The Albatross

by Charlotte Armstrong

  “Like it?” asked Esther over the sinking of her heart. “No, not much.”

  “I didn’t think so.” He sounded discouraged.

  “Tom, don’t go,” she begged. “Shake the thing off your neck. Maybe if you—”

  “If I what?”

  “Talked to some doctor or somebody wise.”

  “Everybody’s crazy but you?” he inquired mournfully. “Joan is a maniac, trying to murder you? Audrey’s a liar—a leech? And after your husband, besides? Do you know how crazy you sounded last night?” he demanded angrily.

  “Oh, Tom …”

  “Well, you got me co-operating. I can’t have you talking and thinking like that.” She didn’t speak. “Doesn’t it bother you to throw them out?” he demanded.

  “It doesn’t bother me at all,” flared Esther. “I’m for it.”

  His turn to say nothing.

  Esther glanced down the foyer, through the kitchen. No Audrey in sight.

  “All right, Tom.” Now she tumbled the words out. Sometimes it was easier, on the telephone, without the eye, without the flushing skin, the flashing gesture, the noisy telepathy of the body, to send a plain truth into a naked ear. “A time comes, I have to go by my own belief. I can’t help it if you don’t see what I can see so clearly. I can’t help it if you keep thinking I’m jealous—stupid and jealous. I can imagine just who put that into your head.”

  She was bitter. He made a strangling sound.

  “But you may be the one,” she cried, “who isn’t seeing straight. Did it ever occur to you—” she hung on to the phone with a sweating hand—“that you are being blind and selfish?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you and your conscience. Is your poor, dear, adorable, suffering conscience the only thing that matters? Is it so important? Why can’t you just feel guilty? Lots of people do. They bear it, and they live. They don’t enslave themselves, and mess up the life of someone they love, just to—”

  “All right,” he stopped her harshly.

  “It’s Courtney Caldwell you owe the penance, anyhow,” said Esther, “and he is dead. And you can’t do anything for him.”

  The wire between them seemed to vibrate a long time.

  “So—see you,” she quavered.

  “See you,” he replied distantly.

  Esther breezed into the public library at a quarter past one o’clock. She’d been in some shops. She’d had a hamburger at a hamburger stand. Nothing had been much fun.

  Tom’s state was what spoiled the day. Ah, Tom, with the albatross around his neck. She had been pretty harsh and blunt. Her words must have hurt him. But this albatross was a liar and a phoney and something was very fishy, somewhere. If she could only make him believe it! She had tried to use her brain. Esther could do nothing with the mystery of that doctor’s bill. And what else had she?

  Joan attack? No proof. She couldn’t think how to prove it had been an attack. She wasn’t even sure of this herself. Esther thought: Am I wrong about them? Am I reading things in that are not really there? Now she was doing Joan’s errand. She was helpful to her guests. Esther Gardner, Girl Hypocrite.

  The library desk had a line of noontime people. So Esther drifted about, feeling doubtful of herself, and therefore miserable.

  Then she saw the rack, like an old-fashioned clothes-dryer, hung with out-of-town newspapers. Her brain turned a cylinder over. There was something for the brain to work on. Mr. Saunders had reported a sentence Courtney Caldwell had said. Who had tried believing this, wholly, literally? I’ll try, said Esther in her head. Somebody else had also dropped dead. Very well. If Courtney Caldwell had seen someone drop dead, it was during that weekend. It was, therefore, north of here, but in California. Somewhere that Courtney Caldwell had been. And if a man or woman dropped dead, the name would very probably be in the newspaper, wouldn’t it?

  Esther went over to the racks. Here was a country weekly. It should cover that little town where she and Tom, so long ago, had so innocently stopped driving for the night. If anybody thereabouts had dropped dead, this paper, published on a Friday, would cover the week behind it. Such a thing would be news. The issue on the rack was too recent, of course.

  Esther, her heart excited, asked for a back copy. There was a fluster among the librarians, who had their pride. At last, one of them came forth with the issue published on the Friday following the Saturday that the Gardners had taken that motel room. Esther sat down at a table with the paper. Forlorn, forlorn, her hope!

  But there it was on the front page. DROPS DEAD, the headline said. Her heart jumped mightily. She bent to read the story.

  Doctor Sidney Thayer, 63, of 247 Richey Road, dropped dead in his office last Saturday at about 6 P.M. His body was found by Mrs. Thayer who went to look for him when he did not come to dinner. Autopsy shows the cause of death to be a massive cerebral haemorrhage. Doctor Tahyer will be much missed by this community. Taking his degree at …

  Esther’s hands curled. Her fingernails went into the newspaper. A doctor! The dateline was Coneyville. Where was Coneyville? Esther put the paper tight under her arm and flew to the atlas. Coneyville was a tiny dot. It hung upon the dot that signified the town of the motel. Ah, California! The little town had grown and attached to itself a little suburb. Therefore, the doctor-who-had-dropped-dead could not be very far from that motel.

  Then? Courtney Caldwell had seen a doctor, had he? There? On that day?

  Esther looked wildly about for a phone booth and saw one in the corner. She begged the librarian for change. Esther cut off the woman’s pleasantry about overdue book fines. She snatched at the coins, shut herself up in the booth, called Mr. Saunders in Arcadia, and caught him in.

  “This is Esther Gardner. You remember that doctor’s bill?”

  “Yes. What’s the trouble?”

  “Listen. Listen. Was the town Coneyville?”

  “Why, I think it was,” he said in slow surprise. “Could well be.”

  “And the doctor’s name? Was it Sidney Thayer?”

  “That’s right! How did you …?”

  “I found it!” cried Esther. “I found it!”

  “Mrs. Caldwell called me up this morning,” he began.

  “Yes, I know. Excuse me, Mr. Saunders, I want to call the police. And thank you. Thank you again.”

  “The police! Hey, wait a minute. Tell me—”

  But Esther chopped him off. She was shaking with excitement. She called the Arcadia police station. Mueller had just come in from lunch.

  “Mr. Mueller, this is Esther Gardner.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I want you to listen to me very carefully.”

  “Okay.”

  “You remember what Mr. Saunders told you about Mr. Caldwell having seen somebody drop dead?”

  “Yes,” The voice was patient and unimpressed. Not this again, it seemed to say.

  “Well, on that Saturday, at 6 P.M., in Coneyville, which is evidently a suburb of that town up there, a man did drop dead.”

  “That so?” he said pleasantly.

  “He was a doctor! Dr. Sidney Thayer. Don’t you see?”

  “See what, Mrs. Gardner?”

  “Courtney Caldwell must have gone to a doctor!”

  “How is that?”

  “And the doctor must have examined him,” cried Esther. “Why else would he go to a doctor?”

  “Well?”

  “Examined him after Tom hit him.” Esther pushed her heart out along the wire.

  “What is this, again?” Mueller said more alertly.

  “The paper says the doctor died about 6 P.M. But Tom hit Mr. Caldwell about five o’clock!”

  “How do you know Caldwell saw this doctor after five or even at all?” asked Mueller sternly.

  “Because he saw him die!”

  “Now, wait, Mrs. Gardner. Go to the beginning. Give me what Caldwell said to Saunders again.”

  “‘When you see somebody drop dead in front of you, you don’t feel s
o good,’” quoted Esther loudly. “That’s what he said. And oh, another thing! He said it right after Mr. Saunders had mentioned a doctor. So there was the association!”

  “He did?” Mueller was listening, but not yet convinced.

  “Will you check into this?” she demanded.

  “You want me to find out if Caldwell saw this doctor—Thayer, is it—up there? And the only reason you think he might have—”

  “No, no, there’s something else. I know he did. Because of the bill that came to Caldwell’s office. Mr. Saunders forwarded it. The bill was from this same Dr. Thayer. So you see? You’ve got to see!”

  “Hold it. Wait. Let me get this straight. You think Caldwell saw this doctor. The doctor dropped dead.”

  “Yes! Yes. That’s why the doctor never came forward to testify—”

  “And suppose it checks out …? What’s in your mind, Mrs. Gardner?”

  “But it could be proof!” she cried impatiently.

  “Proof of what?”

  “You said there was no proof that Tom did or didn’t kill the man. But don’t you see, there could be?”

  “You’re going too fast, Mrs. Gardner. Take it easy. Now. Say Caldwell goes to the doctor and sees him drop dead. Okay. Suppose the doctor drops dead before he ever gets around to examining …?”

  “Then why does he, or his estate, send a bill?” cried Esther.

  Silence.

  “Isn’t it your job to find out how Mr. Caldwell died?” she inquired.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well? You have the facilities. Not me. You can get hold of the police up there. I don’t know how to check. But if you won’t, then I …”

  “Now, now. I didn’t say I wouldn’t. What is that doctor’s name again?”

  “Dr. Sidney Thayer.”

  “Address?”

  “247 Richey Road, Coneyville.” Esther read if off for him. She read him the first paragraph of the newspaper item. “You’ll do something, Mr. Mueller?”

  “I’ll see what I can find out,” he said cautiously.

  “Call me,” she begged.

  “Sure thing Mrs. Gardner. But if …” Mueller changed his mind. “Where must I call you? At your house?”

  She gave him the house phone number. “I’ll be home,” she promised. “I’ll be waiting. How long will it take?”

  “Can’t say. This Dr. Thayer is dead. He can’t very well testify.”

  “But there must be somebody … some record … something!”

  “We’ll see. Uh … thanks, Mrs. Gardner,” Mueller said quite handsomely.

  Esther hung up. Her blood was singing.

  Her fingers found a dime and were ready to drop it into the phone when she brought her hand away. No. Better not call Tom. She had nothing to tell him that was certain. For all she knew, something in the doctor’s records, up there, would for ever confirm that Tom had fatally injured Courtney Caldwell. It was risking this certainty to check. But it was worth the risk, she thought, for what if the evidence went the other way? What if Tom could be sure, could know, that he had not done it? The albatross would fall for ever from his neck!

  Esther rushed out of the library. She flew for home. She had to be there, to wait for Mueller to call. To wait for the verdict.

  Tom Gardner hadn’t been able to get down to his work all morning and, after he had spoken to Esther, he was even more distracted. He flubbed among his papers. The more he tried to bring his mind to them the less he succeeded. He gave up and went to lunch.

  There was a favourite coffee shop where people from his office tended to gather. Tom looked around it rather searchingly. When he saw Latimer eating alone at the counter, Tom went to take a stool beside him. They greeted each other. Latimer was halfway through his meal. It took Tom until Latimer’s dessert to get his question out.

  “Say, you were in an accident, as I remember.…”

  “Sure was,” the man said. He was fairhaired, crew-cut, cheerful.

  “If you don’t want to talk about it, say so. But as I remember, there was a man killed?”

  “That’s right. I killed a man with my car on the highway about a year ago.” Latimer was direct and easy.

  “Just an accident,” Tom murmured.

  “Uh huh. Fella was drunk as a skunk.”

  Tom turned and studied him for a moment. “What I wish you’d tell me,” he asked respectfully, “is how did you get over it?”

  Latimer looked back into his eyes and said quietly,” who told you I ever got over it?” Then he attacked his apple pie. “Nothing you can do,” he said.

  “Guess not.” Tom rubbed his face.

  Latimer looked at him. “I heard you got into the same kind of situation. I was meaning to say something about it. Bothers you, I guess.”

  “Yes.”

  “Me, too,” said Latimer soberly. “So I never had anything to say.”

  Tom felt himself shrinking. He thought, What kind of self-centered ass have I been? People do bear these things. Still, he groped to understand.

  “Did this fella you hit have any survivors … say, a widow?” he asked.

  “Did he!” Latimer sagged on the stool for emphasis. “He sure as hell did! Old crow, tried to sue me for all I had or ever would have. Oh, I had a big mess there. But she lost. The judge figured she was greedy and not exactly grieving. She was pretty obvious. Lucky for me.”

  “Lucky is right,” said Tom, in a moment. “You were darned lucky!”

  Latimer looked at him. “How so?”

  “Suppose she’d forgiven you?” Tom’s eyes were burning.

  Latimer sipped the last of his coffee. “I said there was nothing you could do,” he murmured presently as he slipped off his stool to go. “I’ll tell you one thing—I could get medals for safe driving.”

  “Thanks,” Tom said.

  When Tom went back to his desk, his mind seemed clear and even brilliant. He worked very hard for a while. He ripped through the tasks. Then he reached for the phone.

  Couldn’t get the house. Busy signal. Esther was out, anyhow; now he remembered. Oh well, he’d tell Esther tonight. He was all through ducking and squirming and trying to kid his conscience. Audrey could take that apartment. He’d see that she did. He’d help her with money, if he could. But emotionally, he’d shake her off. For Esther’s sake, and for his own sake, and the sake of life. He’d keep trying to forgive himself, but if he never could, at least he’d shut up about it. He’d carry his albatross—which wasn’t Audrey but his own guilt—and he’d carry it invisibly, alone.

  In Arcadia, Sergeant Mueller answered his phone.

  “This is Ted Saunders,” the voice said. “Caldwell was my partner.”

  “Yes, sir, I remember you.”

  “Mrs. Gardner been in touch?”

  “She has.”

  “About this doctor’s bill?”

  “I heard about it.” Mueller didn’t want to hear any more. “I’ve got a call in, now, for this Dr. Thayer’s wife.”

  “I see.” Saunders wasn’t satisfied. “Thing is this. Mrs. Audrey Caldwell called me this morning. Well, I didn’t realize. I mentioned this bill to her. Listen, she claims she never got it.”

  “Never got it?” Mueller doodled.

  “But what I can’t figure … Mrs. Gardner must have seen that bill. She described the envelope to me. She had the name. So it got to the house all right.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “I don’t know,” said Saunders. “If I knew myself … the thing I’m afraid of … I could have put my foot in it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, those two women aren’t together on this thing Mrs. Gardner is trying to find out, but Mrs. Caldwell doesn’t seem to know a thing about it.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, she knows now. What I mean is, I didn’t have the doctor’s name at that time. It hadn’t come to me. What I said to her—I said Mrs. Gardner had been asking me and I was sure I’d forwarded a
bill and had it got there?”

  “What about it?” Mueller stabbed with the pencil.

  “She said, No, it hadn’t got there.”

  “Can you clear this up for me a little bit?”

  “Listen, did it occur to you to start wondering? Court got his head smashed, some place. Say it wasn’t in that motel room? Then where was it? And who did it?”

  Mueller said mildly, “Time enough to wonder.”

  “Okay,” said Saunders, unhappily. “Just so you realize.”

  “What are you worried about?”

  “About Mrs. Gardner,” said Saunders explosively. “If that pair had anything to do with poor old Court’s accident … what have they got to lose now?”

  “What have they got to gain?” said Mueller sharply.

  “They don’t know I know anything about this doctor. They don’t know what you know. They think only Mrs. Gardner is on that trail. Well?”

  Mueller said, “Well, I got to wait for my call.”

  “But listen, I tried to call Mrs. Gardner back, but the line is busy. I—”

  “I’ll try her myself. Kinda straighten things out.”

  “Good,” said Saunders.

  Mueller hung up and tried the Gardner’s number. He’d make Audrey Caldwell aware. He could speak to her himself. He’d say he was checking. But he got a busy signal.

  Esther burst in at her own door, forgetting to damp down her excitement. They were there in her house. They were sitting together in the big living-room, close together like conspirators.

  Joan looked up, startled. Audrey’s head moved on her long neck. Esther’s excitement crashed into the atmosphere they generated. Esther felt as if the breath had been knocked out of her.

  “Why, you’re home so early, dear,” said Audrey’s slow sweet voice. She sounded pleased. “Did anything happen?”

  “No, no, I just …” Esther found it impossible to go on speaking. Under her arm, pressed hard to her body, she still carried the upstate newspaper. She had forgotten she had it. In fact, she had stolen it. She stood still now, caught without an excuse or a commonplace or anything to say.

  “Did you change my book?” asked Joan. Her sharp eyes—were they on the newspaper?