too can rummage through my past?” Laura asked me.
“If you want to call it that.”
She gave me a slight, regal nod of her head. “At least you’re honest. When you’ve satisfied yourself, come upstairs and we’ll begin our talking.”
“I’ll do that,” I said. We were back on our basis of antagonism, and that was good.
She started toward the door, and then turned about slowly. Since she’d entered the room, she had not once glanced toward her portrait in its place on the wall. Now she walked directly to it.
“Turn the picture around, please,” she said to me. “Since you told me what happened I haven’t come here to look. Now I must see for myself.”
Irene came quickly to her side, watchful of what might happen, but Laura seemed composed as I turned the picture about so that the beautiful face looked out at us, with that dreadful scarring underneath.
I heard the sound of her indrawn breath as she stared at the cruel defacement. Then she reached out and touched the empty square that waited on the diagonal for the third X.
“Whose turn is it?” she murmured, as I had asked myself. “‘Who is X?”
“If you made those marks, you’re the only one who can know that,” I said.
Her composure was fading. She looked a little ill as she stared at the portrait. “No! I would never do a thing like this. Not even in my sleep. Tell Leigh I’d never do it, Irene!”
“I’ve always thought you couldn’t have done it,” Irene said. “Would you like me to help you upstairs?”
Laura shook her head and walked toward the trunk, where she stood staring at the spilled contents. “If I am O, then I’ve only to make my mark in that space and block X forever. Only I’m afraid it isn’t going to be as easy as that. When you’re through here, Leigh, will you come to me upstairs?”
“I’ll come with you now, if you like.”
“No—let me have some time alone. I must think about this a little.”
“What good is thinking?” Irene said angrily. “Mrs. Jaffe must be sent away!”
Laura turned from us and went out of the room without replying. We heard her steps on the stairs before we roused ourselves and began our work of repacking the trunk.
I knelt on the floor, folding and stacking, while Irene worked with a furious energy that made her drop things once or twice.
“Do you think it could have been Mrs. Jaffe?” I asked quietly.
“This? Of course it was. I found her at it.”
“No, I mean the picture.”
Her hands were still for a moment as she folded a dress. “You said you came in last night and found Miss Worth here, and that Dr. Fletcher appeared soon after?”
“Yes. She had the scissors in her hands, but someone might have put them there. Or she could have picked them up from the floor.”
“Was there time for this damage to the picture to be done while you were outside?”
“Perhaps—it must have been done quickly and roughly. Still—I don’t think so. I don’t think Laura would have had time, even if she only pretended to be asleep.”
“When else were you out of the room?”
I remembered. “When I took a bath earlier. I must have been gone for half an hour. When I came back, someone had been here. The windows and doors were closed, and the picture had been turned back to face the wall.”
“I did those things,” Irene said. “I made the room ready for the night. But that took only a few moments. Afterwards, I didn’t return.”
“Then it could have been Mrs. Jaffe. I didn’t look at the picture again. What will happen if we ask her, challenge her?”
Irene made a snorting sound. “She’d lie, of course. Her one purpose is to make trouble. She hates to see her brother married to Laura Worth. She is a neurotic woman.”
“But wasn’t it she who nursed Laura and cared for her at the time of her collapse twenty years ago?”
“Her brother is a doctor. Mrs. Jaffe would do what he asked, under his supervision. Now it’s different. She’s older and more unhappy. And God knows why they married each other.”
“What could Mrs. Jaffe have meant when she spoke of evidence?”
Irene had picked up the gown of Venetian red which Laura had worn in The Whisperer. She shook it out and held it up to the light.
“She was only trying to frighten Miss Worth, to upset her. Mrs. Jaffe is a fine one to be talking about evidence. She treads on dangerous ground.”
I stared at the warm red of the gown in her hands. “What do you mean by that?”
For a long moment she returned my look. Then she flung the dress over one arm and crossed the room to a long table on which large scrapbooks were stacked. They were not orderly scrapbooks, all of one shape and size, like those Ruth had used to collect Victor’s reviews and write-ups, but volumes of haphazard style. When she found the one she wanted, Irene carried it to the sofa and sat down with the book on her knees. Riffling through the pages, she stopped at one and shoved the open book toward me.
These were clippings from a different paper than the ones I had seen in my father’s study. The paragraphs Irene indicated had to do with Miles Fletcher and his sister when they had been questioned about his whereabouts on the night of Cass Alroy’s murder. The written account was different, but the facts were the same. Miles had been at a theater with his sister at the time Cass must have died. His alibi was indisputable.
I looked at Irene. “I’ve read the reports before. This tells the same story. So what do you mean?”
She pressed her lips together as if in disapproval at my obtuseness. “I’ve always believed that something is wrong with those reports. I don’t believe Mrs. Jaffe’s evidence.”
“But they were seen together at the theater that night. There were others who testified to that. Friends who saw them at the theater.”
“Coming out of the theater,” Irene said. “Under the marquee outside the theater.”
“No—there was a woman who said she saw them together during the play.”
“A patient of Dr. Fletcher’s,” Irene said scornfully.
“That doesn’t necessarily mean that she’d lie—perjure herself. Why should you have such a suspicion?”
“Miss Worth has talked to me,” Irene said. “When I first knew her she talked a great deal. Over and over and over—the same track. How did it happen? What occurred on the set that night?”
“Does she think Miles was not at the theater during the play?”
With a quick gesture Irene took the scrapbook out of my hands and closed it, carried it back to the table and set it down.
“You’re a journalist,” she said over her shoulder. “Why am I talking to you? None of this can be published. It’s not to be spoken about.”
“I am also Laura’s daughter,” I reminded her.
She came toward me across the room, her eyes searching, questioning. “But not, I think, a daughter who loves and cherishes?”
“How could I be that?” I raised my hands and let them fall in my lap in a helpless gesture. “She has hardly won that sort of devotion.”
“You asked me about Mrs. Jaffe. I said only that she’s a fine one to speak of searching for evidence. And I showed you the reason. That’s all. The matter is ended.”
“And it’s of no real importance any more, is it?” I said.
“It will always be of importance to Miss Worth. She’s haunted by the past. The truth will either free her or destroy her, but she must still search for it.”
Listen for the Whisperer Page 15
