Wife or Death

by Ellery Queen

  George Guest was sitting between Denton's wife and his own, his long legs stuck way out, a tow-haired, rawboned length of embarrassed pirate. He wore an old pair of fireman-type boots, with the tops cuffed down, over black slacks; he had borrowed the red cummerbund of his summer tux outfit to wear as a sash, in which he had thrust a rubber dagger; his blouse was one of the wilder sports shirts he doted on, open at the throat; and for his pirate's hat he had taken an ancient felt, pinned its brim up in front, and painted a white skull-and-crossbones on it. He had either lost or thrown away his eyepatch, and the Captain Hook part of his costume—a detachable sleeve designed to fit over one hand with a hook at the end of it—lay in his lap.

  Guest said to Corinne, " 'Lo, honey," in a curiously self-conscious voice, and then he said, "Hi, Jamesy," even more so.

  For one incredulous instant the thought crossed Denton's mind that Angel's mysterious new conquest was George Guest. The next instant Denton experienced shame. He could no more conceive of George's making advances to Angel than he could imagine himself pursuing Corinne with lust in his eye. Three lifetimes of friendship stood in the way; it would have been something like incest.

  And if that makes me the world's biggest sucker, Denton thought, the world's biggest sucker I am. Not George. Not old George. Even Angel, he thought, would hesitate before making a play for Corinne's husband and his own best friend.

  George was just showing husbandly guilt at having deserted his wife for so long, Denton decided. He must have run into Angel after she returned from her nuzzling party with whomever she had been fooling around all evening: and, if he knew George, the idiot had probably latched on to Angel to keep her respectable for what was left of the ball. ■

  Corinne seemed to be having thoughts of her own. She asked her husband a bit too sweetly, "Been having fun, dear?"

  "Oh, hacking around," George said. "T figured you must be in the bar with this character. I was just going downstairs to look."

  Angel said to Denton, "Darling, we're all invited to an after-the-dance snack party at the Wyatts'. I mean the four of us. Isn't that nice?"

  "Fine," Denton said without enthusiasm.

  "I think Mr. Wyatt's considering making me a TV offer," his wife went on, uttering her strident little laugh. "Of course, I wouldn't think of accepting. But it is nice to know you're still remembered in show business."

  That routine again, Denton thought. Angel had let it be known in Ridgemore that in marrying Denton two years before she had sacrificed a brilliant theatrical career. To hear her tell it, she had been hip deep in Broadway and Hollywood offers when he snatched her out of the arms of fame and fortune. He was the only one in town who knew that he had found her in a third-rate night club in Buffalo doing a strip act.

  He had been well aware that Angel grabbed at his proposal of marriage to escape a bump-and-grind career that was going nowhere. He had been in the full grip of her sexual magnetism at the time. Even so, he had known that her only exploitable talent was disrobing in public. That was what had brought the customers back night after night—himself included—to the dumpy bistro where he first caught her act.

  He remembered once remarking to her, when they had gotten home after an evening with friends devoted largely to Angel's fantasizing, that if she had ever received an offer from a producer it was for a one-night stand in a hotel room. Angel had seemed genuinely hurt; her pouting lips had drooped and she had begun to cry. And the farther into the past her professional career receded, the more glamorous it became. After a while Denton had given up ragging her about it, convinced that she believed it all herself.

  It was this adolescent clutch of Angel's on a dream-world that had kept him from leaving her when he found out about her first act of infidelity. And even though her subsequent conduct had driven Denton to the point where he no longer cared what she did, or with whom, he still could not find it within himself to drum up any normal male outrage. In spite of her lusting and lust-arousing body, she remained the child her face proclaimed her.

  Denton came back to the present. Corinne Guest was asking, with the slightest frown, "How did the Wyatts happen to include George and me, Angel?"

  Angel's blue eyes widened. "Why shouldn't they, for heaven's sake?"

  "As a matter of fact, Cor," George Guest said, "you and I were invited first. I was dancing with Ardis Wyatt when she invited us. Angel was dancing with Norm Wyatt. When we traded partners, Ardis and Norm told Angel to bring Jim along, too."

  The tune the orchestra had been playing came to an end, and the musicians began to pack their instruments. Denton realized that he had been listening to "Good Night, Ladies." And he hadn't danced a single dance, he thought ruefully, "Is it that late?" Corinne asked in a surprised voice. George pushed his sleeve back and looked at his watch. "Sure is. Five past one."

  Angel jumped up. "We'd better start for the Wyatts', then. Ardis said to come over right after the dance. And I promised her to help set up the buffet."

  "Buffet?" Denton said. "That sounds like a lot of people." "Well, sure, darling! It's not just us four. It's going to be a regular party."

  Corinne said doubtfully, "One of those all-night whing-dings ... I don't know, George. Church in the morning—"

  "Oh, Corinne, don't be a party pooper," Angel cried. "It'll be more fun. Everyone who's anyone is going to be there."

  Everyone who's anyone ... Angel, like so many people from the shanty side of the tracks, was rigidly class-conscious. Denton had been unable to make her understand that in Ridgemore a social aristocracy did not exist. There was little real money in town, and the closest thing to "society" was the group of merchants and professional people with sufficient income to afford membership in the Ridgemore Country Club. Since the club dues were only two hundred dollars a year, and the board of governors included the local fish dealer and the owner of the Ridgemore Sanitation Company—the fancy name by which he operated his private garbage-collection business—this was hardly restrictive. But Angel had never been able to grasp the democratic level of the community; she insisted, characteristically, on conjuring up an elite so that she could place Denton and herself within its exalted ranks.

  In the early days of their marriage this had both amused and touched Denton. Angel had never been communicative about her background, even to him, but he did know that she was the youngest of the ten children of a Pennsylvania coal-miner, and that she had run away from home at the age of fifteen. Her marriage to him had enabled her, for the first time in her life, to enjoy what she insisted on regarding as social prestige, and he had been indulgent of her airs. Now he was neither amused nor touched, just indifferent.

  "George and I will get your coats," Denton said to Angel and Corinne, "and meet you at the front door. Come on, George."

  George Guest got up with undisguised relief.

  3

  Outside, the air was still. The threat of rain and thunder rumbled in the west. As Denton held the car door open for Angel, he looked speculatively skyward.

  "Maybe we'd better make a run for home," he suggested. "It's going to storm."

  Angel regarded him as though he had suddenly grown a second head. "And miss a party at the Wyatts'? Don't be silly, James!"

  Shrugging, Denton closed the door, rounded the car and slid under the wheel. Across the parking lot he saw George Guest's car back out from its space. Denton waited for him to drive out of the exit gate before he followed.

  A few big raindrops started to fall as the two cars parked in the Wyatts' driveway. The two couples dashed for the protection of the porch.

  The Wyatt house was a modest old two-story frame on a hill overlooking the river. Ridgemore occupied hills and valleys; it was an up-and-down town, with hardly a street outside the business district which ran on the level.

  Norman Wyatt was Ridgemore's local-boy-who-made-good. One of the nation's most successful TV producers, his legal residence was Hollywood; but he still hung on to his old family home in Ridgemore. His swank hunt
ing lodge in the mountains high above the town was a sort of toe-scuffing advertisement of his fame.

  The Wyatts visited Ridgemore about three times a year. Hunting lodge aside, they were the exception that proved the Ridgemore rule of classlessness. Norm Wyatt, looking older than his forty years, was a soft-bellied bear of a man who loved to entertain the old friends of his Ridgemore youth; he had never outgrown his beginnings. His wife Ardis, a year or two his senior, came from another world. She was a handsome, imperious woman with the tailored ease of manner that only a lifetime of unlimited means could have produced—gracious, without airs, equally at home in jeans on a horse or at a society soiree in a Givenchy gown. Ardis Wyatt was the daughter of Gerald Trevor, multimillionaire president and chairman of the board of Trevor-United Studios, of which Norman Wyatt was executive vice-president.

  Wyatt, still in his Henry VIII costume, greeted the Den-tons and Guests at the door.

  "You're the first." He waved them into the old Wyatt living room, grinning his warm, homely grin.

  Ardis Wyatt was made up as Queen Elizabeth I; the costume was startlingly suited to her. "Hi," she said. "You girls are conscripted. Off to the kitchen!" And Angel and Corinne trotted across the dining room after their queenly hostess to help set up the buffet. It was characteristic of Ardis that at her informal get-togethers—in Ridgemore—she did most of her own work.

  As the three women disappeared behind the swinging kitchen door, a tall, trim, courtly-looking, white-haired man in his late sixties came down the stairs from the upper floor. He wore the costume of a Confederate general.

  Norm Wyatt said, "You fellows know my father-in-law, don't you?"

  "Oh, yes," Jim Denton said.

  "We met last year at the club, Mr. Trevor," George Guest said. "George Guest?"

  "Of course." Trevor obviously did not remember him. "'It's nice to see you both again."

  "Enjoy the ball, Mr. Trevor?" Denton asked, just to say something.

  "Very much—Jim, isn't it?—except that I made the mistake of wearing a costume requiring a dress-sword. I spent most of the evening tripping over it. Just shed it upstairs."

  "I know what you mean." Denton unbuckled his own sword and stood it in a corner.

  "Gerald always has himself a time when there are gals around," Wyatt chuckled. "Regular old rip. What'll you have to drink?"

  Denton and George Guest both said bourbon and soda, Trevor, Scotch on the rocks. They gathered at the bar as Norman Wyatt went behind it to fix the drinks.

  "You're becoming almost a resident, Mr. Trevor," Denton remarked. "Isn't this your third visit this year?"

  "I've got in the habit of tagging along with Ardis and Norman whenever I can," the tycoon said. "Like most obsolete old nuisances."

  "Don't believe a word of it," his son-in-law said. "We practically have to kidnap him to keep him out of the clutches of those Hollywood babes. Here we can keep an eye on him."

  Trevor smiled his reserved smile. "I'm afraid I'm beyond the age when you have to worry about romantic involvements, Norman."

  Wyatt served the three men and started to mix himself a Scotch and water. "Listen to that innocent tone. I saw you charming the pants off the girls tonight. Jim, you'd better keep an eye on Angel when Gerald's around. He danced with her twice."

  "Three times," the old gentleman said promptly. "Norman is jealous because I cut in. Charming girl, your wife, Jim. Twenty—well, even ten—years ago you'd have had to watch me."

  "I'm not the least bit worried, Mr. Trevor," Denton said Delphically. The millionaire gave him a keen look.

  George Guest said hastily, "Norm, how long are you planning to stay this trip?"

  "I ought to get back to work in a couple of weeks, but Gerald would throw a fit if I dragged him away before he got in some deer. He's hotter about hunting than I am. And he's the big wheel, so I have to humor him."

  "Norman likes to preserve the fiction that I still run things," Trevor said fondly. "If you're really that eager to get back to work. Norman, you can leave tomorrow."

  "And miss the deer? Don't be silly!"

  The tycoon and his son-in-law exchanged affectionate grins. The inevitable opinion in some quarters that Norman Wyatt owed his success to his marriage to the daughter of the head of Trevor-United Studios was not shared by Denton. It had always seemed to Denton that if Wyatt had charmed himself into his present position, he had charmed the father as much as the daughter.

  The doorbell rang and Wyatt came from behind the bar to answer it. As he opened the door the sky lit up and there was a great rumble of thunder, and a crash. Fat Clara Sommers, standing on the porch with her husband, shrieked and nearly bowled Wyatt over in her panic to get indoors.

  Her equally fat husband roared with laughter. "Never knew you could move that fast, Clar'. You looked like a cat with a scalded tail."

  "That hit awfully close," Clara Sommers panted. "Did I hurt you, Norman?"

  "Think nothing of it." Wyatt was peering out, and Denton strolled over to join him. By the light of the street lamp before the house they could see the long spattering drops still coming straight down.

  Wyatt said, "That was close," and shut the door.

  Ardis Wyatt, Angel and Corinne had hurried in from the dining room. The three women looked frightened.

  "What was that?" Ardis gasped.

  "The crack of doom," Denton said.

  "No—seriously. That sounded as if it missed us by a hair.”

  Norm Wyatt said, "A miss is as good as her smile. Come on, Ardis, light up!" His wife smiled faintly. "You kitchen help ready for a drink?" He went back to tending bar.

  Apparently the buffet was ready, for Ardis and Corinne and Angel remained in the living room. Wyatt had just finished preparing drinks for them and the Sommerses when the other guests arrived.

  Most were married but two unaccompanied men showed up.

  One was young Arnold Long. He had completed his hitch for Uncle Sam less than a year ago, and Denton suspected that he and the United States Army had parted company with equal pleasure. Arnold was good-looking in a sharp-eyed, oily-haired way; he was shrewd, ingratiating and without ambition. Apparently he had no plans for going to work, for he was running around town in a brand-new white Avanti, the rakish gift of his mama, usually heading its futuristic fiberglass body for some leafy bower in the hills with one of the girls employed in Long Senior's small machine-parts factory. As far as Denton had ever been able to make out, young Arnold's sole genuine enthusiasm was for seducing factory girls in lovers' lanes; he had been invited here by the Wyatts, Denton was sure, only because they were fond of his father. Mr. and Mrs. Long were in bunny costumes; their son wore a scornful dinner jacket. He looked well in dinner jackets.

  The other bachelor was Matthew Fallon, a lank and sad-eyed man with a horse face and uncombable red hair. In his late thirties, Fallon drew a cartoon strip for a newspaper syndicate. His hobo get-up was remarkably realistic.

  Jim Denton got on the end of the buffet line, and by the time he had helped himself to ham and turkey and potato salad he found all the living room chairs occupied. So he stepped into the hall and sat down with his plate on the second step of the stairway.

  "That's a fine place to sit, Jim."

  Denton looked up; it was Queen Elizabeth. "Hi, Your Majesty. This isn't my night for pushing ladies off chairs onto their duffs." He moved over. "Aren't you eating?"

  Ardis Wyatt sat down beside him. She had a drink in her hand. "Speaking about duffs—no."

  "Don't give me that. Your fanny isn't any bigger than mine."

  "That's what I mean. You're getting editorial spread, Jim."

  "The hell I am. Though this potato salad could do it. It's delicious."

  "Don't thank me," Ardis laughed. "On ball nights and such, when I have people over afterwards, I have my food catered. I wish I had your wife's figure."

  Denton said dryly, "Well, she certainly isn't making any secret of it."

  Gerald Trevor's daug
hter glanced at him, and away. "I think," she said lightly, "that Angel's made a conquest."

  He nearly said, "Which one?" Angel, who carefully counted calories, was neither eating nor drinking. She was standing near the bar talking animatedly to Matthew Fallon and old Gerald Trevor. Instead, Denton said, "It's my guess your father's the one who's made the conquest, Ardis. After all, he's a pretty big shot in show business."

  "You're kidding," Ardis Wyatt said.

  Denton laughed. "How do I know what Tm doing?"

  Norman Wyatt went to answer the doorbell. Ralph Crosby, purpler-faced even than he had been at the country club bar, walked in with elaborate steadiness. He was very drunk. The rain had begun to come down tropically. The district attorney stood dripping, his black hair plastered to his forehead, and staring around.