The Lethal Sex

by Christianna Brand

  “Why, your precious husband, of course. Who had a better reason? Pete told everyone that he had deliberately tried to run over Walter.”

  Jane covered her eyes with a cupped hand.

  “Hazel!” Walter rebuked her. “What’s got into you? This poor woman—”

  “I’m all right,” said Jane, getting herself under control. “Mrs. Cranshaw, you should not speak ill of the dead who cannot defend themselves. As a matter of fact, the police are looking for a woman. They were at the office this morning. They learned at the drugstore where Pete always went for Cokes that he was in there yesterday with a perfectly stunning blonde wearing a mink coat and a purple hat. On his body they found a slip of paper with the address of the place in front of which he was killed written in a woman’s hand.”

  She took the newspaper, opened it to page four. “Here’s a picture of it,” she said, handing it to Walter.

  He put on his reading glasses. Hazel clattered the breakfast tray away from her, scrambled out of bed, began to run.

  It was a foolish thing to do—Walter had given her that monogrammed pad. Walter knew her handwriting. There was no place to go.

  He was staring at her over the top of the newspaper. “Hazel,” he said, “why did you send my office boy to this place? Tell me. Were you carrying on with him? God knows you did that sort of thing before we were married, but I thought—”

  “No!” she shouted. “It wasn’t like that at all.”

  “Then how was it, Hazel?” he asked calmly.

  She couldn’t think of an answer. The truth? If she told the truth, Walter would divorce her.

  Mrs. Devin seemed to be in a trance, staring at a pile of letters in her lap, picking at the stamp on the top one. Walter spoke to her:

  “There’s no reason why you should be burdened with my domestic problems. Go home. Business can wait until tomorrow.”

  She murmured her thanks and stood up. Hazel blocked her path.

  “Mrs. Devin,” she said, “I think you’ll be interested in what I have to say.”

  The truth. It had to be the truth, even if Walter did divorce her without a cent of alimony. Otherwise, jail was a certainty, a mean little cell where the walls would constantly close in upon her. She would be accused either of having stabbed Pete or willfully sending him to his death.

  “Daniel Devin was my lover,” she said stiffly. “I didn’t want it to be that way. He seduced me. He came here several months ago and began making love to me. I resisted, but once he got me in a weak moment and I succumbed.

  “Yesterday he telephoned and threatened to tell my husband everything unless I arranged an appointment for him with Pete. I thought he merely meant to bribe the boy to keep his mouth shut. If I had imagined that he would murder him—”

  “You’re lying, Hazel,” Walter interrupted. “You have opportunistically seized upon Mr. Devin’s accident to get you out of this. I don’t believe he is connected with it in any way. I don’t think you ever even knew him.”

  “I can prove—” she began, then stopped.

  How could she prove it? By the maid who had been here that first day in December? She had not been a very good maid, may well have changed positions and employment agencies several times since then. By the landlord of the tenement in which she and Daniel had shared a room? She had always given Daniel the money to pay him. had scrupulously kept herself hidden.

  There wasn’t a living soul to whom she could turn.

  Then she got an inspiration: maybe she could use Jane. Through Jane, Daniel—dead—might do her some good.

  “Mrs. Devin,” she said, “you know the kind of man your husband was. Couldn’t it be true, what I’ve been saying?”

  For a moment she thought Jane was going to help, for there was a look of compassion upon her face.Then the eyes turned cold and scornful. Hazel felt a twist of loathing for all the righteous who would so regard her from now until the end of time.

  Walter was also looking at her like that.

  Jane said, “My husband was not a philanderer, and he could not have killed Pete. His accident was over sixty miles away, and occurred less than an hour after the police say the boy was murdered.”

  “But he was a fast driver! You told me so.”

  “You must have misunderstood me. He rarely exceeded forty miles an hour.”

  “You’d swear to that?”

  Jane bowed her head. “If necessary,” she said.

  Hazel screamed and beat her fists against the wall which had already begun to move toward her.

  There Are No Snakes in Hawaii

  JUANITA SHERIDAN

  If you are ever fortunate enough to go to Hawaii, one of the first stories you’ll hear, from island hosts, your tour conductor, or perhaps another malihini on the beach, is about the man who stopped off ten years ago to have his laundry done—and who is still there. The laundry story is told in terms of demobilized servicemen, schoolteachers, a bored executive, or the prim secretary who found her inhibitions dissolved in the sun and silky waters. There are infinite versions—and in Hawaii you accept them all.

  This is especially true if you happen to belong to that unshockable, curiosity-ridden tribe of human oddities-known as writers. Then you become a sort of perambulating storage vault of stories, many of them unprintable. Some are cackled into your ear at cocktail parties, others you may hear in a whispered voice, harsh with the relief of telling.

  A few of the unprintables concern those unlucky souls who did not find paradise in the Pacific. Generally, they are individuals to whom the discarding of social posturings means the exposure of spirits as flabby as the physical nakedness they shrink from uncovering. When for some reason they are forced to remain in our sun-drenched latitudes, their puny rebellion manifests itself in sharpened voices, tight mouths, and personalities gone sour.

  But there are certain heliophobes of more stubborn fiber. If the relaxed life of a tropical island is a threat to them, then adjustment is impossible. Resentment and vindictiveness seethe in their hearts like fury rumbling in the vitals of Kilauea, gathering force which must ultimately erupt and destroy—as the dreaded lava sears the soil.

  Today an eruption of Kilauea is a big attraction; it looks terrific in Technicolor. The human analogy is something else again, not mentioned by the Hawaii Tourist Bureau. But if you stay in the Islands long enough you will hear about it. You may even see it happen—as we saw it happen to the Purcells.

  Surely I do not have to point out that the roots of murder, like the soil-probing roots of a tree destined to bear fruit, are nourished deep in human personality. The beginning of the Purcells’ tragedy must be surmised. Only two people know its real ending. Anne was involved partly because of Leila Morgan—Anne is my wife. And I, John Ellis, was the unwitting catalyst.

  Our participation dated from a day in January when the mailman brought letters from the mainland. Anne and I were in the garden; I was reading the second draft of a story while Anne was lacquering her toenails. At the scrape of our mailbox I tensed and put down the yellow paper. Anne dipped her brush, raised her other foot in one graceful motion, and went on painting.

  “Walk, do not run,” she said. “We’ve paid off the mortgage, remember?”

  “So we have.” I got up and started around the side of the house.

  By the time we’re married eight more years, perhaps I’ll have achieved some measure of Anne’s wisdom and serenity. From the day we met, a week before I was due to leave Hawaii with nothing in my pocket except a filled notebook and the last two hundred bucks of my terminal leave pay, through the first eighteen months when I finally sold a book which earned $523.42, after a few published stories and two more tepidly unsuccessful novels, Anne was unwaveringly certain that I was the world’s best writer, ours was the most wonderful marriage, and everything was going to be all right.

  Now my last book had been bought for serialization in a national fiction magazine and the hardcover edition was destined for the bestseller list. Our h
ome was paid for (Anne insisted on that first), we had money in the bank, she had quit her job as one of Pan American’s most decorative hostesses, and we were arguing over what to name our first child. I still felt giddy when I thought about it.

  I came back from the mailbox with two envelopes, saying, “One’s for you.’’

  Mine was from my agent and I held it to the light. No check. I looked at the letter for Anne. “It’s from Leila Morgan. Postmarked New York—I thought they were in France.”

  “So did I.” Anne reached for the envelope. “I hope she’s not sick again.”

  My letter began:

  Dear John: With arrival of the next Lurline you’ll have a legitimate excuse to stop work and dispense some Hawaiian hospitality.

  I made an annoyed sound and Anne looked up. “More revisions?”

  I read on.

  Troy Purcell, no less than the famous Troy, is being shipped to Honolulu. He’s going to illustrate your story and you know what that means circulation-wise. The lowdown is that the publisher wants him to sign a contract. Troy has accepted this assignment but won’t commit himself further, says he’s tired. This in spite of the highest price ever offered an illustrator and the fact that a view of the East River, framed to Mavis Purcell’s taste, costs plenty. Anne will remember their place—we went to a party there when she was with that Pan American publicity tour last fall. Remind her of the bird cage in the bathroom.

  “Hey,” I said. “You didn’t tell me you’d met Troy Purcell.”

  She looked up, frowning slightly. “Troy Purcell—oh, the artist. He’s a nice guy.”

  I went on reading.

  Seriously, John, I don’t think the Purcells’ visit should be much of a headache for you. Although they’re booked for a month at the Royal Hawaiian, Troy has vetoed all publicity. Recently he’s become difficult; goes on a terrific binge before he starts a job. He never fails to deliver, but this prepartum suspense has not endeared him to editors. The alcoholic problem won’t be yours. All you’re expected to do is steer him to backgrounds and Polynesian models. The rest you can leave to Mavis—she always handles him beautifully.

  I tossed the letter to Anne. “Bet I can describe that bathroom. Black and scarlet, and a gold bird cage.”

  “The bath is gray,” Anne said, “and the bird cage is silver.” She added in a remembering voice, “Beige carpeting laid wall to wall. Sheer glass curtains under ashes-of-roses damask. Fruitwood chairs with petit point—”

  “—and Haviland china—”

  “Limoges. The bed was upholstered in eggshell satin and the spread was quilted blue velvet.” She looked at me with a small grin. “And our bedspread is only monkscloth. Thank heaven you’re not a monk—’’

  I started to make a suitable answer.

  “Stay where you are,” she said. “It’s too hot.”

  I picked up my manuscript, decided it was lousy, and laid it aside while my thoughts reverted to the artist. “It’s hard to imagine,” I said.

  “Imagine what?”

  “A guy like Purcell, working in such pastel perfection.”

  “I saw his studio,” Anne told me. “It’s enormous, and practically stark. That’s where the man really lives.”

  “Was the party given there?”

  “Oh, no. That room is kapu. Definitely not the background for the sort of shindig his wife throws. It was perfect, the ultra-chic Manhattan cocktail party for ultra-chic people. You know the kind.”

  I had been to a few before I left New York. People invited because they were amusing or clever or had made some kind of success. Insincerely cordial greetings, facile chitchat barbed with gossip, trills of artificial laughter, acquaintances who made bright conversation at you while their eyes searched the room to be sure there wasn’t somebody more important they should talk to. When the babel reached a certain sustained pitch, the hostess knew her party was a success.

  “What’s Mavis Purcell like?” I asked.

  “Small. Blonde. Porcelain and rose-leaf coloring. Honey-colored satin by Valentina. Doesn’t go to beauty salons—they send operators to her.”

  “Auwe!” I said. “Those Troy Girls had better be good.”

  “What’s so remarkable about the Troy Girls?”

  “Full-page color in the big-circulation magazines.” I shuffled through a pile on the table. “Don’t you ever read these?”

  “Only the recipes,” Anne admitted. “They’re wonderful.” Then she sat up straight and studied what I had handed her. “Hey, Johnny. This is almost good! I’ll bet he started out to be a fine artist.”

  “Fine art,” I reminded her, “sometimes buys a view of the East River for your grandchildren. Anyhow, most people prefer this.”

  It was the usual haunting Troy picture, lacking the details of most magazine illustrations: a girl at a railroad station on a foggy night, watching a train depart.

  “His women always have that look,” I said. “It has made them pin-ups all over the globe. Without sweaters, too. It’s something in the way their lips curve, the way their eyes look at you with a kind of yearning.”

  “Perhaps,” Anne suggested, “the yearning is in him.”

  “No doubt,” I said. “And we know now what it is. Thirst.”

  “It won’t hurt us to make them happy for a month, since he’s being sent here especially to do your story.” Anne began to chant: “—And so, as the pride of the Matson fleet glides into the blue waters of Honolulu harbor—”

  “—we see our hero and heroine, brightly smiling, bearing leis and aloha—”

  “—boarding the tug which will take them out to meet their new friends, the famous artist and his charming wife—”

  We began to laugh.

  The first impression I had of Troy Purcell was that here was a man worn to exhaustion. He wore a knife-creased, light Palm Beach suit (new, I decided) as if it chafed every inch of his big frame. His tie had already slipped sideways, his collar was damp. He looked in his early forties, his thinning brown hair was rumpled, and his deep-circled eyes held perplexity, as if the inner man also had never found proper garments.

  Mavis appeared years younger; perhaps it was his awkwardness which made her seem so fragile. When we entered their cabin, she was folding yellow chiffon into a meticulously packed dressing case. After we introduced ourselves, the first thing Mavis mentioned was her relief at being able to sublet their apartment to our friends, the Morgans.

  “I won’t worry the least bit now,” she said, “knowing we have responsible people there. Last year when we came back from Europe the place had been broken into.”

  “Was very much stolen?” I asked.

  “Silver, a crystal clock—things like that. Fortunately, we were insured. But some of the pieces can’t be replaced.”

  “This bag ready?” her husband asked, and started to pick it up.

  “Lock it first, dear.”

  She handed him some keys. While he bent over the bag I saw that he had a tic. A muscle in his cheek twitched occasionally.

  “I’ll take those,” Mavis said, and she zipped the keys back into her purse. “Is your husband as absent-minded as mine? Troy can’t remember for two minutes where he’s put things.”

  “Oh, yes,” Anne lied cheerfully. “Johnny’s helpless as a babe, especially when he’s working.” She sent me a finger signal which said for heaven’s sake, keep your mouth shut and descended on Mavis, who recoiled. “Don’t be startled, Mrs. Purcell. Giving leis is an Island custom. Welcome to Hawaii.”

  I draped ropes of plumeria around Troy’s neck and he sniffed deeply. “My God, I didn’t know flowers could smell like this!” He turned to his wife. “Aren’t they wonderful?”

  She was lifting gardenias to see whether they had stained her silk dress. “They’re so lovely I almost hate to— Where are you going, Troy?”

  The muscle in Troy’s cheek twitched. “Let’s go up—it’s hot as hell in here.”

  From the promenade deck there was a good view
. Honolulu starts with one of the world’s cleanest harbors. Ships dock there almost in the heart of the city, which spreads back over a plateau to the Koolau Range. That day the mountains were veiled in mist, which parted occasionally to reveal jungled slopes of variegated greens gashed with purple and indigo valleys through which ran the coppery lines of roads. It was raining in the distance. As we watched, the trades swept clouds away and a rainbow tilted from Manoa Valley into the sea.

  “Just look at that!” Troy burst out. “Did you ever see anything more beautiful?”

  “Islanders consider the rainbow a good omen,” Anne told him. “You’re getting a special welcome.”

  Mavis laid her hand on her husband’s arm. “Darling,” she said. “I’m so thrilled. You’ll do the best work of your life here.”

  “You say that about every job,” he growled. “Nobody can paint those colors.” He leaned on the rail, shading his eyes with one hand, and began identifying them in a sort of incredulous mutter: Ultramarine, scarlet, cobalt, magenta, vermilion, emerald....

  He seemed dazed as he went down the gangplank. We took them to the Queen’s Surf that night, and were a party of six, Peggy and Bill Garrison making the third couple. Bill was an agreeable fellow, an insurance broker acquaintance of Troy’s from New York. Casual remarks between the two men, and the intimate chatter of their wives, indicated that friendship had developed during the crossing.

  Troy asked when we sat down, “What’ll we have to drink? Got any specialties here in the Islands?”

  Mavis said, “I’ll stick to my usual, Troy.”

  I noticed that Mavis began to watch apprehensively when Troy finished his fifth highball; she must have said something to him on the dance floor, because he looked subdued when they returned. While the Garrisons were dancing, Mavis and Anne went to the powder room and Troy said, “Let’s go have a look at the Pacific.”