The Viola Brothers Shore Mystery

by Viola Brothers Shore

  “Dear Lady,” he began in that inimitable way of his…

  For a whole week, Cora could not believe that what had happened to her had happened. Even when she could not find Larry at Victor’s or the Tarleton, and there was no answer from The Lodge. Later, his lawyer, a terribly shrewd, painstaking, bone-spectacled young man, whose clients’ interests were his religion and his gospel, came to see her and explained to her the inadvisability of any suit for breach of promise, because of the irregular state of the cash register at the Holden House coincident with her sudden departure (oh, he was a very shrewd young lawyer, and very painstaking). Only then did she realize the full extent of the calamity which had befallen her and the utter hopelessness of it all.

  Pudd Mittelfinger met her train at Albany, as she had wired him to do. They were to be married at once. Since the death of his mother, the farm and the dairy had not been paying very well, and he was gloomy and humble.

  At lunch, he reached across the table and took her hand in his—a hand rough, somewhat damp, and a little sticky.

  “I can’t believe my luck, Cora. After all the hard luck I been having, to get you in the end! You know, sometimes I think if you want a thing—bad enough…”

  A MESS OF POTTAGE

  At the corner of Westchester Avenue and a side street, somewhere in the Bronx, a young woman, wheeling a baby-carriage, stopped and waited for an automobile to pass. She was a slight, young thing with large, earnest, brown eyes and a lot of fine, dark hair brushed up carelessly under a cheap hat. Her blue suit had, in its prime, been well made and of good stuff. That was why it had outworn the look of bridal radiancy which had accompanied it in those days.

  It hung limply about her sagging shoulders as she waited, heavy eyed, for the machine to pass. But it did not pass. It stopped directly in front of her, a huge, purple, conspicuously expensive-looking car, and a man stepped out. He was a stout man, nearing middle age, with a little black moustache and small, expressive, black eyes. He looked like the kind of man who approves of himself quite thoroughly, and treats himself accordingly.

  “Nedda!” he exclaimed, and held out a small plump hand with an enormous ruby on the little finger.

  She gave a startled look at her shabby shoes and skirt, then threw back her head and met his eyes coolly.

  “Hello, Will,” she said, cordially enough, but without enthusiasm, and let him grasp her reddened, ungloved hand.

  He did not let it go, but stood holding it, regarding her. At last he spoke.

  “You live up this way?”

  “Yes,” she answered, and took her hand away.

  Again he seemed, looking at her, to forget to speak. She did not try to help him.

  “I just happened to be passing here—I was trying to locate a man up this way,” he mumbled finally; then he added bluntly, “What’s the matter with you, Nedda? You don’t look like yourself at all.”

  She gazed at the handle of the carriage which she was pushing back and forth. “There’s nothing the matter with me,” she said indifferently.

  Again it was with an effort he seemed to find words to speak to her.

  “I’m awfully glad to see you, Nedda. I have thought sometimes I would never see you again. This is the first time since you were married—it must be three years.”

  “Two,” she corrected, without animation. She glanced around as though she were contemplating going further, and he asked her:

  “Where were you going? Anywhere special?”

  “No—just keeping the baby out.”

  He looked helplessly at the baby carriage, and then suddenly his eyes brightened.

  “Wouldn’t you like to take the baby for a ride?”

  “No, thanks,” she replied, and looked about her quickly.

  He tried desperately to keep her there. “Do you like my car? It cost me twelve thousand dollars,” he said.

  For the first time the wearied look lifted from her eyes, and something like mirth shone in their shadowy depths. “Still the same old Will, aren’t you?”

  “Yes—Nedda—still the same!” he answered with sudden fervor—meaningly.

  Instantly she withdrew behind her former manner. “I did not mean that,” she said. “I must be going.”

  “Nedda—!” he began impetuously; but at the look in her eyes he dropped his hand. “Do you always walk along Westchester?” he added in a conversational tone.

  “Yes—that is—sometimes I do. Goodbye. Glad to have seen you again.” And without a backward turn of her head, she walked off.

  He watched her dragging her little, ill-shod feet until she was out of sight, a hungry look in his eyes, his full curved lips almost tremulous. Then, slowly, without any spring to his step, he got into the splendid car and drove away.

  * * * *

  At five o’clock in the morning the baby cried. It always did. Three or four times during the night and early in the morning. Nedda put out a tired hand to soothe it, but it would not be soothed. Half dazed with lack of sleep she dragged herself out of bed and tried to quiet it. At last she took it into her own bed and it finally fell asleep. She likewise.

  At half past six the alarm-clock tore her out of her sleep and half out of bed. It always shocked her that way, but Douglas merely stirred sleepily and drew the sheet closer about his broad shoulders. He did not have to get up until seven, but he set the clock to ring a half hour earlier so that he could doze a while. But Nedda could not doze; the baby was wide awake.

  So she got up and dressed half-heartedly. Her eyelids were leaden and her head throbbed. When breakfast had been started she woke Douglas. It took a good deal of nervous energy and will-power to get him up. But at last his curly tousled head disappeared in the bathroom.

  Breakfast was just ready when he emerged. He was good to look at, clean-cut, freshly shaved, his blue eyes clear and bright, his teeth white and shiny, the curly hair all smoothed back close to his head. He came up and kissed her on the back of the neck as she bent over the stove.

  “Morning, Sister,” he said cheerily, then went over to the baby. “Morning, Sister Junior. How’d you sleep last night? Hardly heard you at all. Gad! It’s a great day for work,” he continued, looking out of the window at the hard clear blue of the October sky. Then he turned back to Nedda.

  “Doesn’t a day like this make you feel like going out and killing a couple of Turks?” And when she only answered with a little shrug, he added, “I wish you’d buck up, Sis, and get a little pep into you. What’s the matter? Are you sick? Because if you are, you’d better go back to bed.”

  She answered him with an attempt at pep. “No. I’m not sick. I’m feeling fine.”

  “Then why in Heaven’s name,” he puckered up his straight, smooth brow on which the curly hair grew low down in a straight line, “do you go around looking like the Children of Israel being driven from the Promised Land?”

  A hurt look came into her eyes as she answered quietly, “I guess I’m just—tired.”

  “Tired?” he exploded; “why, you just got up! How can you be tired?”

  She did not attempt to answer, but began serving his breakfast.

  He picked up the Times, and propping it against the sugar-bowl, commenced to read. She swallowed a cup of coffee hastily and began clearing the things from the table. He looked up.

  “Have a heart,” he expostulated; “let’s eat like civilized people instead of quick-lunch savages.”

  She gave him a queer look as he buried himself once more in his civilized paper, but did not say anything. She sat in her chair waiting for him to finish, figuring mentally what she would do first.

  At last he was ready to go.

  “Goodbye,” he said, and kissed her on the cheek with a final admonition not to work too hard. “You know,” he added, “a fellow hates to come home and find his lil ole wife all tuckered out. Don’t overdo t
hings. Take it easy.”

  She dragged through the tasks of washing the dishes and cleaning up the flat. Baby’s bottles had to be sterilized and the formula prepared. There were some of the baby’s things to be washed and taken up on the roof, and the bathroom had to be scrubbed. And, too, she made a cake for Douglas. He was boyishly fond of desserts, and his eyes would light up happily over anything sweet that pleased him. She bathed the baby, but would not yield to the luxury of fondling its little bare body. The doctor had told her it should be outdoors by eleven, and that meant no time wasted.

  Except the hour that the baby slept at noon, she had to keep wheeling it constantly. She used to marvel at mothers who could sit on little camp stools and sew while their children played contentedly in their carriages. Hers never did, and she had to do her sewing in rainy weather or evenings.

  “I know I ought to train her better,” Nedda agreed to her mother, “and I suppose it wouldn’t hurt her to cry it out once or twice. But she cries so much! And I get all unstrung when I hear her. Sometime, when she’s through teething, I’ll try.”

  At a quarter to two she hesitated at Westchester Avenue, deciding whether to go down or cross over. Suddenly, with a defiant toss of her head, she turned down.

  At two the big purple automobile overtook her, and its occupant alighted.

  “It was good of you to walk here,” he said.

  “I always walk here,” she answered him sharply; “I didn’t think you would be looking for another man in the Bronx.”

  “I’m not. I came up to look for you. What’s the use of pretending? You knew I would follow you up. You always knew what I was going to do before I did it.”

  She contemplated the handle of the baby carriage in silence.

  “I’m going to take you out for a ride,” he told her, with assurance.

  “No,” she said, “I can’t go.” But she spoke without conviction.

  “Can’t!” he repeated, “that’s better than won’t. Now, why can’t you?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t care to, in the first place, and in the second, I have the baby-carriage.”

  The man snapped his fingers. “Robbins,” he called.

  The chauffeur came toward them. “Take this carriage to Mrs. Warren’s house and leave it in the hall. What’s the number?” he continued, already bending over the baby as though to lift it out. Nedda had started to remonstrate, but now she came around to the side of the carriage and hurriedly lifted the baby out herself.

  “1115 Forest Avenue,” she said, and permitted herself to be helped into the car.

  She sank deep down into the upholstery, and all the tired muscles of her back and limbs relaxed as they had not done in months. It is hard to relax, even at night, when one has to be always half alert—waiting for the baby’s next cry. But the motion of the machine pleased the baby, and Nedda closed her eyes in exquisite content. For a long time the man did not speak a word to her, and she dozed in her corner. At last, with a start, she opened her eyes and found his fixed on her, full of tenderness.

  “Do you feel rested?” he asked her gently.

  She smiled gratefully.

  “You look better already. You must have been very tired. Does the baby keep you awake nights?”

  It was the first time anyone had ever thought of asking her that, and her eyes misted suddenly as she nodded.

  “Poor little kid… And don’t you get any rest in the day?”

  She hated herself for it, but two big tears rolled slowly down her face.

  “Couldn’t the girl take the baby out?”

  “I haven’t any girl.”

  “And you have to do all your own work?”

  “Why,—yes.”

  “What kind of a fellow is your husband, anyway?”

  Instantly she flared up at him. “You—cut that—Will! Don’t you dare start discussing Douglas. I knew when I married him that we wouldn’t have money enough to—”

  “That doesn’t matter—what you knew! He had no business to marry a girl like you if he couldn’t take care of you properly.”

  “What do you mean? He takes care of me properly—”

  “Sure—letting you do all your own work and mind a baby that keeps you up all night! And I bet you never have a cent to spend on yourself!”

  “I have, too! Don’t talk that way! You just cheapen yourself. You always were nasty about Douglas because—because—”

  “Yes—say it. Because he married you, and I wanted you. Because he couldn’t take care of you right and I could.”

  She started to say something cutting, but he interrupted her bitterly.

  “I’m not saying anything about you. But he had no right to do it. He was only a kid. He should have waited and not asked you to give your life to him, until he was fixed.”

  “Fixed!” she flung at him—“that’s all you know about. That’s not what marriage means. But you couldn’t ever understand.”

  “No!” His face was white and he talked in a half strangled way. “No—of course not! But he understands! When you’re sick or tired from doing his work—does he understand then? Tell me—does he understand?”

  She shrank back into her corner with frightened eyes.

  “I knew when I looked at him he couldn’t think of anything that wasn’t told him. Maybe he means well—but he has to be told—everything. And you wouldn’t ever tell him. You’re that kind of a fool!”

  She sat in miserable silence.

  “The only way to get anything out of a fellow like him,” he continued relentlessly, “is to cry for it. And you wouldn’t even ask! People have to fight to be allowed to give you things. I know—you’re just like my mother—God bless her! I would know how to give you things. My God!” he bent toward her eagerly, “if I only could. If you would only let me—!”

  She sat up stiffly. “Thank you,” she said, “but I really am not in need of anything. In fact, I am quite sure that I will never need to have you—give me—anything! I would like to go back now, please.”

  He gave the order to the chauffeur and sat in silence as tight-lipped as her own until they were nearly home. Then he said:

  “I don’t know why you always think I have the worst motives.”

  She relented a little. “I don’t, Will,” she explained gently, “I don’t. I know you just want to be—kind to me, but I don’t like people to be kind to me—in that way.”

  “In what way? You didn’t even know what I was talking about. Do you think I want to give you diamonds—or dresses? You’re so set! All I meant was—here I have a car. I don’t use it myself in the day. And you go and walk the streets with the baby until you’re half dead every afternoon. But would you use my car? No! Because you’re so damn proud you wouldn’t want me to know there was anything your husband didn’t give you. But I know it already. Or maybe you think I couldn’t give you anything without asking a price—”

  She raised her hand. “No, no, Will. It isn’t that!”

  “Then what is it?”

  It was a full moment before she spoke. “Douglas mightn’t like it,” she said, lamely.

  The man made a gesture of supreme impatience. “Like it! Does he only do things you like? And you mean to say he wouldn’t like you to get off your feet for a minute instead of going on till you drop? Doesn’t he even give you the right to be tired?”

  She looked off into space with tear-filled, wide-open eyes, and his voice softened. “Listen, Nedda; let’s put our cards on the table the way we used to. Maybe, sometimes, I don’t understand, but you know you can’t fool me. And you know I’m your friend—don’t you?”

  “Surely,” she said.

  “Well, then. I won’t pretend I’m not as crazy about you as I ever was. And I won’t pretend that I wouldn’t move heaven and earth to get you away from him. But if I can’t have you, at
least I want to be something to you;—if nothing else, the one to make things a little easier for you. Surely there’s nothing wrong in that?”

  He took her silence for assent. “I’m going to send the car for you and the baby every afternoon, and you’ll have a little rest, and it’ll be fine for the baby. You can take her up in the country. There isn’t even a park around here. And I won’t come along. There can’t be anything wrong with that—can there? If I never come along, unless you let me?”

  “No—there’s nothing wrong—and it’s awfully sweet of you, Will. I don’t know why you’re so good to me—”

  “Then it’s all settled?”

  She thought a moment, then: “No,” she replied doggedly; “I don’t want to accept anything from you.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said stiffly. But as he held the housedoor open for her he made one more attempt.

  “In case you change your mind, I’ll have the man drive up and down Westchester Avenue between two and three.”

  * * * *

  Douglas, coming in early that evening, responded immediately to the change in her. She was smiling and her eyes were bright, and he bustled around happily, helping her finish up.

  “After all, it’s my fault,” she told herself. “If I didn’t get so cross he’d always be glad to help me instead of going inside and playing the piano. He’s really an awfully good kid!” And somewhere inside her remorse for something or other stirred faintly.

  Douglas jumped up from the supper table a dozen times to get things, and he clapped his hands like a boy when she brought in the platters.

  “Oh, baby! Potato pancakes! Come to papa!”

  Once he bent her head back and kissed her on the mouth as he passed in back of her chair.