Now that the moment of climax was approaching, he didn’t exactly feel calm. It was a stronger emotion than that. He felt exalted, infinitely capable, as if there was nothing in the world he couldn’t carry off. Some kids were playing ball on a corner lot. It was all he could do to keep himself from jumping off the trolley and running to join them. If he hit that ball, it would travel all the way to the moon. That’s it—that’s where he was going—all the way to the moon….
He had to be careful that no one should see him entering the house at this uncharacteristic hour. He dropped off the trolley several stops before his regular one, and, choosing a deserted side street, slipped around to the back door of the house. He turned the knob and entered.
It was so long since he had been home on a weekday afternoon that the quiet kitchen seemed oddly unfamiliar. From upstairs, he could hear symphony music playing on Amy’s radio. That was odd too. He disliked classical music and he didn’t know that Amy ever listened to it. Quietly—although there was no need to be quiet—he went up the stairs and through the open door into the somber-draped twilight of the bedroom.
Almost before he saw Amy herself, he saw the jewels. They made little glittering areas in the shadowy monotone. Then Amy noticed him and her voice came warm with pleasure, young, the way he remembered it.
“Why, John, what a lovely surprise!”
He crossed to the little alley between the two beds. She was smiling, and in the vague light she looked fragile and girlish. But he had travelled too far into himself to feel any pity for her.
“Oh, John, that music!” She made a move as if to turn off the radio. “I know you hate it. But lately when I’ve been lying here alone …”
“That’s all right, dear. Let me fix your pillows.”
“Thank you, John.”
As he slipped one of the pillows from beneath her head, she patted his sleeve shyly.
“It’s wonderful that you’ve managed a free afternoon on a Thursday, John. Thursdays, without Mrs. O’Roylan, always seem to drag so. But then I shan’t complain, shall I? I won’t spoil this lovely treat. I …”
He brought the pillow violently down against her face. The impact of the unexpected blow knocked her head back onto the other pillow. Caught between the two smothering surfaces, she struggled for a little while. Then her body went limp.
John let his pillow drop to the floor. Automatically, as he had acted a thousand times before, he took off the pearl necklace, the diamond earrings, and the diamond-chip bracelet. Only this time, instead of replacing them in the jewel box, he put them in his pocket. He stood for a moment looking at the dimly discerned body which had no reality for him. Then he removed from her dangling wrist the little watch he had given her on their tenth anniversary. He peered at its dial. It said exactly twenty minutes past three. He threw it on the floor repeatedly until it stopped, so that the precise time could be established from it later. Tossing it on the floor by the bed, he tugged drawers open and simulated a hasty search for other valuables. Then, leaving the radio still playing, he walked out.
With a crowbar from the cellar he forced the bolt on the back door to show where the burglars had broken in. Putting the crowbar back where he had found it, he slipped out through the yard and picked up the trolley four blocks away.
He had rather thought, now that he had killed Amy, that It would come back. But no. While he rode into town, he was still John Flint who had just murdered his wife. He did not feel any emotion. But he was still alert, capable, reviewing what he had done, searching painstakingly for flaws. He could find none. All that remained was to get rid of the jewels, to wait in the office for Harry to bring back his notes from the survey, and then to make sure Harry caught that train.
He had already decided the fate of the jewels. He got off the trolley at the stop before the bridge and carefully choosing his moment as he walked across, dropped them into the grimy river. He saw them go with no pang. The jewels had no part in his future. It hadn’t been jewels that he had wanted from Amy.
At exactly five-thirty Harry barged into the office in a state of great excitement and self-satisfaction.
“Here you are, old boy—all the notes. Exactly the way you said. Gave out coupons. Didn’t even whistle at a blonde. The real dignified gentleman—that was me.”
He hovered while John studied the pencilled notes. They couldn’t have been more desirable. That afternoon, between two and five, two regular coupons had been handed out and at precisely three-fifteen, one special five-shoe coupon had been given to a woman. Her name and address, like that of the other recipients, were neatly marked down with the exact time.
“Fine, Harry. Thanks a lot.”
“You thanking me? That’s for laughs. Johnny, old boy, you’ve saved a life today—that’s what you’ve done.”
Harry’s effusive thanks went on for so long that John began to worry about the train. But that was all right, too. At ten to six Harry went exuberantly off to the station.
As John studied the notes, he began to feel a deep craftsman’s satisfaction. He had pulled it off. He had done what he had set out to do. He had managed to be in two places, three miles away from each other, at one and the same time.
While Amy was being smothered by the burglars in that dimly lit bedroom, he had been at 15th and Market giving a five-shoe coupon to … what was the woman’s name? He consulted Harry’s notes again. Miss Carmen Gonzales, 1374 Pine Street.
Carmen Gonzales. That name, redolent of distant sunshine and soft Mexican laughter, was surely a favorable omen. The two words rang prettily in his ears, as he carefully typed up Harry’s notes, added them to the complete file of the survey, and burned the papers which bore Harry’s handwriting.
Everything was set now. He changed into the violent sports outfit and packing his grey suit in the box, wrapped it and tucked it under his arm.
At home, he let himself in by the front door as usual. He went straight upstairs. Hardly glancing at the thing on the bed, he unpacked his suit and hung it neatly in the closet. He left the radio still playing and took the empty cardboard box down to the cellar. Then he went to the telephone in the hall. His voice sounded stunned and incredulous even to himself as he called the police.
It was then that a sudden, unrehearsed detail occurred to him. Mrs. Roseway next door had often been kind to Amy; she had brought her doughnuts when she baked; and a couple of times she had sat with her at night when John had had to entertain out-of-town salesmen. He ran now to his neighbor’s house, beating on the front door with his fists. When Mrs. Roseway, plump and amiable, appeared, he gasped: “Amy! Quick! Something terrible has happened to Amy!”
Mrs. Roseway was with him when the police arrived. And while he hunched in apparent apathy in the living room, Mrs. Roseway took them upstairs. Through the long confused interval that followed, when the house seemed to be full of a regiment of plain-clothes men and police officers, Mrs. Roseway was constantly at John’s side, encouraging and comforting him. It was Mrs. Roseway who confirmed the fact that Amy had always worn her jewels in bed and that the jewels were missing. And after John had given his own faltering statement, she plunged to the defense of his as yet unchallenged character. John Flint, she said, was a model citizen, the most affectionate, the most admirable husband on the block.
The Police Inspector, like everyone else, treated her with respect, and, partly for her sake perhaps, was as tender with John as a godfather. When the investigation was finally over, it was obvious that John would have to go with the police to the precinct headquarters. But the Inspector patted his shoulder.
“This is a clear case of breaking and entering. And we can prove you were miles away at the time. But we’d better drop by your office, pick up the records of that survey, and check with those people you say you’ve got on the list. That’ll establish it once and for all. And you’ll feel better when we get that alibi on record for you.”
“Of course,” said John. “Thanks. I’m ready to go whenever you
are.”
They drove to the office, John gave the survey file to the Inspector. At headquarters, policemen were sent to pick up the three people whose names and addresses appeared on the afternoon list and also, at John’s suggestion, the cop on the corner and the crippled news vendor.
The cop and the news vendor were the first to be brought in. They both glanced at John, sitting by the Inspector’s desk.
“Yeah,” said the cop, “he’s been around the block all week doing a survey or something.”
“That’s right,” said the news vendor. “Seen him every day.”
The first of the coupon recipients was an elderly woman with the slightly harassed air of a solid citizen unused to police stations. On the Inspector’s instructions, she studied John carefully and then said: “Yes, that’s the man who gave me the coupon. I wouldn’t forget that coat. This—this doesn’t mean the coupon’s no good, does it? I haven’t used it yet but I was planning …”
“No, lady. The coupon’s fine.” The Inspector consulted John’s typewritten list. “It says here he gave you the coupon at two-ten. That right?”
“Yes, that would have been it. I had just been around to the five-and-dime store and …”
“Okay, lady, that’ll be all. Thank you.”
The second coupon winner was a young man with a jaunty air. He was even more satisfactory than the woman.
“Sure, I remember that tie. Pretty keen. Figured I might buy one just like it. Keen.”
All that was needed now was Carmen Gonzales. Once she arrived and established the key moment of the alibi, this would be over. John Flint, leaning back in the wooden chair, began to feel a strange affection for the stuffy, drab atmosphere of the police station. He had never been in one before and he hadn’t expected it to be like this. It was almost cosy. But only his surface was reacting to it. Underneath, holding itself patiently in check, but waiting, waiting to surge up again, was It.
As he sat there, John Flint began to realize that something immensely important was happening inside him. All his life, up till now, he had been haunted by a nagging sense of failure. Even It, if he had ever dared to admit it, had been only a daydream, a compensation for the dreariness of reality, a shimmering mirage of what might have been but never would be. He had never really believed he would get to Mexico. No, even after he had started to plan Amy’s death, he had never believed that It could actually be achieved.
But he had done it. Miraculously, by his own unaided efforts, he had forced life to go his way. He, John Flint, had done that, calmly, efficiently, without a faltering step. Who else among his circle of friends and acquaintances could have pulled off so magnificent an enterprise. Harry? The idea was laughable. He felt a growing wonder at himself and a new, burnished pride.
It was half an hour before Miss Carmen Gonzales was brought in by the officer. She was young, dark, pretty as an exotic tropical flower, and at the sight of her It was suddenly released in John and exaltation rose through him. Señorita. That was the word that came with her, and magically, once again, the broad paseos, the softly padding Indians, the little boys scurrying around vending lottery tickets—all vibrant in his mind, beckoning …
Come, come… come to us… we are all yours at last….
John was hardly paying any attention to what was happening now, but he saw the girl glance quickly at him and then turn nervously to the Inspector. She was obviously ill at ease. That touched him. You couldn’t expect an exquisite little girl like that to be calm in a police station.
The Inspector said: “You are Miss Carmen Gonzales of 1374 Pine Street?”
“Yes, sir. But what’s the matter? The officer wouldn’t tell me. Why have you brought me here? What have I done?”
Carmen Gonzales was drifting into It now. Hand in hand, John and this lovely girl were walking down leaf-fringed boulevards—to the bullfights, perhaps….
“Now, there’s nothing to be frightened of, miss,” said the Inspector paternally. “We just want you to answer a few questions. This afternoon at the corner of 15th and Market Street did you receive a coupon entitling you to five free pairs of Bonifoot Shoes?”
A flush started to spread under the girl’s dusky cheeks. “I haven’t used it yet. I can give it back.”
“That won’t be necessary, Miss.”
Suddenly the girl spun to John and clutched his arm. “Oh, Mr. Flint—you must be Mr. Flint, aren’t you?—I’m sorry. You’ve been so wonderful to Harry. He’s told me about the loan and everything. I knew we shouldn’t have done it.” Her pretty pleading face was close to his. “I told Harry it was mean, petty, almost like stealing. But he thought you wouldn’t mind. He said that the five-pairs coupon had to go to someone—so why shouldn’t I be the hundredth person to walk by? You see, having to get the trousseau and everything to join Harry in Reno … Five pairs of shoes, it did seem such a wonderful chance. But we shouldn’t have done it. Oh, Mr. Flint, you’re kind. I know you’re kind. Don’t make a charge against Harry; don’t have him arrested.”
What was happening inside John Flint was terrible. It was as if an atomic bomb had plunged from the air without a sound of warning, raging into his dream city, cracking the tall buildings, splitting the boulevards, smothering the sunlight in a miasma of dust.
“Harry?” barked the Inspector. “Who’s this Harry?”
The girl turned. “He’s my fiancé. And Mr. Flint has been wonderful to him, lending him money for the divorce, giving him a job as his assistant when he didn’t really need one. Just to be kind. This afternoon he sent Harry on the street survey and—well, Harry shouldn’t have done it, but he called me up and told me if I joined him right away on 15th and Market, I would be able to get the free coupon. He …”
Carmen Gonzales spun back to John Flint, leaning towards him, pathetically eager to justify herself, to convince him that, even though she and Harry had done a shoddy act, they were genuinely sorry.
“Please, Mr. Flint.” Awkwardly she fumbled the coupon from her pocketbook and held it out to him. “Take it. I couldn’t ever use it. Five pairs of shoes! Why, that’d be over fifty dollars! I can’t imagine how we could have been so—so completely despicable.”
Her warm young smile was like the grin of Disaster stalking through the ruins.
“And, Mr. Flint, I only hope that one day you’ll be in trouble. Then Harry and I will really be able to prove our gratitude.”
MOTHER, MAY I GO OUT TO SWIM?
John Tuthill Crane left the mild evening sunlight of the hotel terrace. He limped without definite purpose into the large room which the management called “The Recreation Hall.” After five days of Maine vacation, he still felt bored and out of place. He should have cancelled the trip when, at the last moment, Bob’s children had come down with measles and Claire had hurried off to Philadephia to nurse them. But Claire had insisted that he go without her.
He could hear her soft, sweet laugh. Find yourself some pretty little girl. Play a bit. Perhaps we live too high in the clouds, you and I. After all, you’re still just a boy.
He was still almost a boy. Thirty-six was not old. And yet why should youth have lower standards than maturity? What was there here for a civilized human being to play with—a dull beach, foolish old rocking ladies, loud young people beating tennis balls at each other. Tastelessness and boredom were triumphant.
He glanced quizzically around the empty hall with its massive Victorian furniture and its grand piano, bleak on a dais decorated with potted ferns. He thought how the cluttered gentility of it all would amuse Claire. Exactly your Great Aunt Emily, my dear. Thank heavens we’ve emancipated ourselves from New England. The imagined phrases brought the quality of her voice close to him, light, delicately edged with laughter.
He walked to the piano and, dropping his cane on the floor, sat down and started to play a delicious little piece of Milhaud which Claire had discovered at Boosey and Hawkes. The contrast between the dry irony of the French music and the stodgy potted ferns arou
nd him was entertaining. But the joke lacked most of its zest because Claire wasn’t there to share it.
To help the mood, he thought himself back to their music room in Worcester, with Claire seated beside him, her chin cupped in her small, still-exquisite hand, her shoulders sloping elegantly, her eyes, so swiftly blue, ready to throw back to him her appreciation of the jest.
And, as he played, his thoughts of Claire brought to his face an elusive resemblance to hers. It was a similarity of expression rather than of physical feature. For Mrs. Claire Crane was small and porcelain-pretty, while her son was tall and handsome, with only the slightest beginnings of plumpness and the faintest thinning of hair to mar the almost Byronic looks which went so well with the Byronic limp. But the resemblance to his mother was there, almost as if she were hiding inside him, peeping occasionally through his poet’s eyes, smiling with his sensitive mouth.
John Tuthill Crane finished the Milhaud and began Claire’s favorite Prokofieff sonata. She especially admired his interpretation of it. He felt it was rather good himself.
A voice behind him suddenly said, “Please.”
There was a certain impatience in the tone which startled him as much as the fact that there should be a voice at all to speak. He broke off in the middle of a measure and turned round on the stool.
A girl, unfamiliar to him, was standing on the dais. She was wearing a gaily embroided Austrian dirndl which exposed rounded arms and a full square of sun-tanned throat. Her dark hair fell loose around an unusual face from which dark, almost oriental eyes watched him with an alertness that was disturbing.
“Why do you play Prokofieff like an old woman?” she asked in a voice that was faintly accented.
That abrupt question toppled John Tuthill Crane’s poise. He was not used to criticism in the little circle of his intimate friends who treated Claire’s musical Thursdays as the cultural high point of the Worcester week.
The Ordeal of Mrs. Snow Page 19