Hang by Your Neck

by Kane, Henry

  “You might borrow the keys from Nancy.”

  “What keys?”

  “The duplicate set that Pamela always kept in the apartment.”

  Prairie said, “Man, you’re crazy. Crazy, man.”

  “Perhaps we ought to have that talk,” Merrill said. “You’re worked up over this. You’ll keep prying. You might come up with facts which you might make public and which, right now, need never be made public. Perhaps we’d better.”

  “If you please, sir.”

  “All right. What is it you want to know?”

  “I don’t know what I want to know. You two were married. I suppose there’s a lot of stuff that you can throw me—background, highlights of personality, the reasons for this alleged hatred between you two, the reason you said, right here in this room, that she got what was coming to her. Do you really believe that Mikvah killed her?”

  “Of course I do. The police presumptions are wholly logical.”

  “And—Nottiby. Nottiby was her husband too, and—”

  “Nottiby,” Conrad Merrill said, “was never her husband.”

  2

  Prairie slanted the Venetian blinds and the glare went out of the room. Sun came in, in stripes. Whirling dust in stripes of sun, and shadow. Sun and dust and shadow and vast blue smoke from the cigarettes.

  Merrill stood up and gave his glass to Prairie. Prairie took it, and mine, and he brought them back, refilled. Merrill came beside me on the couch. Prairie sat in the easy chair, one leg slung over an armrest.

  “Nobody,” Merrill said, “knew that, except Prairie and myself. Until two weeks ago. After the argument you mentioned. Then two others knew it. Nancy, and Nottiby himself.”

  “But I don’t understand. They were husband and wife. They have a child—”

  “They were never husband and wife. Even Nottiby didn’t know that.”

  “Now, please—”

  “Mr. Chambers, you’ll be the fifth person to know this, and, I hope, the last. This isn’t gossip, a tidbit to be passed along and enjoyed. In all seriousness, please remember that.”

  I didn’t say anything. I smoked.

  “Just one thing—about Nottiby. Nottiby and I are friends, boyhood friends; we were raised together.” He leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes. “I met Pamela Reeves a long while back. I married her. I didn’t know the sister, Nancy. She was a kid growing up in California, where they come from. The marriage lasted less than six months. It was a mistake. We were separated.”

  “Divorced?”

  “Separated. I simply moved out on her.”

  “When were you divorced?”

  “We were never divorced.”

  Prairie grunted. He shifted his leg off the armrest.

  “But—” I began.

  “Please listen. We were never divorced.” He smiled, badly, and he drank of his glass. “I never bothered to. I am an artist engrossed in my work. I didn’t care. I just never got around to it. I didn’t know how much trouble I would have had—had I gotten around to it. I was sure I never wanted to be married again. I had an awful time of it, an awful, frightening time. I wasn’t certain whose fault it was. Then. She was bad, but I wondered whether I hadn’t caused it; I’m a pretty difficult person to live with. Anyway, I felt that she could do as she liked. If she ever wanted a divorce, I would be pleased to accommodate her.”

  “But everybody thought they were divorced,” Prairie said.

  “It suited her,” Merrill said. “It gave her a certain—freedom of activity. But that wasn’t the real reason. The real reason never occurred to me, until it was too late for me to do anything about it.”

  Prairie said, “I’ll tell you this, boss. You can trust him. He’s not one of those blabber guys. And he’ll understand too.”

  “Thank you, Prairie,” I said.

  “One flip—” Prairie grumbled.

  “I spent two years in Europe,” Merrill said. “When I returned, I learned that they were married.”

  “But how? You just said you weren’t—”

  Prairie said, “You never knew that babe. Boy, you missed something.”

  Merrill looked at the highball glass. He pursed his lips, open—stiff and round and intent, like a kid making an effort with bubble gum. Then he relaxed. “Nottiby always admired her. After we’d separated, she took up with him. He was in love with her. When I was in Europe, they eloped. It was supposed to be one of those spur-of-the-moment things. They motored down to Virginia, in the night, roused a justice of the peace, and they were married.”

  “But—”

  “One of those spur-of-the-moment things,” he said softly. “Only it wasn’t. That’s exactly the way that bitch arranged it. Nottiby is a man who is easily led. That’s important to know. Nottiby is a complex man, but the one sure characteristic of an otherwise intricate personality is his quick subservience to a dominant individual, and she was certainly a dominant individual. Everybody believed we were divorced, including Nottiby. During the time we were separated, in the short period before I left for Europe, Nottiby never talked to me about her. As it happens, during that period, Nottiby and I didn’t see each other very often. He was in love with my supposed ex-wife; that doesn’t make for continued friendship between two men.”

  “I see.”

  “I never knew how she had managed it—until two weeks ago, when Nottiby told me, the first time we actually talked about it. It was a hurry-up elopement, one of those spur-of-the-moment things. Nottiby finally prevailed upon her—under, I am sure, her very careful prodding and direction. Nottiby convinced her—and they were off, as I said, on the spur of the moment.”

  “Some spur,” Prairie said.

  “But, of course, when they were almost there, she remembered that she didn’t have her divorce papers, and poor Nottiby was frantic, and she was so sorry for poor anxious Nottiby, and after all, it was only a little formality, and she said, ‘A tiny little white lie can’t hurt,’ and on the marriage application she simply stated that she’d never been married before, and then the ceremony was performed, and she and Nottiby were married.”

  Prairie said, “Nottiby was plenty oiled that night; she saw to it.”

  “That’s all,” Merrill said. “They were married.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  “When I got back from Europe, they’d been married for a year and a half. For a long time, Nottiby had been on his way to being a real acoholic. She finished it. When I came back, he was a case.”

  “But I don’t understand why—”

  “I come from a family of wealth.” He rubbed a hand across his mouth. Gruffly he repeated, “I come from a family of great wealth.”

  “I know that.”

  “My mother was a sentimental woman.” He stopped.

  “Yes?” I said.

  “I’m going to tell you something now that, at that time, never even occurred to me. I just never thought about it. It never entered my mind.”

  “You can believe him,” Prairie said. “He’s that kind of a guy.”

  “Anyway, according to my mother’s will, I have been receiving the proceeds of a rather large estate, but the principal, I’d say upward of two million dollars, remained in trust, to vest, when I die, equally in my children, if any. Otherwise, upon my death, the principal vests in my next of kin, and if there is no next of kin, to specified charities. That’s the will. And my dear wife knew about it.”

  “Your children?”

  “There were no children. And I’d never been married before.”

  “Then why—”

  “She was my next of kin.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “She was my next of kin. I never thought about it that way. I don’t have a legal mind. I just don’t think along those lines. I never thought of her as a next of kin, or any other sort of kin. I have no family. My father died prior to my mother, and there’s nobody else, no aunts or uncles—just myself. Even now, I don’t know the exact terminology o
f that will. But I do know that Pamela Reeves, as my wife, was the one who would take over that principal at the time of my death. I checked with the lawyers.”

  “Two million smackeroos,” Prairie said.

  “I begin to see,” I said. “But then, why Nottiby?”

  “She was getting nothing from me. Nottiby was rich in his own right, and, well, dissolute. She could take him—and still hold on to her interest in my estate. There you have it.”

  “Sure. But you could put a crimper on that. You could divorce her.”

  “But it was Nottiby who was her new, if illegal, husband. Nottiby. She was a clever bitch, and she knew me.”

  “You mean the scandal?”

  “Scandal? Yes, the scandal, but I suppose I would have done it anyway, despite the scandal. No. There’s a child, Mr. Chambers, a child that was already born when I returned and learned they were married. Any move on my part would have been an open declaration of the illegitimacy of the child. How do you like that? Plus—I know Nottiby. In the circumstances, if I took corrective steps, I tell you he might have killed her. A woman who knowingly would have had a child of a marriage which was bigamous—”

  Came a knock on the door.

  Came a sing-song soprano:

  “Anybody home?”

  Merrill turned a slow top-of-the-socket glance toward Prairie.

  “I must’ve left the door open,” Prairie said.

  The voice sang: “What is this? Anybody home?”

  Prairie began to rise out of the easy chair, like a suddenly activated balloon. Then he settled back. A very, very pretty young lady presented herself, full-blown and glowing.

  “Hello. Hello, Prairie. Hello, Mr. Merrill.”

  Merrill gave Prairie his empty glass. “Hello, Annie.”

  “Hello, Annie,” Prairie said, putting the glass aside.

  “I’m ready, Mr. Merrill,” Annie said.

  “Ready? Ready for what?”

  “I’m ready for you to do me, Mr. Merrill.”

  “I’ll do you,” Prairie said.

  “Not you, sweetie. Mr. Merrill.”

  “Boy, would I love to do you,” Prairie said.

  She giggled. She shot her wide blue eyes at me, then at Merrill, then at Prairie. “Not you. Mr. Merrill.”

  She wore a mannish trench coat, long to the ankles. She took it off and let it fall. She wore a short yellow sun dress and brown suede high-heeled shoes and a deep meaningful smile.

  She noticed me. “Oh, hello.”

  “Hello.”

  “I’m ready, Mr. Merrill. You said you’d do me. You said I was lovely, and you’d do me. I’m ready for you to do me, Mr. Merrill. Do me.” She unhooked the pinafore and let it drop beside the trench coat. She was very, very pretty, full-blown.

  “Antoinette Fleckle,” Merrill said. “Peter Chambers.”

  “How do you do?”

  “How do you do?”

  “Annie …” Prairie said.

  “I’m ready, Mr. Merrill. I’m ready for you to do me.”

  “Not now, Annie. I’m busy now.”

  “But you said you’d do me.”

  “I’d love to do you,” Prairie said.

  “Not you. Mr. Merrill.”

  Merrill smiled toward me. “Annie’s an art student, Mr. Chambers.”

  “I’m a baby-sitter,” Annie said. “I’m the best damn baby-sitter in the Village, and the most popular.”

  “No doubt,” I said.

  “Do you have a baby I can sit with?”

  “You can sit with me,” Prairie said.

  “Would you like a drink?” Merrill asked.

  “No. No drink, thank you. When I want a drink, I go over to the Hall. Don’t you want to do me, Mr. Merrill?”

  “I certainly do, Annie. But not now.”

  “I do,” Prairie said. “Any time.”

  “Not you. Mr. Merrill. I think Mr. Merrill is the most fascinating man, Mr. Chambers. Don’t you?”

  “Well …” I said.

  “Do you think I have a beautiful body?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Now, look here—” Prairie said, virtuous.

  “Aren’t you going to do me, Mr. Merrill?”

  “Some other time, Annie. I’m busy right now.”

  “The hell with you, Mr. Merrill.” Annie reached for her yellow pinafore. Disconcertingly. “You’ll be asking me, hereafter. Wait and see. Mr. Merrill, you’ll be begging me. Everybody begs me.”

  “No doubt,” I said.

  “Are you a painter, Mr. Chambers?”

  “No. I wish I were.”

  “My God, stop looking at me. Somebody’d think you never saw—”

  “Annie’s a Quaker from Dingman’s Ferry, Mr. Chambers,” Merrill said. “A Quaker from Dingman’s Ferry.”

  “You’ll have to ask me hereafter, Mr. Merrill. You’ll have to beg me.” She arranged the pinafore in suitable folds around her body.

  “I’m asking, Annie,” Prairie said.

  “Not you, sweetie. Mr. Merrill.”

  Prairie picked up her trench coat and led her out.

  “Where were we?” Merrill asked.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “We were up to where Nottiby could kill,” I said. “That was a delightful young lady.”

  Merrill blinked. “What? Who?”

  “Antoinette.”

  “Oh, Annie. Be careful with Annie, Mr. Chambers. She’s Prairie’s betrothed.”

  “Annie?”

  “Antoinette.”

  Prairie came back, shaking his head and wrinkling his eyes. “Cute, huh?”

  “Lovely,” I said. “Where’d you get that—”

  “Where were we?” Merrill said.

  I sighed. “Nottiby could kill.”

  “Yes. I know my man. If I broke it up, Nottiby might have killed her. Simply. Like that. The mean, filthy, planned, bigamous marriage, the child …”

  “Yes, but do you think she knew how you’d react?”

  “I’m sure she did. She knew how close Nottiby and I were. Yes, I’m pretty sure she knew. Perhaps, even, that was the reason for the child; I wouldn’t put anything past her. I’m sure she balanced it, everything, all of it, before she made any move.”

  “Balanced it?”

  “Fundamentally, what did I have to lose—leaving matters in status quo? I was, and I am, receiving the income from that estate. Two million dollars. It sounds like a lot of money. It is a lot of money. But under the terms of that will, I could never have it anyway. It either vested in my children, of which I have none, or my next of kin, or charity. I could never receive any of it, and I would have to die, before she could inherit. All right, what do I care, really, what happens after I’m dead? And who said there’s a law that I would die before she did? Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Only,” Prairie said, “the balance jumped out of kilter.”

  “A long time went by. Years. I’d removed it from my mind. I had come to decision. I was not going to disturb it … the poor kid … Nottiby …” He stood up and rubbed his hands together. “It’s getting chilly, isn’t it?”

  I was about to say, “No,” but I didn’t say anything.

  “I’ll get you a shirt,” Prairie said. He went out and came back with a checkered lumberjack. Merrill put it on, buttoned one button, rubbed his hands again.

  “Time for another round, I think, Prairie.”

  “Oke by me,” Prairie said.

  “Skip me,” I said.

  “What’s the matter?” Prairie said. “You sick?”

  “I’ve got a big day ahead of me.”

  “Big day, big day. I’ll fix you a small one.”

  “Sold.”

  “I know. I twisted your arm.”

  Scotch splashed in glasses. Merrill walked the room with his long, jerky stride. He rubbed his hands through his hair, rubbed them together. He smiled, scowled, smiled again. Prairie brought the drinks. “Take it easy, boss.�
��

  Merrill walked. I sat.

  “Yes,” Merrill said. “After a long time, the balance fell out of kilter. I don’t like having to tell you this part of the story, Mr. Chambers.”

  “Aw, he’s a hundred per cent, boss.” Prairie was back in the easy chair, one leg up. “I’ll guarantee Transom. I’ll pouch for him. Any time.”

  “Vouch,” Merrill said.

  “Vouch, pouch—don’t worry about Transom. You can trust him in-plicitly.”

  “Imp, Prairie.”

  “Me, boss?”

  Merrill sighed. “The counterbalance, Mr. Chambers, was Nancy Reeves.”

  “I see,” I said behind the highball.

  “Let me tell you about myself. I’m not a great painter. I’m not even a really good painter.” He pointed at Prairie. “There’s the painter. I—I’m a man with a flair, style. The public goes for me, like Annie. I make women look impossibly beautiful. I make women look like what boys dream they look like, and grow up to find how wrong they are. Whatever, I have the flair, and I am expensive—because I can afford to be expensive—and I have become a sort of vogue. I like it—having a flair, being a vogue, being expensive; it gives me prestige, I stand well with myself, I stand well with my community, I have a certain fame—I like it.”

  “Naturally.”

  “About seven months ago, Petersen brought a new model down to me. He had known her for a number of years; she was—his protégée. Nancy Reeves. She had worked exclusively for Shantrell, on a series. But Shantrell doesn’t do commercial work any more. Shantrell is old, and Shantrell has begun to break up. His psychoanalyst has him doing still-life and flowers, still-life and flowers. But let’s not fret over Shantrell; Shantrell can afford it. Petersen brought her to me.”

  “I can do flowers,” Prairie said. “I can do flowers without a psychoanalyst. I can do a psychoanalyst. You ought to see my portrait of Van Cupp. No, you can’t see it. I sold it to him. Nobody sees it.”

  Merrill walked. “I fell in love with Nancy Reeves. Consider that. I knew quickly enough that she was Pamela’s sister. Consider that kettle of fish. Pamela, Nottiby, Pamela’s sister, Petersen’s protégée—and love. And she was in love with me. Consider that. Love. None of that business of beanbag with the protégée—she’s yours, she’s mine—whose protégée is she? As Prairie would put it, the—”