The Man Who Loved His Wife

by Vera Caspary

  “You got to get a chance out here like any place else,” the older policeman said doubtfully.

  “Every place in the world a man’s got to get a chance. You’ve got to recognize the chance and seize it,” cried Don.

  “It’s the way the cookie crumbles,” the younger cop said.

  “Right you are!” exclaimed Don and raced exuberantly back to the house.

  11

  THE EVENING PAPER WAS TOSSED UPON THE driveway by the middle-aged newsboy in a bright red convertible with a raucous radio. On the front page was a photograph stolen by an enterprising reporter. The snapshot, enlarged and framed in silver, had been taken in Jamaica during the honeymoon. Both Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher Strode wore jaunty tennis shorts. On the third page there was a two-column reproduction of an advertisement posed by Elaine before her marriage. In a chiffon nightgown and with outstretched arms, head thrown back, smile radiant, she demonstrated a girl’s ecstasy at having found a deodorant that guaranteed underarm daintiness. A smaller photograph showed the “one-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar death mansion” for which Fletcher had paid eighty-five thousand dollars.

  Cindy said she thought it was awful, people’s lives being exposed in that vulgar fashion. “Just listen to this, ‘The beautiful blond daughter, New York debutante, here for a holiday with her lawyer husband . . .’ Isn’t it too silly?”

  “You might just possibly have suggested it,” remarked Elaine.

  Don laughed. Cindy’s mouth twisted. She went on reading the paper, aggressively rustling pages and reading aloud those passages which were most flattering to herself or most embarrassing to Elaine.

  Elaine escaped to the garden. She was very nervous. The birds in the branches twittered restlessly. At this hour of the twilight— no matter how noisily they sang at night— they were quiet. Usually Elaine was not disturbed by natural sounds. This evening she felt positively ill with drowsiness. Fatigue lay upon her like a smothering weight. She had been neither able to sleep nor to arouse herself. Twice she had made coffee, twice let it grow cold in the cup. Once more the desert wind had conquered sea breezes and fog. There had been a three-day surcease and now the heat was upon them again. How Fletcher would have suffered! She felt now that she must find and comfort him.

  Voices pursued her. Don and Cindy came out in bathing suits. “Do you think it’s heartless of us?” Cindy asked. “But we’ve simply got to cool off.”

  She stood at the edge of the pool, but did not go in. Don dived with an enormous splash. Cindy shuddered away from the pool. “Come in, beauties, it’s marvelous.”

  Elaine said she was too tired and returned to the house. She was afraid of what she might say if she remained in their nervous company. The scent of jasmine was too sweet, the fallen blossoms of red oleander like blood upon the grass. She had begun to hate her garden.

  Cindy watched her go. She was tense and strung up, too. Since Nan had gone, Cindy had been flitting about like a moth under a lampshade. Don had asked about the important matter she had wanted to confide before her friend arrived. This had sent her into a twitter so that she could not keep her mind on any one thing. Don had thought a dip in the pool might soothe her.

  “Aren’t you coming in?” he called.

  “I’m not in the mood.” She looked over her left and right shoulders to be sure there were no more reporters waiting in the garden. The short twilight ended abruptly. Lights flashed frequently, for traffic had become heavy on the hill. Motorists came to gape at the death mansion, but were urged to keep moving by the two policemen in the car at the curb.

  Don climbed out of the pool, shook himself like a terrier, and dried his face on his bathrobe.

  “What’s it all about? Tell me and get it over with.”

  Cindy ran ahead to the pavilion, looked about again, and drew a chair to the center. “You needn’t be so cross. I’m terribly upset.” Nan had emptied her cigarette case so that Cindy wouldn’t be left stranded. Cindy lit one and held the burning match until it scorched her fingers.

  The match dropped, flaming, to the floor. Don sprang to stamp it out, but remembered that he was barefoot and pulled away. “For God’s sake, you could start a fire.” He looked down for something to press down upon the flame, but there were no small objects about. All the ashtrays had been removed. Perhaps on Monday, when their lives were normal, Elaine had taken them to the kitchen to be washed; perhaps the police had “borrowed” them for examination in the laboratory. Every detail had significance.

  The small flame flickered out. Don walked to the rail and looked down at the rows of asters and marigolds, remembered what he had read in Fletcher’s diary about the poisons used in the garden.

  “What happens to the people who hide things from the police?”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s supposed to be a crime or something, isn’t it?”

  “What do you want to know for? Did you hide something?”

  She was so slow about answering that Don had to snap at her again about dropping ashes on the dry wood. “We’ve had enough around here without a fire, too.”

  “If you’re going to be nasty, I won’t tell you.” She joined him at the rail, flicked ashes into the flower bed.

  “Concealing evidence in a criminal case makes a person an accessory after the fact. Have you concealed something?”

  The cigarette was pressed out viciously against the wooden rail. She dropped the stub into the flower bed as slyly as if it were evidence of crime. “A plastic bag. The kind that comes over clothes from the cleaner’s.”

  “Plastic bag? Where was it?”

  Don touched her hand and Cindy shuddered away. She had neither the talent nor training for secrets. A child of the permissively bred generation to whom lies were unnecessary, she stated facts and feelings flatly and with little concern for effect. Her falsehoods had concerned clothing prices which she had inflated to improve her position with girlfriends. Otherwise she had always practiced easy honesty. Since Tuesday morning she had suffered a secret.

  “On him. Daddy.”

  Don drummed on the rail. To Cindy it seemed that years passed while he stood there tapping his fingers and looking out at nothing. “Aren’t you surprised?”

  “You found the bag on your father?” His tone was measured.

  “Yes. It was under that thing,” she touched the base of her neck, “he breathed through.”

  “The bib?”

  She nodded.

  “Then it wasn’t an accident,” Don said. “And you pulled it off?”

  “I didn’t want people thinking Daddy committed suicide.”

  “For Christ’s sake!”

  “I couldn’t bear it. People thinking . . . I mean . . . a girl at school, Martha Ann Lee, her name was, her father . . .” Confession felt like vomit rising. “It was terrible. All the girls whispered and we couldn’t look at her without thinking. I mean . . . she had to leave school . . . Martha Ann Lee. The whole family was disgraced. I didn’t want people thinking . . .” The taste of nausea filled her mouth. She couldn’t go on.

  “You little fool.” Don’s anger attacked her like a weapon. “Suicide’s no disgrace.”

  “But it was. One day we met Martha Ann on the street. Nan and I. We couldn’t forget. What could we say to her? People remember for the rest of your life.”

  “Front-page headlines are a hell of a lot worse than whispers.”

  She fought back sickness. “I never thought . . . the police and all that stuff. I mean . . . it could have been a heart attack if the people didn’t know.”

  “Just when did that thought occur to you?”

  “You needn’t be so mean. People do die of heart attacks all the time at this age.”

  “Is that all there was to it? You didn’t want it to look like suicide?”

  “Suicide is the coward’s way out. I was thinking of Daddy’s reputation. How did I know there’d be all that fuss? Besides, Donnie, there’s the insurance. A hundred thousand dollars, I told you
the other day. And I thought of my mother’s insurance, too.”

  “Did you think that they wouldn’t pay if it was suicide?”

  “They don’t. Didn’t you know that? I was thinking of you too, darling.” She appealed like a child asking forgiveness of a father, and since she no longer had a father, elevating Don to that place. “We can’t afford to lose all that money.”

  Don explained that she was mistaken about the insurance. Perhaps Martha Ann Lee’s family had not received the benefits, but the father might have taken out the insurance just before he died. Fletcher Strode had been insured for many years, since before Cindy was born; at the time of the divorce he had increased his insurance for the protection of the child and his first wife. It was unlikely that after so many years the benefits would not be paid; unlikely, too, that Fletcher Strode’s policies contained the suicide clause.

  “How would I know that? I always heard they wouldn’t pay a nickel if a person committed suicide. Was it so terribly wrong?”

  “Not only wrong, criminal. It could get you into a hell of a lot of trouble.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “It’s a crime to conceal evidence. You could go to jail for it.”

  The sickness returned. Cindy raced to the edge of the pavilion and vomited into a bed of marigolds. Don came after her. “Take it easy,” he said and led her to the long chair. She was as chilled and damp as if she had been fished out of the pool, as tremulous as if she had been rescued from death by drowning. Don offered to her a drink of water, some brandy or hot tea, but she refuted everything except a cigarette, which she reached for with such agitation that she grabbed at the air.

  “Do we have to tell them?”

  “It’d certainly change the case. I don’t think Sergeant Knight would welcome the information.”

  “Why not?” Cindy breathed more easily.

  “It’s big opportunity for him. He can get a lot of publicity out of a murder case, make himself a big man. How do you think he’s going to take it if his murder turns out to be an ordinary suicide?”

  “You see!” cried Cindy, who saw this reasoning as vindication.

  “On the other hand, what does it prove? Only that there was a plastic bag and that it caused death by suffocation. He might well have done it himself.”

  “Why do you keep saying that? Do you know anything special?” She dropped her burning cigarette onto dry wood.

  Don did not notice. He had become the defense attorney, finding arguments to protect the client. “You might have saved your father’s life by pulling off that bag. You’d had no experience with death. How did you know when you came into the room that he wasn’t alive?”

  “You’re right. That’s what I thought,” she cried eagerly. “That’s why I did it. Honestly, Don.”

  As defense attorney he felt it his duty to be objective considering the case from all angles. “It was a bit late for that.”

  “How did I know? You just said, Don, that I didn’t have any experience with death. You make me feel that I did something terrible.”

  “You did something foolish. If you’d confessed to the detectives right away, your action wouldn’t be questioned.” It was necessary for the attorney to let the bewildered client know both the hazards and the hopeful aspects of the case. “The bag might be significant as evidence if it could be produced without incriminating you.”

  “Can’t you do something to fix it up? You’re a lawyer.”

  “Where is the bag? What did you do with it?”

  “It’s in my closet. Over my beige organza.” She dared a small chuckle. “At first I hid it on the floor behind our bags, but when those detectives started snooping around, I hung it over my dress. What could be more natural? A light dress like that ought to be kept covered. One of those men,” she said almost gaily, “looked straight at it. He opened my closet door and there it was, over my dress.”

  “They came into our room?”

  “Just for a couple minutes. Looked around without much interest. Of course there was nothing to suspect us of.”

  “Of course not.”

  “There was the bag right over my dress. I don’t have to tell them about it, do I?”

  “You’re not to mention it to anyone. Let me think about it.”

  “I had to tell you. I couldn’t hold it in any longer.”

  “If I thought it’d help, I’d advise you to let Knight know right away. But,” The pause was calculated, “Speaking as your lawyer, I want to give you this advice. Don’t breathe this to anyone unless I advise it.”

  “Suppose they find it?”

  “It’s just as you said dear, a plastic bag over a party dress is the most usual thing in the world.” A second and more ponderous pause was aimed at intimidation. “Is there anything else you think you ought to tell me?”

  “Why . . . why should there be?”

  “I’m asking.”

  They went into the house. In their bedroom the sudden glare of electric light caused embarrassment, strangely, for they had lived together for almost a year. Cindy became as modest as if the sight of her body would expose something she wished to hide. Don went into the bathroom to take off his bathing trunks. He came out in pajamas. Cindy had put on a long, opaque nightgown. They faced each other warily.

  “You know what I think, Donnie?”

  Don was far off, in the courtroom, hearing the monotonous voice of the clerk reading from Fletcher Strode’s diary. When a man has written, not once but many times, that he suspects his wife of planning murder and murder is done, a jury cannot have much doubt.

  “I spoke to you, Donnie.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Whoever put that bag over Daddy wanted it to look like suicide.”

  “Obviously.”

  “You don’t have to bite my head off. I was just figuring things out. Why are you so snappy about it?”

  “Sorry,” he answered curtly. “I was thinking about something else.”

  “You know what you sound like? Like you’re scared.”

  “I have nothing to be afraid of,” Don said loftily. “Only for you, my sweet.”

  “Oh, now! They wouldn’t put me in jail for hiding the bag. I don’t believe it.”

  “You’ve got to be mighty careful. People get strange ideas. You know of course, that a person convicted of murder can’t inherit the victim’s property. That’s the law in most states.”

  “Why should that bother me?” She gave him her most wide-eyed stare.

  Like a cautious attorney giving advice across the width of a desk, he lowered his voice. “I don’t think for a minute that you’ve got anything of that sort to worry about, dear, but we do have to be careful about what we say since we . . . that is, you . . . are next in line for the inheritance of the property.”

  “You’re the only one who knows.”

  “Weren’t you a bit indiscreet this afternoon? It may have impressed Nan, but it might look to outsiders as if you wished to cast suspicion on someone else.”

  Watching the blond girl in the mirror, Cindy rearranged a stray lock. “Don’t you trust me, darling?” And she enjoyed the reflection of a subtle smile.

  “Naturally, darling. But it’s only that sometimes you’re,” he could not tell her she was crude and, instead, chose, “impulsive.”

  “I can keep things to myself. You’d be surprised,” she told him with hauteur. “I may be thinking of something terrible right at this moment. And I won’t tell you.”

  “By all means, keep your thoughts to yourself. It’s the safest way.”

  In the mirror their eyes met. Cindy stared into his face with fixed zeal. Don wheeled around and looked at her directly. She moved toward him. In their eyes were understanding and promise. Cindy felt subtle. Don nodded delicately. Never in the wildest moments of love had they been closer in spirit. “Oh, Donnie, oh, darling.” It was like the final sigh upon a pillow.

  THE NEXT MORNING, while Cindy was in the shower, Don took the party dress fro
m its hanger. The almost inaudible rustle of the plastic stuff brought to mind the moment when he had kissed Elaine over a bundle of plastic-covered suits at the door of Fletcher’s closet. WARNING: TO AVOID DANGER OF SUFFOCATION KEEP AWAY FROM BABIES AND CHILDREN. DO NOT USE IN CRIBS, CARRIAGES, BEDS, OR PLAYPENS. THIS BAG IS NOT A TOY. A shadow passed the window. Instinct commanded Don to jump back and slam the closet door. Second thought told him that such precipitate action might arouse the curiosity of anyone looking through the windows. In a leisurely way he selected a linen jacket and dark slacks, moving as carelessly as a man whose mind is on nothing more than the selection of an outfit for the day.

  He found Elaine in the garden. When he laid his hand upon her arm she jumped like a cat. “It’s only me, beauty. Nothing to get nervous about, is there?”

  “This heat again. It tightens me up. And Sergeant Knight yesterday.” A delicate tremor possessed her. “I hardly slept at all. And even here, in bright daylight, I hear footsteps behind me. People jump out of bushes. I’m a mess.”

  “You’ve handled yourself wonderfully. Few women would have such courage.”

  She shook away from the light contact of his hand. “Ralph says I ought to have a lawyer.” Lest his pride be hurt by this, she hurried to say, “A local lawyer, someone who practices in California. What do you think?”

  “Let’s wait and see how things shape up. Leave it to me, I’ll find you the best man in the state.” Don took her arm again, masterfully. When he had first heard about Fletcher’s wife from Cindy and her mother, he had been charmed by their vindictive descriptions of the siren who had stolen the doting father and husband, and had thought of his father-in-law’s young wife as one of the those lovely, unattainable New York girls who enter exclusive restaurants on the arms of wealthy older men or rich young playboys. Once Cindy had shown him a photograph in an old copy of a fashion magazine, Elaine wrapped in furs, stepping haughtily into a limousine. The lovely dream had become human, attainable, dependent upon Don Hustings. He wished the circumstances were different.