An unknown man’s voice answered. “Hello?”
“Is Arlene there? This is Mrs. Mendham, Mrs. Snow’s niece.”
“Sorry, ma’am, she’s in Atlantic City.”
“But she was supposed to be working for my aunt today.”
“No, ma’am, Mr. Mendham called and told her Mrs. Snow was going away for the weekend. She has off till Tuesday.”
Fear was in Lorna’s blood now like ice. “Did—did Mr. Mendham say where Mrs. Snow was going?”
“No, ma’am, just that Arlene could be off till Tuesday.”
“But … but …”
Lorna heard someone behind her.
“All right,” she said into the phone. “I’m sorry to bother you. I—I just thought you might know.”
She put down the receiver and turned. Bruce was coming through the living-room door. He was smiling at her affectionately.
“Here you are, babe. I’ve been looking for you all over.”
Astonishingly, her fury at Bruce and her own gullibility conquered her terror. She found she could smile back at him almost casually.
“Hi, Bruce. I was calling the Emmetts,” she lied. “There’s a man who’s mad to see Larry on business before he goes back to New York. I thought the servants might know just when they’d get in from sailing.”
His hand was on her arm. It was all she could do to keep from screaming at his touch. He’d called Arlene to put her off for the weekend. He’d lied about Mrs. Lindsay to keep Lorna from telephoning the house. Why? Why? Where was Aunt Addy? What had he done to her?
“Darling.” As he drew her into the living room, his voice was buoyant with high spirits. “A wonderful break. I’ve run into the Baintons from Saint Tropez. They’re stinking rich, and they’re dying to meet you.”
Her nerves, stretched almost to the snapping point, gave her an uncanny clarity of mind. She had to go home to Aunt Addy. At once. Without arousing his suspicions. There was only one way to do it. Now …
They were passing among the cocktail guests. Lorna leaned against her husband; she gave a convincing little sigh and crumpled onto the floor.
She’d been so close to fainting genuinely that the fake hadn’t been hard. She heard the abrupt change from chatter to twittering around her. She felt someone’s—Bruce’s—arm slipping under her shoulders.
“Water! Get water!”
Later, as a glass was pressed against her lips, she opened her eyes flutteringly and looked straight into her husband’s solicitous face.
“Where…? Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Lorna, baby.”
“It must be the sun. All that sun yesterday. Bruce, you’d better take me back to Sylvia’s.”
“Of course, baby. Of course.”
He lifted her up in his arms and carried her out past the concerned guests and to the car. As he drove her back to the Emmetts’, she leaned limply against him, thinking, What shall I do?
It was a nightmare to suspect so much and know so little. It was money, of course. He had done something to raise money. The sapphire ring? The emeralds? But why had he marooned Aunt Addy? Why was he making sure that no one should call the house?
At the Emmetts’, Bruce lifted her tenderly out of the car and carried her upstairs to their bedroom. Everything he’d done, every little thing he’d said, was monstrously significant now. She must think back. She …
He laid her down on the bed. As he did so, she glimpsed his brief case lying on the chair by the window. Last night she had reached for it in search of cigarettes, and Bruce, coming suddenly out of the bathroom, had almost shouted, “What do you want?” Hadn’t his voice sounded odd to her even then? The brief case! Perhaps there was something in the brief case.
“Lorna, baby.” Bruce was sitting on the edge of the bed. “Feeling better?”
The brief case! Her pulses were pounding. If there was anything in it, it would be locked. But the key of her jewel case fitted the lock. She knew that because once, when she’d lost her jewel-case key, she had finally opened it with the key from Bruce’s brief case.
“Please, Bruce, be an angel. Go down and get me some brandy.”
“Sure.”
The moment he left the room, she jumped up, ran to her jewel case, took out the key, and hurried with it to the brief case. As the key turned in the lock, the clasp sprang up. She searched clumsily through the case’s contents. There was a carton of cigarettes. A bunch of letters. That must be her Friday mail, which she had asked Bruce to bring down. She’d forgotten to ask him for it. Something was gleaming at the bottom of the case. She peered at it. It was a revolver! There was something else beside the gun, something little that shone more brightly. She grabbed at it.
It was Aunt Addy’s sapphire ring.
As she gazed at it, she could feel her teeth chattering. She couldn’t control them. She looked down again at the brief case. When she’d pulled up the ring, she had half knocked out of the case a brown manila envelope, a bank envelope. It had been opened. She snatched it up. It wasn’t hers or Bruce’s. It was addressed to Aunt Addy. She felt inside and brought out three checks. Cash for seven hundred and fifty dollars, signed Adelaide Snow. Cash for five hundred dollars. Cash for fifteen hundred dollars.
Scribbled across the final check, in red pencil, unmistakably written by her aunt, was the single word, Forgery.
It was plain now. Perfectly plain. Bruce had lied about the moneylender. He had raised his gambling debt by forging Aunt Addy’s checks. And Aunt Addy had found him out. That’s why she had called Lorna, urgently asking her to come home. Aunt Addy had caught him red-handed, had threatened to expose him. But … but … It was Bruce who had the checks. He must have taken them forcibly from Aunt Addy.
Then … then … He’d killed her? No, no. Never in a million years. He was too clever for that, to leave a body there, to … A phrase of Bruce’s rushed back to her. And Aunt Addy went into the vault. The vault! Last week the closing mechanism had broken; the door had swung shut of its own accord. If he’d shut her in the vault! If that was why he had put off Arlene, why he had kept Lorna from calling…! No, no. That was impossible, too. He could never …
She heard footsteps on the stairs. Swiftly she relocked the brief case and threw it back on the chair. She slipped the ring into her suit pocket. She stuffed the checks back into the envelope and pushed the envelope under the pillow.
She just got to the bed and lay down when Bruce came in with two jiggers of brandy.
“Here you are, my sweetheart. And one for Poppa, too.”
She took her glass shakily and gulped its contents. Her thoughts were reeling. If only Sylvia and Larry were there! She should call the police. No, no. How could she dare? Not till she knew more, not till she was sure. She had to get to Aunt Addy. That was the only thing. She had to get to Aunt Addy.
“Bruce, I feel terrible.”
“You poor baby. Don’t worry. You’ll be okay soon.”
“No, Bruce. I really think we should go home.”
“Home?” Bruce’s smile suddenly went. “But, baby, we can’t.”
“Why can’t we?”
“The Baintons. They’re here on their yacht. They’re starting at five for a week’s cruise up to the Cape and they’ve invited us. It’s a marvellous break. They’re lousy with money, and they’ll adore you. Once we get all chummy on the boat, it’ll be a cinch to borrow that five thousand bucks.”
Lorna felt as if a trap were slowly constricting around her. As she looked into her husband’s bland eyes, she had to clench her fists to keep from screaming: How can you lie like that? You’ve got your money. You stole it from Aunt Addy. What have you done to Aunt Addy?
But to let him know she knew would be madness. If he had done that to Aunt Addy, what mightn’t he do…? She thought of the revolver in the brief case.
“I couldn’t,” she managed. “I couldn’t possibly. I …”
“Nonsense. My darling, of course you could and of course you will. Having those mo
neylenders around our neck would be death. This is our chance—our only chance. Last night you forgave me. You said you did. Now you’ve just got to help me.”
He lay down on the bed next to her. His hand was stroking her forehead. “There, sweetie. Just rest a couple of hours. Then you’ll feel right as rain, and we’ll be all set to go. If Sylvia and Larry aren’t back, we’ll leave a note. We’ve got more than enough clothes. The Baintons aren’t the dressy set.”
Lorna lay there listening to the flurry of her heart. Did he know she suspected him? Was that why he had concocted this yachting scheme—to imprison her? Or was it just another ruse to keep them away longer from home and Aunt Addy? Aunt Addy! In the vault? No, no, no. A dreadful paralysis of will was creeping over her.
Bruce kissed her cheek.
“We don’t want the servants barging in on us, do we?”
He got up, locked the door, and dropped down again on the bed at her side.
“There! Now, sweetheart, go to bye-bye.” His fingers were on her forehead again, revolting as caterpillars. “Relax, baby. Poppa’s here. Everything’s going to be all right.”
In the vault, the ceiling light had burned out. Mrs. Snow was only intermittently conscious of the darkness. There were moments when it seemed like a smothering black towel stretched tight across her mouth, when her mind was clear enough to grasp reality: that she was in a trap, that she was dying. But mostly she was drifting in a world of dreams and waking visions from the past. Gordon was almost always with her. Gordon was her greatest comfort. But there were horrors, too, unmentionable horrors. Sometimes she felt as if her whole body were screaming.
But, even at the peak of nightmare, when her tongue was a swollen, choking fungus and knives cut at her brain, there was one thing she never forgot. Through every minute of every dragging hour, she knew she was fighting and that she must go on fighting.
Long ago her arms had lost their grip on the broken duct. She lay stretched out on the cement floor. She had no weapons left but this stubborn determination.
Somewhere there was a goal. She didn’t know what goal it was any more. But it was there. And, somehow, she would reach it if she fought.
Lorna lay on the bed, pretending to be asleep. Her husband’s arm was around her. She didn’t dare open her eyes, but she knew he was awake.
How much did he suspect? In all the horror of those minutes, that was the most excruciating question. All weekend he had been “handling” her. She saw that now. Even if he still suspected nothing, he would never let her get alone to a telephone, never let her out of his sight until he had her safely cut off on the Baintons’ yacht. To call the police, she would have to challenge him, to let him know she had found the forged checks, that right this minute they were lying in the manila envelope under the pillow. And if—if he had done what she thought he’d done to Aunt Addy, what, in his desperation, mightn’t he do to her?
In her extremity, the knowledge that her marriage was wrecked and her love changed to terror and revulsion were facts she accepted, but pains that would have to be endured later on. Now there was only Aunt Addy. If all else failed, she would have to risk everything to get in touch with the police. But there must still be a way to get back to Aunt Addy without Bruce realizing….
Her husband gave a grunt in his simulated sleep and, rolling closer to her, kissed the lobe of her ear. It was one of his favorite love tricks. While she struggled not to recoil from him, she felt at the same time a little thrill of hope. If he had the faintest idea that she knew the truth, he wouldn’t be trying to charm her any more. No, she was still being “handled.” Maybe her blindness, her pitiful infatuation for him were going to bring salvation. She had been such easy prey that, in his eyes, she was much too stupid to be any possible menace.
Suddenly an idea came to her. It might just work. There were a dozen ways in which it could bring disaster. But it might just work. It would all depend, of course, on her ability to act, her ability to seem loving and trusting and innocent and—stupid. But …
Bruce was kissing her ear again. She sighed contentedly, twisted towards him, and slipping her arms around his neck, pressed her lips on his.
“Darling …”
“Lorna, baby.”
“Have I been asleep for long?”
“Not long.”
“It’s amazing. I feel wonderful.”
“That’s my baby.”
“Yes, I’m perfectly fine now. And the yachting trip. I think it’s a divine idea.”
Watching him through closed lashes, she saw his quick, self-satisfied smile, and she thought, wonderingly and with excitement: So he’s stupid. After all, he’s stupid.
He ruffled her hair. “Babe, that’s marvellous. Aunt Addy isn’t expecting us till Tuesday. We’ll send her a telegram tomorrow night from wherever we put in.”
“Oh, don’t let’s have Aunt Addy on our consciences.” Lorna giggled and kissed his cheek. “Darling, there’s something much more important right now than Aunt Addy.”
“What’s that?”
“Another brandy.”
The ease with which she could deceive him was almost humiliating. He rolled off the bed and, with a theatrical yawn, unlocked the door and disappeared.
Lorna ran to the brief case and unlocked it. She dropped the sapphire ring inside. Certainly he knew he had put the ring there. It would be far too dangerous to keep it out. She went to the bed and, slipping the manila envelope from under the pillow, took out the check marked Forgery and then put the envelope with the other two checks back in the brief case again among the stack of her own letters. She locked the brief case again, stuffed the Forgery check into her own pocketbook, and dropped onto the bed.
Bruce came in with the brandy. He sat down on the edge of the bed and, handing her a glass, raised the other.
“To the Mendhams, sweetie.”
“To the Mendhams, Bruce.”
Now that the crisis had come, Lorna felt icily sure of herself. Everything depended now on just what Bruce had done after he’d taken the checks from Aunt Addy. She was taking a gambler’s risk. It was at least twenty to one against her, and failure would mean disaster. But she was going to succeed. She willed it with every ounce of her being.
“Bruce, darling, I’d forgotten all about the mail. Did you bring it?”
“Why, sure, honey.”
“Then why don’t you give it to me now? I’d better read it before we go off on the yacht. There may be something important.”
Bruce Mendham crossed the bedroom towards his brief case. The sense of achievement and self-satisfaction that had been with him all weekend was still simmering delightfully in him. There had been bad moments, of course. Running into Bob Struther at the Yacht Club bar had been unfortunate, but it had been childishly simple to play on Lorna’s sympathies and lull her suspicions. Mrs. Lindsay had been unfortunate, too. But the need to keep Lorna from calling Mrs. Snow had been sprung on him so suddenly that he had snatched at the first name that came into his head. But it didn’t really matter. Later, he could explain it away to Lorna. He’d say he’d got the story muddled. It had been some friend of Mrs. Lindsay’s who’d called with news of her and invited Aunt Addy to Connecticut.
For one bad moment, when he’d found Lorna telephoning from the Simmonses’, he’d thought she might be on to something. But she’d only been calling the Emmetts.
Bruce had a vain man’s contempt for the intelligence of all women who fell in love with him. But his contempt for Lorna, who had married him, was deepest of all. When she’d fainted at the Simmonses’, she’d wanted to go home. The yachting trip hadn’t appealed to her. But all he’d had to do was to love her up a little and she was eating out of his hand. Not that it made much difference whether they went with the Baintons or not. The old woman had been in the vault for over forty-eight hours. The air must have given out long ago. Probably it would be quite safe to go back even now and “discover” her.
But the yachting trip was the ar
tistic touch he couldn’t resist. Besides, the Baintons were good people to cultivate.
He took his key ring out of his pocket and unlocked the brief case. Instinctively he looked first for the bank envelope and saw it stuffed among Lorna’s letters. He removed it from the bundle and, holding it behind his back, took his wife’s mail over to the bed.
“Here you are, babe.”
“Thanks, darling.”
As soon as he saw Lorna absorbed in her letters, he went back to the brief case. Now he had the bank envelope actually in his hand, it occurred to him that he’d been rather rash carrying the checks around with him. As soon as he was alone, he’d destroy them. His back was turned to the bed. Before he dropped the envelope into the brief case, he opened it and glanced inside. There were the checks. There … He stiffened. Swiftly he pulled the checks out and glanced at them. It couldn’t … There must be some mistake.
But no. There were only two checks. The third check, the check on which the old woman had scribbled Forgery …
He started cautiously searching through the case. Behind him he heard Lorna give an amused laugh.
“Darling. I’ve got a letter from Rosemary Axel. Do you remember? That woman with the poodle on the Ile de France?”
Panic was stirring in Bruce. The third check wasn’t in the brief case. Could he somehow have pulled it out with Lorna’s mail? With an immense effort at calm, he crossed to the bed, sat down, and, pretending curiosity, leafed through the tumbled letters. The check wasn’t there.
Lorna smiled at him over the letter she was reading and, leaning forward, kissed his nose.
“Rosemary sends you her love. She was mad for you. I know she’s seethingly jealous of me.”
Bruce’s thoughts were skittering. Was it possible that Lorna could have suspected after all, could somehow have got into the brief case and taken the check? He studied her serene face, smiling close to his. No, that was inconceivable.
Then … Of course! The memory leaped on him like a leopard from a tree. After he’d shut the old woman in the vault, he’d taken the three checks out of the envelope in the study to look at them. He thought—he was almost sure—that he had put all three back in the envelope. But he had been excited, confused. He must have dropped the third check. Of course. It must be there now on the study floor, with the word Forgery screaming his guilt to whoever went into the room.
The Ordeal of Mrs. Snow Page 6