“Bruce, Bruce, let me out, I say.”
Bruce put the checks back in the envelope and replaced the envelope in his pocket. With a casual, confident glance around the study, he strolled downstairs to the living room. Mrs. Snow’s two Siamese cats were perched on a window sill before a broad panorama of the East River. Bruce took out his pocket telephone book. He was meticulous in his habits. All the necessary addresses for his job were duly listed there. He found the cook’s number and dialled it.
“Hello. Arlene?”
“That’s right.”
“Arlene, this is Mr. Bruce. I’m calling for Mrs. Snow. She’s decided at the last minute to go away for the weekend. You needn’t come until Tuesday.”
“Honest?” Arlene’s rich Southern voice was bubbling with pleasure. “Gee, that’s fine, Mr. Bruce. I can really git me a ball.” She broke off. “You sure she ain’t going to need me? The cats, maybe?”
“No, Arlene, everything’s taken care of. See you Tuesday. Happy Labor Day.”
“Happy Labor Day to you, Mr. Bruce.”
Bruce dropped the receiver and went upstairs, past the study, to his and Lorna’s bedroom. Lorna had packed his suitcase for him yesterday, before she had driven down ahead of him with Sylvia Emmett. He picked up his brief case from the bed and slipped the manila envelope inside beside the bundle of letters from the morning mail, which he was taking to Lorna. As he did so, he remembered Mrs. Snow’s sapphire ring. When he had picked it up in the living room two days ago, he had been planning to pawn it for a new stake to play the horses. He wouldn’t need it now, but it might come in handy. He took it out of his trouser pocket and dropped it into the brief case. He heard it clatter against the revolver he’d bought last week for protection when he thought he might not be able to raise the cash in time.
He locked the brief case and glanced at his watch. Ten-fifteen. Plenty of time to make East Hampton before Lorna came back from sailing. He glanced at himself in the mirror. The reflection was as satisfactory as usual. At the back of his mind there was a faint sensation of panic. But it didn’t trouble him. He hardly remembered that only a few minutes before he had been sweating in terror before visions of poverty and jail.
Bad things happen to you. That was life. You just had to use your brains and rise above them.
He strolled out of the house and through the glossy sunshine of Sutton Place to the garage. Before he drove off, he tossed the attendant a dollar.
“Happy Labor Day, Mr. Mendham.”
“Happy Labor Day, Nicky.”
“Let me out, Bruce.”
Mrs. Snow rapped once again on the smooth, handleless interior of the safe door. The terror of confinement in small places, which had plagued her all her life, was uncoiling inside her like a python. It merged with her other, more rational fears. Bruce knew the combination of the lock. He had been standing right out there. Why hadn’t he…?
She forced herself not to think until she was sure she could check her panic. Claustrophobia was a weakness. You could control it by will power. Calm, she said. Calm.
On the shelf at her side, the yachting trophies sparkled in the illumination from the single ceiling bulb. When Gordon had been alive, they had spent months out of every year sailing all over the world. She had been in many dangerous situations and endured them.
The thought of the ocean, vast, sun-swept, open to the sky, helped stave off the trapped sensation, and she felt strong enough now to face the truth. Bruce was not going to let her out. He was as stupid as he was dishonest. When he had seen the door close on her, he must have lost his head. She had threatened to turn him over to the police and he had taken advantage of an accident to try some hysterical getaway attempt. That must be it. Of course that was it. What a fool she’d been to walk into the safe!
And yet—I warn you. She remembered the ominous look on Bruce’s face when he had said that. Was it possible that he had deliberately shut the door on her? Was it possible…?
Panic leaped up in her again. She fought it back implacably. Whatever Bruce might have in his mind, there was nothing to be seriously alarmed about. True, the house was large and the safe in the very middle of it. There was no possible hope of attracting the attention of neighbors. But Gordon had designed the safe himself for his collection of oceanic sculpture, which had gone to the Metropolitan Museum at his death. It was large, almost like a small room. It must be at least eight feet by six.
And she wouldn’t have to be shut up here for long. Arlene would arrive at twelve. She glanced down at her tiny platinum wrist watch. Without her reading-glasses, she couldn’t make out the position of the hands. So much for her vanity in refusing to wear glasses all the time! But it was certainly after ten. There was less than two hours to wait.
For Arlene would arrive at noon. It was inconceivable that Bruce would do anything, telephone to put her off, for example…. The idea came so swiftly that Mrs. Snow’s mind reeled under its impact. And, at the same moment, she thought of the cigarette she had left burning in the ashtray on the cluttered desk. She had visions of flames curling, creeping through the scattered papers beyond the sealed door. She needed every ounce of courage to keep from screaming and pounding on the smooth metal.
She made herself turn to the shelves of cups. Five years ago, on the day after Gordon’s funeral, she had stored them all away because the memories they conjured up had been too poignant. She had hardly looked at them since. But now they were like old friends. She picked one up. She recognized it at once. Gordon had won it at Marblehead in 1939.
She clutched the delicate stem, feeling the cool firmness of the silver. She would just stand there quietly by the door and think of Marblehead.
Arlene would come. Of course she would come.
“It’s going to be all right,” she said out loud. “It’s going to be all right.”
Arlene Davidson let the telephone drop on its stand and sank luxuriously back against the pillows of her bed. So Mrs. Snow was going away for the weekend. What a break! Four full days of rest. About time, too. She hadn’t had a real vacation since last New Year’s.
Idly Arlene wondered where Mrs. Snow was going. She didn’t visit much any more, not since Mr. Snow passed on. Probably she’d decided to go with the young people to Long Island after all. And yet, that was kind of surprising. After nine years, Arlene knew Mrs. Snow very well. Mrs. Snow didn’t like that Bruce, although she tried to hide that fact. And somehow it was more Mrs. Snow’s style to keep out of their way, not to butt in on her niece’s engagements. Yes, it was funny….
Through the thin partition wall, Arlene could hear the creak of an electric iron. Her sister, Rose, was pressing a dress. Out on 114th Street, the kids were putting up a terrific holler playing ball. Arlene liked to think of everyone else up and about and her lying in bed. It was glamorous. She twisted around and glanced affectionately at the telephone. She was glad she’d had her special phone installed when she moved in with Rose and her husband. It was worth it just for times like this—to reach out, answer, and slip right back into a doze.
Well, thought Arlene lazily, what was she going to do now she was off? It was too bad she’d had that fight with Leroy. Leroy was a nice boy even if he did make her mad. It would have been fine to drive down to Jersey with him. But that was out. She certainly wasn’t going to be the first one to call and make up.
She could, of course, go over to Brooklyn with Rose and Willie. But that’d be kind of dull. A lot of hens sitting around, cackling, drinking tea. Maybe she’d go downtown and do some shopping. There was that blouse in Saks. She had saved almost enough now, and …
Suddenly she thought, It’s Friday today—payday! How crazy she’d been to forget it when Bruce called. And how strange of Mrs. Snow to forget it, too. Mrs. Snow was always such a one for paying regular.
Arlene sat up in bed. Doggone it, if she wanted that blouse she’d have to get right down to Mrs. Snow’s and collect her pay before Mrs. Snow started off. Lying in bed was so ple
asant that she toyed with the idea of putting off the whole deal. But common sense got the better of her. With four free days ahead and no Leroy to pick up the checks, she’d need that money desperately before next Tuesday.
She glanced at the phone. Should she call Mrs. Snow and remind her? No, no use wasting money on overcalls. She could depend on Mrs. Snow. Since she hadn’t needed her for the cats, Joe must be staying. Even if she made an early start, Mrs. Snow would leave the money with Joe.
Arlene tumbled reluctantly out of bed, slipped her feet into her feather mules, and climbed into her satin housecoat. She went down the hall to the bathroom, came back, and dressed carefully in her best black suit so as to go right on to Saks.
Her brother-in-law was in the living room, sitting by the window with his feet up, reading the newspaper.
“Man, you’re dressed to kill. Figuring on going to work like that?”
“I’m off. Mrs. Snow’s nephew called. She’s going away for the weekend. I’m just going to collect my pay; then I’m going downtown to pick up a blouse.”
“You and your blouses! What you going to do with all them blouses you got stuffed in your closet already? Coffee’s on the stove.”
“No time. Tell Rose goodbye.”
Arlene waggled her hand at Willie and walked out to the street. It was quickest to take the subway. She made her way daintily through the scrambling throng of children towards the corner. The sunshine was beautiful, just right for the shore. Once she’d collected her money, maybe she’d call up Rosalie and the two of them could …
A tall man in a snappy gabardine suit and a brown Stetson hat was strolling down the street towards her. Arlene glanced at him and froze into dignified haughtiness. At the sight of her, the young man broke into a delighted grin.
“Arlene, baby, I was just coming to see you.”
“I’m sorry, Leroy. I’m in a hurry. Got to go downtown.”
“You working this weekend?”
“No. As a matter of fact, I’m not. But I—”
“Fine. That’s fine. I’ve got the car right around the corner. Run back in, grab a couple of things, and we’ll head off for the Atlantic.”
“But, Leroy, I can’t. I’ve got to go downtown and pick up my pay.”
“What you want with your pay? I got more than enough for both.” Leroy’s hands moved caressingly up her arms. “Arlene, baby, you’re not still mad about the other night? You know better than that. A guy’s got a right to get loaded once in a while. Honey …”
A feeling of warm contentment flowed through Arlene. “Don’t, Leroy. Don’t act like that—not in public.”
“Honey, I’m crazy about you. There isn’t anyone else, never will be, that sends me like you do. Arlene, sugar, you’re not going to stay sore.”
“Well, I …”
“That’s my baby.” Leroy gave her a playful pat. “Go grab your things. I’ll bring the car up.”
“But I ought to go downtown and get my pay. I …” Arlene’s sudden smile was radiant. She put up her hand and twisted his ear. “You, Leroy! You’ll be the death of me before you’re through. Okay. It won’t take me but a couple of minutes to get packed. When you’re ready, honk your horn.”
Mrs. Snow stood by the safe door, straining her ears to catch any noise from the house beyond. It had been hard to keep track of time, but it must be twelve by now. Arlene was always punctual. She let herself in through the back door. Usually she started right away on the breakfast dishes, and then she came up to the study to arrange the dinner menu with Mrs. Snow. Here on the third floor, the study was too far away for Mrs. Snow to hear Arlene’s key in the lock. But surely, if Bruce had left the study door open, she would be able to hear the clatter of dishes in the kitchen when the time came.
Quivering, she pressed herself closer against the safe door. But a ship’s siren boomed from the East River, and when it faded, the silence in the house was profound.
Her legs were aching now. It had needed a great deal of will power to stand, quietly relaxed, by the door all this time, but she had managed it. She hadn’t made a futile attempt to escape from a trap she knew was hermetically sealed; she hadn’t let herself think of Bruce; she hadn’t given an inch to her dark fear of the encircling four walls, which lurked constantly at the fringes of her mind; she had refused her imagination any leeway whatsoever.
The yachting cup had helped a lot. Holding it in her hand, she had been able to reconstruct the whole weekend at Marblehead, even to the men who had sat next to her at dinner, the name of that rather interesting lady from Chile, and, of course, her times alone with Gordon.
But now that the hour of release must be so close, she could no longer cling to the soothing unreality of the past. The remorselessly closed door that she had been looking at without seeing suddenly became a closed door again. There was the naked light bulb dangling above her; there, hemming her in, were the shelves of cups on one side and the shelves of papers and files on the other—and the rear wall, with the jewel safe, which backed onto her bedroom.
The air smelled musty. For the first time it was brought home to her that there was no ventilation in the room. Air. Her knees felt thin as water. Arlene! Arlene, you’ve got to come!
That one moment of weakness was enough to crack her defenses. She felt panic pouring into her like a miasmic river fog. If only she knew the time! If only she had her glasses!
Mrs. Snow stepped back until she was standing directly under the ceiling light. She brought her wrist watch up close to her face and then blinked her eyes shut and open again. For one second the dial swam into focus and she saw the hands.
It was twelve forty-five!
Before she could stop it, a little cry forced itself through her lips. The sound of her own voice was split up and echoed back at her from the crowding walls, adding fantasy to terror. Arlene had never, in nine years, been this late. Then she wasn’t coming! Bruce had called to put her off. That meant … that meant …
Face it, Adelaide Snow. Face it. Bruce has deliberately shut you in. How wrong you were! He’s far more criminal than he is stupid. He’s shut you up here so you’ll die, so you won’t be able to expose his sordid, petty dishonesties, so you’ll die.
Mrs. Snow stumbled against the shelves of cups, clinging to them for support. For a moment there was nothing but darkness and horror. The air would grow less and less; thirst would come. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself, days, perhaps, ahead in the future, screaming, beating, beating at the smooth door with torn and blood-spattered fists.
Her hand brushed one of the cups and it was contact with the cup that saved her. It was almost as if some mystic, healing power streamed out of it and through her, bringing her strength from Gordon.
You’ve got to be brave. If you’re not brave everything is lost.
She gritted her teeth as if somehow the enemy, panic, were in her mouth.
There was Lorna. She had told Sylvia to have Lorna call her the moment she came back from sailing, had told her that Lorna was to come home, immediately. Lorna knew she wasn’t a hysterical woman. Lorna would take the call seriously. She would phone. Then, when she got no answer, surely, she would come.
Yes. This was the first time Mrs. Snow had ever made so urgent a demand on her. Lorna would come home. Unless—unless Bruce was already on his way to East Hampton with some lying, plausible story….
Mrs. Snow snapped off the train of thought. She couldn’t afford to think that way. She had to clutch at every hope. Lorna would come. And if she didn’t, hadn’t Joe said he was coming back that evening to pick up the sanding machine? Yes, of course, he had. There was Lorna and Joe. There was nothing to worry about.
Slowly, deliberately coming to terms with reality, Mrs. Snow surveyed the cramped little room that was her prison. The bare cement floor was long enough for her to lie down at full length. She could sleep there if she had to. She could sit down, too. Yes, it would be a good idea to save her legs.
She turned to the shelves
and, after careful thought, picked up a large embossed silver cup. She and Gordon had won it together at Nassau.
She sat down on the floor, leaning her back against the metal furnace duct, and rested the cup on her lap. 1935! What a clear, sparkling Caribbean winter it had been; she remembered the very day of the race.
Gradually she began to feel the gentle tug of the breeze at her hair. She was surrounded by blue sea. Off to port, palm trees curved above the glittering silver stretch of beach.
Gordon glanced over his shoulder at her, smiling, his face mahogany-brown from the sun. Yes, there had been salt spray in his hair….
While Larry Emmett puttered around in the moored Star boat, Lorna Mendham climbed out onto the little sun-splashed jetty and dropped down contentedly on her back. The morning sail had been wonderful. The gulls, floating silently against the blue sky above her, were wonderful. Soon Bruce would be arriving. That would be most wonderful of all. Lorna crossed one blue-jeaned knee over the other and wiggled her bare toes. She felt absurdly happy.
That was nothing new. For eighteen months she had been living in a state of constant euphoria. She still marvelled that love could do this. In the old days, there had always been some anxiety or another. She had never been quite sure of her looks, never quite sure that she was making the right impression, never quite sure, even, whether she existed or not. Then Bruce had come into her life.
Maybe she wasn’t just happy, she thought. Maybe she was slap-happy. For, actually, life wasn’t as ideal as it seemed to her. Aunt Addy, in spite of the fact that she tried not to be, was jealous of Bruce and difficult about him, and Bruce, although he was too sweet to admit it, didn’t really get on with Aunt Addy. And he was justified, of course. It was bad for them to be living in Aunt Addy’s house, tied to her apron strings. Aunt Addy was bossy. She did like to organize everything. If Lorna had been really enterprising, they would have moved out months ago. But Lorna was too happy to be enterprising. Poor Aunt Addy! Now that Uncle Gordon was dead, she had no one to love except Lorna. Why not humor her for a while at least? There was more than enough happiness to go round.
The Ordeal of Mrs. Snow Page 2