She flicked ashes and said: “I wasn’t always a dancer. Just in the beginning. I had the size and the figure of a show girl and I switched when I could because it seemed easier and I was lazy. At one point I married a piano player, but we were split up most of the time on different jobs and after six months we decided to call it quits.
“I was working in the Lido when I met Richard. That was three years ago. A friend introduced us and four of us went out to supper one night. His wife had died two years before and he had two grown children and he was at loose ends. He also had money and very charming manners. I could tell he was impressed; he was very attentive, very considerate. He was generous too, in a conservative way, and he was fun to be with, so I went along with it, enjoying myself and waiting for a proposition that had been made before.”
She tossed her cigarette on the sand and said: “When it came it surprised me. He wanted to marry me. When I knew he was serious I didn’t hesitate too long. I was nearly twenty-six, and I was getting fed up with what I was doing, and Richard had a lot to offer.” She sighed softly, a remoteness touching her glance. “It worked out very well on the whole. I had things that I could not have had in any other way. When I want clothes I simply buy them, or have them made. I’ve traveled. I have my own bank account. I don’t have to lift a finger and Richard has been a very indulgent husband.”
Dave watched her as she paused. He had an idea that she believed the things she said; he also got the impression that she was trying to sell someone on the merits of her marriage and he wondered whether it was him or herself. But this, he knew, was not important; for this was a lot of woman. There was warmth here, and vitality, and a promise of exciting things for any man who could command them. With this in mind he found himself considering her husband again.
“Your husband gives me the impression of being a possessive man,” he said.
“He is, rather.”
“And jealous?”
“Quite. And not just of Mike Ludlow.”
“But on the whole,” he said, deciding to hazard a guess, “it’s been pretty dull, hasn’t it?”
“Dull?”
“For someone who’s been around as much as you have I should think a nine-month stretch in Barbados every year would get a little tedious.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more,” she said in a casual acceptance of his statement, ‘Taut that doesn’t mean I’d chuck it all—”
She stopped abruptly, and as Dave glanced past her he saw why. Coming toward them along the path from the house was the immaculate and stiff-backed figure of Richard Dunning. He looked very natty in his yellow linen trousers and navy jacket, and his lean face was expressionless as he marched up beside his wife and stopped. His voice, when he spoke, was pleasant enough in a clipped sort of way.
“I think you’d better put an end to this session for now, my dear,” he said, ignoring Dave who had come to his feet. “If we’re going to the Harrimans’ for tea you’ll want to change.… Here, let me help you with some of these things.”
Dave stepped aside to get out of his way. He had been thoroughly snubbed and he knew it, but there was a moment while Dunning was busying himself that the woman glanced at him and, on impulse, he winked. To his very great surprise he saw one eyelid dip slowly in an answering wink before she turned away; then he was moving down the beach, adding up the information he had received and wondering where it led him.
In spite of his prejudice in favor of Alice Dunning, he could not ignore the fact that she might still have killed Mike Ludlow. As for her husband, nothing he had heard had changed his original impression of the man. Dunning had the motive and the opportunity. With the proper provocation he seemed the sort who might very well take matters into his own hands.
11
JOAN ALLISON was late for lunch at the Carib Club because she had driven her rented car slowly and with great caution. The dining area was nearly deserted when she walked in, but the head waiter accepted her apologies with good grace, and very shortly a boy appeared with the soup, sandwich, and iced tea she had ordered. Afterwards she put on her bathing suit, not because she wanted to swim but because she wanted to work on her incipient tan.
It did not take her long to realize the sun was much hotter than she had expected. After a half hour of basking on the lawn in front of the cottage she got her bag and some stationery and went to the patio to write her uncle. This took some time, but when she had addressed the envelope and left it at the desk it was still not yet four, and in her idleness she found herself thinking about Dave Payne. This inevitably led to other thoughts about Gloria, and while nothing that had happened had changed her original opinion in any way she was ready to admit that she had perhaps been unfair to David that morning.
Her dislike of Gloria was of long standing. Gloria was older. When she, Joan, was in her teens, Gloria was promtrotting. Gloria was pretty and glamorous and selfish and spoiled. She was also envied by her contemporaries because she had her pick of the men. David, in later years, had been one of these and she, even though younger, had always been jealous. She would not admit she had actually ever been in love with him. She didn’t think so now but, she thought, it would help, damn him, if he’d give me a chance to find out.
David still felt sorry for Gloria. He was the kind who would, just as he would accept without any lasting bitterness the fact that she had run off with Mike. Dave would give anyone the benefit of the doubt until convinced he was wrong, so why was it so surprising that he should be concerned because Gloria had had a raw deal and would now get little or no inheritance? And she, Joan, had snapped at him because he was not more concerned about her. She had been stiff-necked and uncompromising when he tried to explain.…
Without being aware of it she found herself walking up the beach. The focus of her thoughts had somehow directed her steps and she was halfway to the bungalow before she realized it. By then she knew she wanted to see him. This time she would be nice to him, and that would not be difficult because all she had to do was be herself and follow her natural instincts. If she stopped being female and allowed no thoughts of Gloria to interfere he might even ask her to dinner.
She saw as she approached the bungalow that the front door stood open and this in itself was encouraging. She went up the steps in her bare feet and crossed the veranda. Because her eyes were accustomed to the sunlight she could not see much of the interior, so she knocked and called out.
“David?”
She knocked again and this time she thought she heard a door open and close somewhere inside.
“David? … It’s Joan.”
She was through the door now, glancing about the empty front room, and once again she heard the sound. It was not loud. It was not even distinctive and yet the impression remained that someone had closed a door at the rear of the bungalow. Not understanding this and not yet willing to admit that it was only her imagination, she started down the hall. The door to the first bedroom was closed and she knocked and called out once more. The back bedroom door stood open and as she glanced in she saw David’s suitcase and his clothes on the chair and now she opened the back door and looked out.
The two cars were there but she could see no one until her glance moved on to the lane on her left. Trees hid most of its length but beyond the trees she caught a fleeting glimpse of something that moved, or so she thought. She could not identify the movement and though her gaze was focused now she did not see it again. In the distance the sound of traffic was steady on the highway but as she stood there she thought she heard a car start up. It seemed, somehow, closer than the highway sounds, but in another moment it was gone and she waited, seeing nothing more and wondering whether she had heard anything at all.
Turning, she closed the door and started back along the hall and through the living room. She was standing on the edge of the veranda wondering what she should do next when she saw David appear round the finger of land which blocked off the rest of the beach. He did not see her until he was
nearly to the steps and then, his face brightening, he hurried forward.
“Hi,” he said. “Been here long?”
“Have you been up the beach?”
“Yes. I was up talking to Alice Dunning.”
Because she was thinking hard she did not return his smile and now he noticed it. He tipped his head slightly, the brown eyes probing.
“Why? Is something wrong?”
She told him how she had come and what she thought she had heard; then she was following him across the living room and down the hall to the first bedroom, which had been Mike’s. Here, he threw the door open and she glanced past him, seeing the ancient wardrobe, the magazine-littered table beside the bed, the bath towel and bathing trunks hanging on the shutter. She tagged along as Dave went to his own room and she saw him search the pockets of the jacket which was draped over the back of a chair. When he straightened he stepped quickly to the bed and lifted one of the pillows. The width of his back prevented her from seeing if anything was there but when he replaced the pillow and turned, his angular face was sober and his brows were warped.
“I guess you were right,” he said.
“Is something missing?”
“Those reports I snitched from Sankar, for one thing.”
He did not pay too much attention to her for the next minute or so, but opened the back door and moved out on the square landing. Because she did not want to interrupt his train of thought she stood quietly until he started down the steps and across the sand to the abandoned servants’ shack. This stood perhaps three feet off the ground and was supported at each corner by blocks of coral. The steps were slightly askew but solid, and the door had a hasp and staple but no padlock. Now, as he opened it, she touched his bare back lightly.
“What are you thinking?”
“Not much,” he said, “but if anyone was interested in what went on around here this would be a good place to watch from.”
She stood in the doorway as he moved in. There was a window on each side, the shutters hinged at the top and opening outward. He lifted one of these so more light could come into the dusty room, and she could make out a rickety table and two chairs and a homemade wooden bedframe. She watched him prop the window open with one of the chairs and then, as he squatted down, she saw that he was examining a half dozen or more cigarette butts. They looked very white against the dusty board floor and he mentioned this fact.
“These haven’t been here long.” He reached for something else and straightened up. She could hear the sound of paper crackling and when he turned she saw he had tried to straighten out a discarded cigarette pack. He held it up so that she could see that it said Raleigh; then he let the shutter swing back in place and motioned her from the doorway.
“Does it mean anything?” she asked as she went down the steps.
“I don’t know,” he said, “but our friend Sankar smokes Raleighs. He offered me one this morning. They make them in Trinidad.” He considered the empty pack again before he tossed it aside. “Probably a lot of other people around here smoke them too, but I know Sankar does.”
The brown eyes were still thoughtful as he began to circle the shack. She did not think he was looking for anything in particular because his manner was preoccupied but she followed him anyway through the sparse grass and weeds which had grown waist high. At the back he stopped, and she saw that there was a sort of path where the weeds had been broken, as though someone had been there not too long ago. She watched him move to the edge of the building and hunker down so he could glance underneath. When he straightened he continued round the place and by then her curiosity was too great to contain.
“Do you think someone has been under there?”
“Yes,” he said, “but it could have been kids. It would be a good place for kids to play.” He turned then and took her arm and his smile told her that his preoccupation had left him. “I guess it isn’t important, anyway. We already know Sankar was here. You saw him.”
He led the way into the house and when they came again to the veranda he asked if she would like a drink. She said she didn’t think so. It was still too early. She said she thought she’d take a quick swim and a nap; then, drawing on her courage but a little hesitant in spite of this, she said: “Couldn’t we have dinner? I mean—if you’re not busy?”
She knew the answer even as she finished. It was there in the twist of his mouth and the sudden change in his glance. The fact that he spoke with obvious reluctance and some embarrassment did not help a bit.
“I’m sorry, Joan, I’d love to. I’d like nothing better but—”
“You have a date.”
“I’m sorry.”
She smiled, a little too brightly as the disappointment enveloped her and then, in spite of herself, she said: “With Gloria, no doubt.”
She saw him nod and heard him say something about having made the date that morning. But it didn’t matter what he said now. She had her answer. She smiled again. She concentrated on keeping her voice casual and unconcerned. She said it wasn’t important. It was only a thought. Then she turned and started quickly up the beach, stumbling a little in the uneven sand, her ears closed to the suggestions he was trying to make about tomorrow.
When she opened her eyes and realized that the sun was well down she knew she had had a good nap. She stretched luxuriously and, for the moment, with some contentment. She clasped her hands behind her neck, elbows high, and glanced down the front of her, remembering how she had taken a quick swim and then, substituting her robe for the wet suit, had flopped down here on the bed.
She must have dropped off to sleep immediately because she did not remember anything after that and now, with the robe part way open she rolled over, stood up and slipped out of it so she could examine the pink thighs and legs and shoulders and arms where the sun had done a little work. Because, at that moment, her body felt so vibrantly alive, she stretched hard and high and then started for the bath, the robe trailing. She took a tepid shower and dried herself carefully because of the sunburn. When she had powdered herself and rubbed lotion lightly around her eyes and nose and upper lip she went into the other room to get fresh underwear.
A glance at her calves told her they were not yet tan enough to go without stockings, so she slipped on her garter belt before she put on her panties; then opened the upper right-hand drawer to get a brassière. There were two clean ones left and some handkerchiefs and a scarf. She took the brassière on top and slipped her arms through the straps. As she put her hands back to hook it into place she stopped, staring at the open drawer as her mind went back. It took but a moment then to paw through her things and realize the gun she had taken from her uncle’s desk was no longer there. After that she stood very still, an odd fear building in her and her nerves suddenly shaky.
For she remembered a similar feeling that morning, only then it had been worse. The policeman had come with his warrant and she knew the gun was there. She did not know then that it was the same caliber as the one that had killed Mike Ludlow but she knew it had been fired once and she knew what the inference would be. But the policeman had not even opened the drawer. She did not know why then, she only knew that she felt an overpowering feeling of relief when he turned at once to the straw bag and opened it and took out the compact she had dropped in the bungalow the night before.
This, apparently, was all he wanted, and having found it he was satisfied. Now, making her fingers work as she fastened the brassière, she tried to think who might have taken the gun. Anyone might have come in, since she did not keep the door locked, but in the end she had to accept the more likely conclusion. David had been here that morning. He could have taken it. But if that were true why hadn’t he said so? The answer to this came finally as she continued to pursue the thought.
Suppose there was some way he could tell a shot had been fired. At that time he knew Mike had been killed by a gun of the same caliber. Suppose he had thought that she was the one who shot him—
She coul
d not go on. She could not tolerate the thought and tried to erase it from her mind. She began to concentrate on other things and this brought her immediately to the subject of what she would wear for dinner. She was in desperate need of something to bolster her morale and she knew if anything would do it it would be the black silk suit she had recently bought in New York.
She found the blouse she wanted and took time to admire it in the mirror. She used care with her stockings. She got the skirt from the closet and when it was in place she eyed it with approval. Ready now for her shoes, she stepped to the closet and once again she stopped short. She turned on the overhead light and looked carefully; then she was sure.
She had brought three pairs of shoes with her. The dark red ones with medium heels, the brown-and-white spectators, and the black opera pumps. Only there were no black opera pumps. There were no pumps anywhere in the other room either. But there had been pumps last night because she remembered wearing them when she started for the bungalow. A few steps in the sand were enough to make her remove them and she had carried them down to the bungalow. She was positive she had brought them with her when she had fought unsuccessfully with her terror and panic and run back up the beach. She had come in here and thrown them into the closet—
For another second or two she wondered if perhaps the maid or someone around the place had taken them and then she knew it didn’t matter. The maid would not be here at this hour anyway and she could question her in the morning. The important thing now was that she could not wear the black suit and this, together with the emotional shocks that had already served to unnerve her, combined to bring about a sense of exasperation and futility. The feeling of physical well being had gone. She was suddenly annoyed and irritated, and the thought of David and Gloria having dinner together did not help any.
Moment of Violence Page 10
