When Emmalynn Remembers

by Jennifer Wilde

  “You were magnificent,” she replied.

  “Just frightened,” I said.

  “I still think you should go on the stage,” she said, standing up and smoothing the skirt of a leaf brown shift whose exquisitely simple lines had been tailored by Quant. “You had me fooled from the word go,” she said. “I had no idea you were faking it. You’ve missed your calling. J. Arthur Rank could use you. Just the same, I don’t see why you couldn’t have given a hint.”

  “I had my reasons,” I said.

  “I understand. I might have let something slip, though actually I’m quite trustworthy. Anyway, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. It’s been enchanting. We’ll be the center of attention at all the London parties for months—unless I decide to go to America.”

  “You think that’s possible?”

  “Anything is possible,” she said.

  She yawned slightly, looking appropriately bored, but I could tell she was filled with zestful vitality that no amount of high fashion could conceal. This same blasé Billie had spent half the afternoon at the hospital, reading aloud to Betty and managing to subdue and delight the child who had already driven two nurses berserk and threatened to tear the whole hospital down if she wasn’t released soon.

  “Did Evans come today?” Billie asked.

  “Yes. He came this afternoon while you were at the hospital.”

  “And?”

  “And I signed the final papers and the house belongs to him now and I feel like a thief for taking all that money for it.”

  “Don’t,” she said. “He’ll make a fortune.”

  “You think so?”

  “I’m certain.”

  Doctor Clarkson, looking rakish with a bandage on his head, had introduced me to Roderick Evans three days ago. Evans had a long, pale face and sleek black hair and looked as though he’d been reared in Dracula’s castle. He was the location man for a film company who made grade C horror movies and millions of dollars each year, and he wanted to capitalize on the publicity the Stern place had received. The house would be used as the setting for a movie and then turned into a tourist attraction. Evans believed the insatiable and morbid curiosity of the general public would make the place a national landmark and that guided tours at a dollar a head would make him a millionaire. The idea repelled me at first. Then I realized it was exactly the kind of thing that would have delighted Henrietta, and I agreed to sell.

  Billie glanced at the clock.

  “It’s almost six,” she said. “Rufus will be ringing for me any minute now.”

  “Dinner?” I inquired.

  “Of sorts. A jazz session at one of the clubs with the combo he sings with and then a party given by a rich, rich matron who has a crush on the drummer and, if we’re lucky, a short cruise on her husband’s yacht.”

  “Glamorous,” I said.

  “Very. Is George taking you out?”

  I nodded. “He’s taking me to the movies.”

  “The movies!”

  “Jeanne Moreau at one of the art houses. She’s the only woman on earth I’m jealous of. George never misses one of her films.”

  “Have a jolly time,” she said.

  “I will. He’ll buy me a bag of popcorn and tell me to keep quiet, and after the movie he’ll talk about that marvelous face for several hours and ask me how many times I saw Jules et Jim.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “I envy you your yacht,” I said.

  “And I envy you your George.”

  The doorbell rang. Billie picked up the dark green leather purse that matched her square-toed shoes and went to open the door. Rufus Mann came in and devoured her with the magnificent blue eyes and stuck his thumbs in the wide brown leather belt that kept his bell-bottomed tan trousers from slipping off his narrow hips. He wore a dark yellow Tom Jones shirt with enormous full-gathered sleeves. Billie nodded at him and stifled another yawn. She reminded me of a spoiled child being pacified with a shiny new toy, but I knew her lack of enthusiasm was only the expected pose. They left, and I started thinking of rugged pop singers with spectacular futures and decided I preferred medical students whose futures were more solid.

  Thirty minutes later I was downstairs in the large, elegant green and white lobby, waiting for George. I stood by one of the columns, my hair a shining auburn cap. I was wearing a beige silk dress and feeling very feminine and attractive. This was to be my last night in Brighton and I wanted it to be special, even though we were only going to the movies. I watched plump middle-aged matrons in black and gray giving imperious orders to bellboys in dark brown uniforms and I saw a florist walk through the lobby with an immense bouquet, and I thought she must be lucky indeed to have a man thoughtful enough to send them.

  The large clock on the wall told me that George was already five minutes late. I tapped the toe of my shoe on the polished marble floor.

  Another five minutes passed. The theater was half a mile away, and the feature would be starting soon. I frowned slightly, accustomed to waiting for George and not really minding at all. He was always worth the wait. I glanced at the rack of newspapers near the front desk. The headlines still blazed details of the Stern case, although five nights had passed since Officer Stevens had been forced to shoot Boyd Devlon. Details of that night came back to me as I waited.

  There had been men posted in the woods that surrounded the house since the moment Billie and I arrived in Brighton, and they remained there night and day, waiting, watching, always concealed. Although George had given a good show of staying at his own cottage, he had been inside the house both nights we were there, stationed in a room within calling distance of my own and watching over us at all times. I told him it would have saved me a lot of worry if I had known he was there, and he heaved his shoulders and gave me a manly look and said he hadn’t wanted to alarm me. That exasperated me. I could have shot him on the spot.

  All the men were on the alert for someone prowling around, trying to break into the house. Boyd Devlon belonged. He had a legitimate reason for being there, and they had paid little attention to him until it was almost too late.

  He had been on the front porch when Doctor Clarkson drove up. He went towards the car casually, as though to greet the doctor, then pulled him out and hit him and disappeared into the garage before Officer Stevens or any of his men could reach him. Stevens had checked to see that the doctor was not seriously injured and then shrewdly decided to wait before sending his men after Devlon. He needed to hear the whole story from Devlon’s own lips, and the only way he could do that was to follow the original plan and let me draw it out of him. When I came out and sent Billie away and started towards the carriage house, the men moved with me, stepping noiselessly on the grass and staying in the shadows. I was as unaware of their presence as Boyd had been.

  When Boyd raised the wrench to hit me with it, George flew through the darkness and tackled me and the police charged Boyd, yelling at him, warning him to drop the wrench. He drew the wrench back and was about to hurl it when Officer Stevens shot him. Death was merciful for Boyd. He had been hopelessly insane, and death was preferable to the life he would have had to live had it not been necessary to shoot him. I remembered that look on his face as he started towards me with the wrench. I remembered the giggle. Those were things I would never be able to forget.

  The newspapers had exploded with the story, filling column after column with details that sparkled with journalistic fireworks. They did not carry the full story. It remained a secret to all but a few people. Boyd’s relationship to Henrietta was not revealed, and my own name was mentioned only in passing, thanks to Officer Stevens’ influence with the press. The stories merely said that I had inherited the house and came back to inspect it and was there when Devlon went berserk, attacked the doctor and was shot by the police. The tabloids made a regular heroine of Betty Murphy who had had a remarkably rapid recovery and summoned the reporters herself, calling them on the sly from the phone in her hospital room. Doctor
Martin, who was in charge of the patient, noted the color in her cheeks and the excitement in her voice and agreed to let her relish her glory.

  With her scabby knees and scratched cheeks, her arm in a cast and her shaggy blonde hair in her eyes, she held court like a raucous young princess, demanding full attention, brazenly exaggerating, shamlessly refusing to give pertinent details unless she was “properly treated.” I had been to see her earlier today, and her room had been filled to overflowing with stuffed toys, books, flowers, boxes of candy and other fruits of her blackmail. For three days she had been the darling of the press, and today she had been rather sulky because her picture wasn’t on the front page of the morning news.

  A less sensational story had appeared in the papers day before yesterday. Gordon Stuart had been arrested for fraud and embezzlement and was in jail awaiting trial. He had been unable to raise bail money. Doctor Clarkson, always informed, told me that Gordon’s business associates had discovered the loss of the money Gordon had “borrowed” and pressed charges immediately. I felt rather sorry for Gordon. His schemes and plans had finally caught up with him, and he was buried under the rubble after they had collapsed on him.

  I was lost in thought when George came into the lobby. For a moment I didn’t see him. When I glanced up he was ambling towards me, looking ill at ease in the elegant surroundings. He wore a rumpled brown suit that fit too tightly across the shoulders and a perfectly hideous red and brown tie that was poorly knotted. His hair was brushed severely to one side of his head, and there was a preoccupied look on his broad, unhandsome face. I was very proud of him, despite the horrible clothes, despite the lack of ease. Men like George Reed are created to dig canals and build skyscrapers and do wonderful things in medical science. They are not made to look appealing or to adorn society.

  I thought he looked very appealing.

  He was approximately four yards from me before he recognized me. The heavy horn-rimmed glasses were effective only when he happened to remember to look through them. Much of the time his mind was far away. He stopped short and jammed his hands in his pockets and grinned at me when he finally noticed me standing by the column.

  “Hey,” he said.

  For a moment I thought he was going to comment on the new dress. I was wrong, of course.

  “You ready?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said, rather nastily.

  “Huh?”

  “I said I don’t know.”

  “Well for crying out loud—why not?”

  “I don’t think I want to go to the movies.”

  “Have you lost your senses?”

  “No. I think I’ve just come to them.”

  George scowled. He shrugged his shoulders. He gripped me by the elbow and ushered me out of the hotel before I could protest. The sun was going down, staining the horizon with gold and orange streamers, and the broad Esplanade with its fine hotels and exquisite shops took on a hazy beauty in the fading light. The sea was majestic now, the water dark blue, the waves gentle as they washed over the carefully kept beaches. George was leading me towards his car, an ancient Ford with a bashed front fender and a shattered rear windshield. One door had been painted black after an accident had removed the original paint. It was a ghastly sight parked there beside a gleaming Cadillac and a wickedly beautiful black Mercedes.

  I planted my heels firmly on the concrete and refused to move one more step.

  “What is this?” George protested, completely bewildered.

  “Did you know I own a Rolls Royce?” I said angrily.

  “Large deal. So?”

  “I don’t have to ride in that wreck.”

  “I don’t understand—”

  “I am an heiress. I have a fortune in jewels alone.”

  “Sure you do. So what the hell?”

  “Billie’s got a date with a pop singer from Liverpool.”

  “I bet he has long hair and beads.” George said, which was maddening.

  “He’s perfectly marvelous.”

  “And?”

  “And on my last night in Brighton I don’t see why I should go to the movies and spend the rest of the evening listening to you rave about Jeanne Moreau and treat me like an old shoe you just happened to find somewhere.”

  “Who said anything about movies?” he said. “You think I dressed up like this to go to the movies?”

  “You said last night you wanted to see—”

  “But I phoned you—”

  “You did not phone me;” I said, emphatic.

  “I intended to,” he said, sheepish.

  “That’s what I mean, George. You always intend.”

  “I intended to call you and tell you I talked to Doctor Goldberg who’s head of the school and he said Doctor Clarkson had already made all the arrangements for me to finish the work I need for my degree and that we were going to go out on the town tonight and celebrate and I was going to drive you back to London myself in the morning and then start looking for a flat near the hospital and you could keep working for that crazy photographer until I finish doing my internship and then—”

  I listened in stony silence. George looked menacing.

  “Didn’t you get the roses?” he barked.

  “I most certainly did not.”

  “I know damn well I sent three dozen roses.”

  “Yellow roses?” I asked, subdued.

  “I told the man yellow!”

  “My favorite kind,” I whispered.

  “Look, you wanna go or not?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t think you have any choice,” he said firmly.

  He was right. He usually is.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1970 by T. E. Huff

  Cover design by Julianna Lee

  ISBN: 978-1-4976-9827-7

  This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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