Seating himself in the long chair, his thin hands gripping the arms, he seemed to relax watchfulness. Tired, I thought, and noticed the hint of purple in the shadows of the deep-set eyes, the tension of flesh across narrow cheekbones. Then, quickly, hailing into my mind the scarlet caution signal, I banished quick and foolish tenderness. Dolls and dames, I said to myself; we’re all dolls and dames to him.
He said, “I want to talk to you, Laura,” and looked at Waldo as if to say that I must get rid of the intruder.
Waldo had grown roots in the couch. Mark settled himself in the long chair, took out his pipe, gave notice of endurance.
Bessie slammed the kitchen door and shouted good night. One of them in Washington Heights had got a fox fur out of him, I told myself, and I wondered how much it had cost him in pride and effort. Then I faced him boldly and asked, “Have you come to arrest me?”
Waldo swayed toward me. “Careful, Laura; anything you say to him can be used against you.”
“How gallantly your friends protect you!” Mark said. “Didn’t Shelby warn you of the same thing last night?”
I stiffened at the sound of Shelby’s name. Mark might be laughing at me, too, for having trusted a weak man. I said boldly: “Well, what did you come here for? Have you been to Wilton? What did you find at my place?”
“Sh-sh,” cautioned Waldo.
“I don’t see how it can hurt if I ask where he’s been.”
“You told me that you knew nothing of the murder, that you bought no newspapers and that the radio at your cottage was out of order. Isn’t that what you told me, Laura?”
“Yes,” I said.
“The first thing I discovered is that your radio works perfectly.”
My cheeks burned. “But it didn’t work then. Honestly. They must have fixed it. I told the boys at the electric shop near the railroad station in Norwalk to go up there and fix it. Before I caught my train I stopped and told them. They’ve got my key, that will prove it.”
I had become so nervous that I ached to tear, to break, to scream aloud. Mark’s deliberate hesitancy was aimed, I felt, at torturing the scene to hysterical climax. He told of checking on my actions since my alleged (that was his word) arrival in Wilton on Friday night, and of finding nothing better than the flimsy alibi I had given.
I started to speak, but Waldo signaled with a finger on his lips.
“Nothing I discovered up there,” Mark said, “mitigates the case against you.”
Waldo said, “How pious! Quite as if he had gone to seek evidence of your innocence rather than proof of your guilt. Amazingly charitable for a member of the Detective Bureau, don’t you think?”
“It’s my job to uncover all evidence, whether it proves guilt or innocence,” Mark said.
“Come, now, don’t tell me that guilt isn’t preferable. We’re realists, McPherson. We know that notoriety will inevitably accompany your triumph in a case as startling as this. Don’t tell me, my dear fellow, that you’re going to let Preble take all the bows.”
Mark’s face darkened. His embarrassment pleased Waldo. “Why deny it, McPherson? Your career is nourished by notoriety. Laura and I were discussing it at dinner; quite interesting, wasn’t it, pet?” He smiled toward me as if we shared opinions. “She’s as well aware as you or I, McPherson, of the celebrity this case could give your name. Consider the mutations of this murder case, the fascinating facets of this contradictory crime. A murder victim arises from the grave and becomes the murderer! Every large daily will send its ace reporters, all the syndicates will fill the courtroom with lady novelists and psychic analysts. Radio networks will fight for the right to establish broadcast studios within the court building. War will be relegated to Page Two. Here, my little dears, is what the public wants, twopenny lust, Sunday supplement passion, sin in the Park Avenue sector. Hour by hour, minute by minute, a nation will wait for the dollar-a-word coverage on the trial of the decade. And the murderess”—he rolled his eyes, “You, yourself, McPherson paid tribute to her ankles.”
The muscles tightened on Mark’s cheeks.
“Who emerges as the hero of this plushy crime?” Waldo went on, enjoying his eloquence. “The hero of it all, that dauntless fellow who uncovers the secrets of a modern Lucretia is none other—” Waldo rose, bowed low “—none other than our gallant McPherson, the limping Hawkshaw.”
Mark’s hand, curved around his pipe, showed white at the knuckles.
The quiet and the dignity irked Waldo. He had expected his victim to squirm. “All right, go ahead with it. Arrest her if you think you’ve got sufficient proof. Bring her to trial on your flimsy evidence; it will be a triumph, I assure you.”
“Waldo,” I said, “let’s quit this. I’m quite prepared for anything that may happen.”
“Our hero,” Waldo said, with swelling pride and power. “But wait, Laura, until he hears a nation’s laughter. Let him try to prove you guilty, my love, let him swagger on the witness stand with his poor shreds of evidence. What a jackanapes he’ll be after I get through with him! Millions of Lydecker fans will roll with mirth at the crude antics of the silver-shinned bumpkin.”
Waldo had taken hold of my hand again, displaying possession triumphantly.
Mark said, “You speak, Lydecker, as if you wanted to see her tried for this murder.”
“We are not afraid,” Waldo said. “Laura knows that I will use all of my power to help her.”
Mark became official. “Very well, then, since you’re assuming responsibility for Miss Hunt’s welfare, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t know that the gun has been discovered. It was in the chest under the window of her bedroom in her cottage. It’s a lady’s hunting gun marked with the initials D.S.C. and was once owned by Mrs. John Carpenter. It is still in good condition, has been cleaned, oiled, and discharged recently. Shelby has identified it as the gun he gave Miss Hunt . . .”
It had been like waiting for the doctor and being relieved when the final word killed all hope.
I pulled away from Waldo and stood before Mark. “All right,” I said. “All right, I’ve been expecting it. My attorneys are Salsbury, Haskins, Warder, and Bone. Do I get in touch with them now, or do you arrest me first?”
“Careful, Laura.”
That was Waldo. I paid no attention. Mark had risen, too; Mark stood with his hands on my shoulders, his eyes looking into mine. The air shivered between us. Mark looked sorry. I was glad, I wanted Mark to be sorry; I was less afraid because there was a sorry look in Mark’s eyes. It is hard to be coherent, to set this all down in words; I can’t always remember the right words. I know that I was crying and that Mark’s coat sleeve was rough.
Waldo watched us. I was looking at Mark’s face, but I felt Waldo watching as if his eyes were shooting arrows into my back.
Waldo’s voice said, “Is this an act, Laura?” Mark’s arm tightened.
Waldo said: “A classic precedent, you know; you’re not the first woman who’s given herself to the jailer. But you’ll never buy your freedom that way, Laura . . .”
Mark had deserted me, he stood beside Waldo, fists aimed at Waldo’s waxen face. Waldo’s eyes bulged behind his glasses, but he stood straight, his arms folded on his breast.
I ran to Mark, I pulled at his arms. I said: “Mark, please. It won’t do any good to get angry. If you’ve got to arrest me, it’s all right. I’m not afraid.”
Waldo was laughing at us. “You see, my noble lad, she spurns your gallantry.”
“I’m not afraid,” I said to Waldo’s laughter.
“You ought to have learned by now, my dear, that gallantry is the last refuge of a scoundrel.”
I was looking at Mark’s face. He had gone without sleep, he’d spent the night driving to Wilton, he was a tired man. But a man, as Bessie had said, and Auntie Sue, when she had contradicted her whole way of life to tell me that some men we
re bigger than their incomes. I had been gay enough, I’d had plenty of fun, enjoyed men’s companionship, but there had been too many fussy old maids and grown-up babies. I took hold of Mark’s arm again, I looked at him, I smiled to give myself courage. Mark wasn’t listening to Waldo either, he was looking at my face and smiling delicately. I was tired, too, longing to cling and feel his strength, to rest my head against his shoulder.
“Tough, Hawkshaw, to have to pull in a doll? Before you’ve had the chance to make the grade with her, eh, Hawkshaw?”
Waldo’s voice was shrill, his words crude and out of character. The voice and words came between Mark and me, our moment was gone, and I was holding air in my closed fingers.
Waldo had taken off his glasses. He looked at me with naked eyes. “Laura, I’m an old friend. What I’m saying may be distasteful, but I beg you to remember that you’ve known this man for only forty-eight hours . . .”
“I don’t care,” I said. “I don’t care about time. Time doesn’t mean anything.”
“He’s a detective.”
“I don’t care, Waldo. Maybe he could scheme and lay traps for crooks and racketeers, but he couldn’t be anything but honest with me, could you, Mark?”
For all Mark saw of me, I might have lived in another world. He was staring at the mercury-glass vase on my mantel, the gift Waldo had given me at Christmas. I looked at Waldo, then; I saw the working of his thick, sensitive lips and the creeping mist that rose over his pale conical eyeballs.
Waldo’s voice taunted and tore at me. “It’s always the same, isn’t it, Laura. The same pattern over and over, the same trap, the same eagerness and defeat. The lean, the lithe, the obvious and muscular, and you fail to sense the sickness and decay and corruption underneath. Do you remember a man named Shelby Carpenter? He used you, too . . .”
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” I shouted at Waldo’s swollen eyes. “You’re right, Waldo, it’s the same pattern, the same sickness and decay and corruption, only they’re in you. You! You, Waldo. It’s your malice; you’ve mocked and ridiculed and ruined every hope I’ve ever had, Waldo. You hate the men I like, you find their weak places, you make them weaker, you’ve teased and shamed them before my eyes until they’ve hated me!”
Bloodthirsty, Waldo had called me, and bloodthirsty I had become in the sudden fever of hating him. I had not seen it clearly with Shelby or the others, I had never smelled the malice until he tried to shame Mark before me. I shouted bravely; I spoke as if I had known before, but I had been too blind and obstinate to see how his sharp little knife thrusts had hurt my friends and destroyed love for me. I saw it clearly now, as if I were a god upon a mountain, looking down at humans through a clear light. And I was glad for my anger; I exulted in hatred; I screamed for revenge; I was bloodthirsty.
“You’re trying to destroy him, too. You hate him. You’re jealous. He’s a man. Mark’s a man. That’s why you’ve got to destroy him.”
“Mark needs no help,” Waldo said. “Mark seems quite capable of self-destruction.”
Waldo could always do that to me, always diminish me in an argument, turning my just anger into a fishwife’s cheap frenzy. My face felt its ugliness and I turned so that Mark should not see me. But Mark was untouched, he held himself scornful. As I turned, Mark’s arm caught me, pulled me close, and I stood beside Mark.
“So you’ve chosen?” Waldo said, his voice an echo of mockery. There was no more strength in the poison. Mark’s hard, straight, unwavering gaze met Waldo’s oblique, taunting glance and Waldo was left without defenses, except for the small shrill weapon of petulance.
“Blessings upon your self-destruction, my children,” Waldo said, and settled his glasses on his nose.
He had lost the fight. He was trying to make a dignified retreat. I felt sorry. The anger was all drained out of me, and now that Mark had taken my fear, I had no wish to punish Waldo. We had quarreled, we had unclothed all the naked venom of our disappointments, we were finished with friendship; but I could not forget his kindness and generosity, the years behind us, the jokes and opinions we had shared. Christmas and birthdays, the intimacy of our little quarrels.
“Waldo,” I said, and took a half-step toward him. Mark’s arm tightened, he caught me, held me, and I forgot the old friend standing with his hat in his hand at my door. I forgot everything; I melted shamelessly, my mind clouded; I let go of all my taut fear; I lay back in his arms, a jade. I did not see Waldo leave nor hear the door close nor recollect the situation. What room was there in me for any sense of danger, any hint of trickery, any memory of warning? My mother had said, never give yourself, and I was giving myself with wayward delight, spending myself with such abandon that his lips must have known and his heart and muscles that he possessed me.
He let go so suddenly that I felt as if I’d been flung against a wall. He let go as if he had tried to conquer and had won, and were eager to be finished.
“Mark!” I cried. “Mark!”
He was gone.
That was three hours ago, three hours and eighteen minutes. I am still sitting on the edge of the bed, half-undressed. The night is damp and there is a dampness like dew on my flesh. I feel dull and dead; my hands are so cold that I can barely hold the pencil. But I must write; I have to keep on writing it down so I can clear my mind of confusion and think clearly. I have tried to remember every scene and incident and every word he said to me.
Waldo had warned me; and Shelby. He’s a detective. But if he believed me guilty, why are there no more guards outside? Or had he grown fond of me and, believing me guilty, given me this chance to escape? Every excuse and every solace crowded out of my mind by Waldo’s warnings. I had tried to believe that these warnings were born of Waldo’s jealousy; that Waldo had contrived with cruel cunning to equip Mark with a set of faults and sins that were Waldo’s own disguised weaknesses.
The doorbell is ringing. Perhaps he has come back to arrest me. He will find me like a slut in a pink slip with a pink strap falling over my shoulder, my hair unfastened. Like a doll, like a dame, a woman to be used by a man and thrown aside.
The bell is still ringing. It’s very late. The street has grown quiet. It must have been like this the night Diane opened the door for the murderer.
PART FIVE
Chapter 1
In the files of the Department you will find full reports on the Laura Hunt case. As officially recorded the case seems like hundreds of other successful investigations: Report of Lieutenant McPherson; case closed, August 28th.
The most interesting developments of the case never got into the Department files. My report on the scene in Laura’s living room, for instance, read like this:
At 8:15 found Lydecker in Hunt apartment with Laura. He was doing some fast talking to prove that I was plotting to get her to confess. Stayed until 9:40 (approx.), when he left; sent Behrens and Muzzio, who had been stationed at the door, to trail him. I proceeded to Claudius Cohen’s place . . .”
The story deserves more human treatment than the police records allow.
I want to confess, before I write any more, that Waldo’s unfinished story and Laura’s manuscript were in my hands before I put a word on paper. In writing that section which comes between his document and Laura’s, I have tried to tell what happened as it happened, without too much of my own opinion or prejudice. But I am human. I had seen what Waldo wrote about me and had read Laura’s flattering comments. My opinions were naturally influenced.
I can’t help wondering what would have happened if the Deputy Commissioner hadn’t pulled the snide trick of assigning me to the case when he knew I was counting on a Saturday afternoon at Ebbetts Field. The murder might never have been uncovered. I say this without trying to take any bows for solving the mystery. I fell for a woman and she happened to like me. That circumstance furnished the key that unlocked the main door.
I knew from the sta
rt that Waldo was hiding something. I cannot honestly say that I suspected him of love or murder. That Sunday morning when he looked in the mirror and talked about his innocent face, I knew I was playing with a screwball. But it was not unpleasant; he was always good company. He had told me plainly that he had loved Laura, but I thought that he had become adjusted to the role of faithful friend.
I had to know what he was hiding, although I suspected the sort of game that would make an amateur feel superior to a professional detective. Waldo imagined himself a great authority on crime.
I played my own game. I flattered him, I sought his company, I laughed at his jokes; while I asked questions about Laura’s habits, I studied his. What made a man collect old glassware and china? Why did he carry a stick and wear a beard? What caused him to scream when someone tried to drink out of his pet coffee cup? Clues to character are the only clues that add up to the solution of any but the crudest crime.
Before that night in Montagnino’s back yard when he told me about the song, Waldo’s talk had made his love for Laura sound like a paternal and unromantic relationship. It was then that I began to see his midnight walks as something besides the affectation of a man who considered himself an heir to the literary tradition. Perhaps he had not spent all of Friday night reading Gibbon in a tepid bath.
Then Laura returned. When I discovered that it was Diane Redfern who had been murdered, I went completely off the track. There were so many crossed wires; Shelby, three unexplained lies, a gold cigarette case. During that stage of the investigation, I couldn’t help looking in the mirror and asking myself if I looked like the kind of sucker who trusts a woman.
Shelby honestly believed that his fatal beauty had led Laura to murder. To relieve his two-timing conscience, Shelby protected her. If I ever saw gallantry in the reverse, that was it.
But Shelby was no coward. He risked his neck that night he went up to her cottage to get the gun. He failed because a yellow taxi was on his trail, and even Shelby was smart enough to know the Department wasn’t spending money just to give one of its men a joy ride. When Shelby saw that shotgun for the first time after the murder, it lay on my desk.
Laura (Femmes Fatales) Page 17
