The house, which originally stood well back from the water’s edge, had been burned to the ground sometime before he arrived and now he picked his way along the uneven beach, which, except at high tide, was wide enough to get to the Carver place without difficulty. Here, too, there was a seawall, but unlike the one on the other side of the bungalow, this one had been set back so that there were still several feet of shore in front of it. This in turn made a well-kept terrace, the chief feature of which was a good-sized swimming pool complete with aluminum beach chairs and chaises.
There was a light on in the living room and Wallace skirted the pool and, not bothering with the front door, stepped up to another raised stone terrace which served as an open-air porch outside the French doors. One of these was open, and as he knocked he could see Lorraine and Herbert Carver facing each other across a card table, Carver in a blue blazer with a club insignia on the breast pocket and Lorraine in a white hostess gown, her black hair pinned high.
“Hello,” Wallace said, stepping into the light so they could see him. “May I come in a minute?”
They both looked up quickly, their expressions startled. Lorraine took off her dark-rimmed glasses and then, as recognition came, they both smiled and Carver said: “Oh, David. Yes, by all means. Come in and have a nightcap with us.”
Wallace told him no thanks, and apologized for the intrusion. “I was looking for Fay,” he said. “I thought she might have wandered up this way.”
“Fay?” Carver said, brows lifting. “Good God, no!” Then, as though aware of how he sounded, he gave a cough of embarrassment. “That is—I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, David, but—” His voice trailed off and he looked to his wife for help.
“What he means,” Lorraine said with a small smile, “is that your wife hasn’t been exactly welcome lately. Apparently we both know it because she hasn’t been over here in weeks.”
“You understand this has nothing to do with you,” Carver said to keep the record clear. “Didn’t she come back from the Tavern with you?”
“Yes,” Wallace said. “We left soon after you did but we had—” he groped for a word—“a little scene and I thought I’d better get out for a while. She’d been drinking and—”
“I wondered about that,” Carver said.
“From what I saw, she was practically blind,” Lorraine added succinctly.
“Oh, come now, darling,” Carver protested. “It wasn’t as bad as that, you know.”
“Bad enough to make us leave early.” Lorraine glanced back at Wallace. “So what happened?”
Wallace thought a moment as he wondered how much he should tell, and he was reminded again, of the woman’s haughty look and regal quality, which was in no way diminished by the robe and the pinned-up hair. There was a look of veiled amusement in the dark eyes as she waited for his reply and even as he considered the mutual dislike that had existed between her and Fay he knew that in any competition between the two Fay would have to be outclassed.
“I went back to the Tavern for a drink,” he said.
“To calm down?” Lorraine asked with unerring accuracy.
“Something like that,” Wallace said. “I had a brandy and soda and brooded a while and Sam Lee Fong—do you know him?—bought me one and I drove back. The lights were on,” he added, “but when I glanced into her room she wasn’t there and the bed hadn’t been used.”
“She probably went out again,” Lorraine said, her amusement still showing. “Or maybe someone picked her up. That wouldn’t be too unusual, would it, David?”
Carver glanced at his wife with a look of mild disapproval and brushed the small graying mustache with his index finger. “If you’re worried,” he said, “I’d be glad to help you take a look along the beach.”
“No, no,” Wallace said. “Lorraine’s probably right . . . I’ll get on back and hit the sack. It won’t be the first time she’s been out late. Sorry I bothered you.”
Carver stood up. “Are you sure you won’t change your mind about the nightcap?”
Again Wallace said no thanks. He said he’d take a raincheck, added a good night, and backed out onto the terrace.
On the way back he went over in his mind the things that had been said and was satisfied with the impression he had made. Step two in his plan had been safely concluded, and as he considered the final step he found himself hurrying a little. Still preoccupied with his thoughts, he had nearly reached the bungalow when he saw something that stopped him in his tracks and held him immobile while his nerves tightened and a hollow, hopeless feeling struck the pit of his stomach.
He saw the car first. Not all of it; just a gleam of metal from the reflected light of the sky or the bungalow that glanced from the polished surface. When he could he moved two steps and this brought him to the edge of the sea-grape hedge. The shape of the car was clearer now and he saw that it had been parked almost where the other one had stood when he came back from the Tavern. It was not the same one, for this was somewhat lighter in color, and the fact that he could not identify it helped him not at all.
For a moment or two then a temporary paralysis took hold of him and he found it difficult to overcome this new feeling that seemed like a prelude to disaster. Only when he realized that the sooner he went inside and got the answer the better it would be was he able to take the next step. As he did so some movement in the lighted living room caught the corner of his eye. It was gone before he could focus and now he continued on toward the beach end of the path. As he reached it and made the turn a silhouette took shape in the doorway and he knew his caller was a woman.
With the light at her back her face was obscured. He only knew that she was sturdily built and he thought there was a reddish glint to the hair. She was on the porch now, the doorway behind her. He saw her stop and thought she was peering into the darkness. Because there was no longer any choice for him he continued up the path as a voice called out:
“Is that you, David?”
6
The voice that come to Dave Wallace was familiar. He had heard it before but he could not identify it, and the inner disturbance remained as he began to wonder how long the woman had been there.
“Sure.” He tried to chuckle and the sound was jerky and unconvincing to his ears. “Who did you think it was?”
He mounted the steps and as he moved close she turned so that the light caught the side of her face. Then, although he knew now who it was, he tried to find one good reason why she should be here at all.
Her name was Shirley Goddard and she worked as a public-relations woman at the Hotel Brittany. In her early thirties, and as yet unmarried, she was a sturdy, well-proportioned woman, deep-breasted and strong-looking, with firm fleshed hips and thighs. She was wearing a simple but nicely tailored dress of some off-white material, and as he drew her into the room he saw again the thick auburn hair and milky skin and intelligent green eyes.
“Hi, Shirley,” he said. “This is a surprise. Come in. Sit down.”
She let him direct her to one of the wicker chairs and when she sat down a crooked, enigmatic smile began to work on her features.
“What you mean is, What the devil brings you out here at this time of night, Shirley.”
Wallace managed a laugh and this one sounded more genuine. Even so, it took a major effort to put down his fears and suspicions, to postpone temporarily the questions that were uppermost in his mind. When he could see nothing in her manner to suggest that she knew about Fay, he kept his tone light and played the game.
“Well, all right. What did?”
“Suppose I said I was driving by and decided to see if I could promote a nightcap?”
“Un-unh.”
“No good, hunh?” she said dryly.
“I couldn’t buy it.”
“Why not?”
“You and Neil Benedict came for a drink once before Fay took up residence. You haven’t been around since . . . How long have you been here?”
“Just now. A co
uple of minutes ago. Where were you?”
“Up at the Carvers’. I thought Fay might have stopped in.”
“Oh? Then she’s not here?”
“No.”
She tipped her head, the green eyes speculative. “And do you usually look for her at the Carvers’ when she’s not home?” He knew what she meant but he stuck to his story. “Tonight was a little different.”
He watched her open her bag and take out a cigarette. When he had supplied a light he repeated the same story he had told the Carvers. She listened without comment; then said:
“You had an argument and you got out because you were afraid you might belt her, is that it?”
“I was invited out,” he said. “The way I felt it seemed like a good idea and—”
He let the sentence dangle as Shirley stood up and started toward the rear of the room. The sudden move surprised him and his surprise turned swiftly into something close to panic as she continued into the hall. The feeling of guilt, heretofore suppressed, came instantly to the surface and, certain now that she was going to inspect the bedroom, he jumped to his feet.
“Where’re you going?” he demanded, unable to control the sharpness in his voice.
He watched her stop short and turn. He saw the questioning look in her eyes.
“The johnny,” she said. “What’s the matter, is it forbidden to guests?”
“No.” He spoke quickly to hide his relief and confusion. “I wasn’t sure—I mean I wasn’t sure you knew where you were going. I thought maybe you wanted a drink.”
“I do,” said Shirley forthrightly. “One for the road. Scotch, if you have it.”
He made two drinks in the kitchen and was back in the living room when Shirley came out of the bath. She was still feeling her hair and what she did then gave Wallace a violent and instant stoppage of the heart.
“Are you sure Fay’s not here?” she called in her matter-of-fact way. “Maybe she went to bed. Which room is hers?”
She opened his door as she spoke and he said in frantic tones: “No. I looked.”
That was all he could say while he watched with growing consternation as she stopped at Fay’s door and reached for the knob. He tried to protest but no sound came. He felt cold fear envelop him as he stood there rigidly and stared in helpless stupefaction. He watched her open the door partway and glance inside. After what seemed like three minutes, she closed it.
“You’re right,” she said cheerfully while he offered silent thanks that he had stopped to pull the light off when he left the room. “And,” she added as she advanced to take the glass he offered, “maybe it’s just as well . . . What’s the matter?”
“Matter?” he said, still scared.
“You’re sweating like a tourist on a guided tour.”
“Oh,” Wallace said in quick relief. “It’s hot in here.”
“But not that hot, is it?” She took a swallow of her drink and then threw another of her questions from left field. “How long have you two been married?”
“Nearly three years.”
“I mean, really married.”
“Maybe a year.”
“Did you ever slug her?”
“I slapped her once.”
“I don’t know how you stood it,” she said. “She’s probably one of the most cold-blooded, conniving, predatory, selfish bitches I ever ran across. If I’m prejudiced maybe I have a reason to be. I cant understand how a nice guy like you could take it. Why don't you divorce her?”
“She was supposed to be getting a divorce before she came down here.”
Shirley took some more of her drink and said some other things about Fay but this time Wallace wasn't listening. He was thinking about the lifeless figure he had found in the bedroom and knew it no longer mattered what anyone thought or said about the woman who had been his wife. When the sickness in his mind persisted, he tried to recall what he knew about Shirley Goddard and realized now it wasn't much.
She was a Canadian—from Toronto, he thought—who had come down on a ship a couple of years ago and got off at Port-of-Spain and stayed here. He had been told that she had been engaged to a local man who was killed about a year ago in a car crash. He had heard that she had been seeing quite a lot of Neil Benedict but from personal experience all he knew was that she had a wide and varied list of friends and acquaintances, that she was good company, that she could drink with anyone and still maintain her distance when she wanted to. When he realized that she had stopped talking and was watching him he said:
“Did you just come down here, get off a boat, and stay?”
“Not quite,” she said and smiled at him. “I had a job as assistant to the cruise director on the old Argentina. The trouble was he seemed to think that because I worked for him I ought also to sleep with him. I had begun to think I'd never make it to Buenos Aires and back, and it just happened that a local businessman who was on his way here from New York took a liking to me. He said if I ever wanted to spend some time here he could probably fix me up with a job. I decided to take . him up on it.”
She examined the glass in her hand and said: “I worked as a secretary for a while, and when this job opened up at the Brittany I thought it would be more fun, so I gave it a try. It turned out that it was—more fun I mean. I haven't any family except a sister in Toronto and every time I think about those winters in Canada I have another good reason for not going back.” She hesitated and now her eyes had a distant expression, as though what she was seeing had no part of the room.
“As it turned out,” she added, her voice no longer so cheerful, “I fell in love with my benefactor. You wouldn’t know him, so his name doesn’t matter, but last April one of those overloaded sugar-cane trucks that are too often-driven by maniacs sideswiped his car. He never regained consciousness.” Her eyes came back to him and the distance in them evaporated. “You asked me before why I came tonight so I might as well tell you. Maybe it’s just as well Fay isn’t here.”
Wallace, still not understanding just what she had in mind, started to reach for her empty glass and she shook her head. She covered the top of it with her hand and in another swift digression said:
“I guess it’s just as well that men are brought up to consider women the weaker sex. God knows they have provocation enough but they’ve been taught that it’s just not cricket to retaliate sometimes with a punch in the nose. Except for some wives who get slapped around on occasion by husbands who haven’t learned the rules, men usually play the game. But I have no compunctions. There’s nothing that says a woman can’t belt another woman and I guess that’s what I had in mind when I came here.”
Wallace just looked at her and after a moment she continued: “I’ve considered Neil Benedict my personal property for quite some time now. I’m in love with the guy and I have an idea he feels the same way about me. But he was married before, and divorced—his ex-wife is in England—and he’s been a bit skittish, not that I blame him. We had a little fight a while back. I got stiff-necked and stubborn and took off for a week in Tobago. To pay me back, he dragged Fay around a few times.
“But we straightened things out, and everything was rosy, and then I find out that he spent some time with her this afternoon and bought her some drinks. I don’t know why he should and the more I thought about it the madder I got.” She leaned forward, eyes widening. “Promise you wont tell Neil any of this?”
“All right”
“I feel better already and I guess it was a silly idea. I was too damn jealous to realize it but what I had in mind was to come down here and tell her that if I caught her out with Neil again I was going to break her silly neck. I meant it too. At least I thought I did.” She stood up. “You can tell Fay I said so,” she added flatly.
She made a small throaty sound that was both disparaging and humorous. “Crazy, hunh? . . . Well—thanks for the drink, sweetie.” She reached up to give his cheek a small, affectionate pat and now her smile was genuine and pleasant to behold. “You’ll rem
ember about not telling Neil, wont you?”
Wallace said he would and they moved out across the porch and down the steps. He took her arm as he escorted her to the car and handed her in. She turned on the lights and then the motor. When it was idling she leaned across the open window.
“Get rid of her, Dave. She’s no good and you’re too nice a guy. That pretty American girl who lives with her uncle on the other side of the island is more your type. I wouldn’t let her get away. If Fay won’t give you a divorce, get one on your own. You should be able to get plenty of help if you take the trouble to dig for it.”
She was in gear and backing around before Wallace could think of anything to say. As he stood there watching the tail-light bounce along the lane toward the highway, the discouraged and hopeless feeling that he had kept buried for a while came back and he was reminded again that what he and Ann thought was their secret was in reality no secret at all. He did not know how Shirley could have known about Ann; he only knew that this was so, and now he went quickly back into the house and started turning off the lights.
A glance at his watch told him that it was getting close to eleven. He had perhaps forty miles to go but at this hour there should be little traffic. He could make it in less than an hour and, in any case, time was no longer important. The only thing that mattered was that he have a chance to tell the truth before the police moved in and made such a confession impossible.
7
David Wallace was relieved to see that he had been right about the traffic. As he came down Wrighston Road and approached the downtown section of Port-of-Spain, the daytime congestion and activity was absent, and most of the traffic signals had been switched off. On the far side of King’s Wharf he could see the masts of ships tied up there, and passing the Tourist Bureau, he noticed the forward section of a cruise ship, its white superstructure brightly lighted against the night sky.
One Hour to Kill Page 5
