The Man with Two Wives

by Patrick Quentin

  “And the name of this—this nursemaid?”

  As he stood there watching me, it seemed to me that the eyes behind their almost vacuous surface showed a faint gleam of mockery. But the impression lasted only a second.

  “Ellen.” I said. “Ellen Hodgkins.”

  “Ellen Hodgkins. I shall have to speak to her, of course. Perhaps, when I do, I’ll have the pleasure of meeting you again.”

  He started once more toward the door. He moved quietly and smoothly, like a cat.

  “Good-by,” he said.

  “Good-by, Lieutenant,” we all said at once.

  For a while after he had closed the door, we stood motionless. Then simultaneously we crowded together, momentarily allied, conspirators.

  Daphne giggled. “Well, that was a cinch.”

  C. J. snapped, “Bill, go home right away. Get to Ellen before he does.”

  My new self-confidence hadn’t left me. I said, “Wouldn’t it be safer to call her first?”

  “Then call her.”

  I crossed to the phone as if I intended to call. When I reached it, I turned back. “Perhaps it might be better if you talked to her, C. J.”

  He was instantly formidable, the way he always was when a subordinate suggested any alteration in a plan of his. But years of the office had given me the right wiliness. I adopted a serious, young-executive expression.

  “You see, C. J., there’s a certain problem there with Ellen. Betsy’s the one who pays her salary and I—well, you know how they are. I don’t carry much weight with her. But she worships the ground you walk on. Any suggestion from you…”

  You could never tell with C. J. whether flattery fooled him or whether he merely demanded it and accepted it as his due. But the frown smoothed from his forehead; he pursed his lips in weighty contemplation; then the skin under his jowl started to puff like a frog’s when you stroke it with a straw.

  “Well… yes, boy… perhaps you’re right… yes.”

  He gestured to the phone. That meant I was to dial for him. He never dialed a number if anyone else was in the room. As I picked out my own number, I was fully aware of the risk I was taking. Ellen’s contempt for me might be stronger than her servile respect for C. J. She just might pour out the whole Angelica story to him in a burst of outraged prudery. But I didn’t think she would.

  I heard her haughty, impersonal “The Harding residence” and handed the receiver to C. J. He had already arranged his face; it was the jocular, democratic open-hearted face he used for official banquets.

  “Ellen?… This is Mr. Callingham. Good morning, Ellen. I’m afraid there’s been a little trouble and we need your help. Mr. Harding will explain it all to you shortly, but I wanted to speak with you myself. An acquaintance of Miss Daphne’s has been killed. Naturally, the police are making a routine investigation. We have decided that it will simplify things if we say that Miss Daphne had dinner with Mr. Harding yesterday evening and spent the night there. So, if a policeman, a Lieutenant Trant, comes to see you, just tell him you made supper for Mr. Harding and Miss Daphne and that Miss Daphne slept in the guest-bedroom. You understand?”

  He had slurred it all over so that it had sounded as trivial as a request for a loan of a cup of flour. His voice purred on:

  “By the way, Ellen, how is your poor little niece, the one who is sick?… She is? Oh, that’s too bad. Listen, Ellen, I’m glad to have this chance to chat with you. I’ve been giving the matter a great deal of thought recently and I’m not at all sure it wouldn’t be wiser to fly her over here. I know the British doctors are fine, none finer. But if we had her here where we could keep an eye on her, it would be less of a strain on your sister and…”

  He broke off, listened and then gave a fat, Santa Claus laugh. “My dear girl, don’t be foolish. Your problems are our problems. We all think of you as one of the family. You know that. And you don’t imagine the price of a plane ticket is going to bankrupt me… Don’t thank me, Ellen. And—oh, Ellen, don’t forget what to say when Lieutenant Trant comes.”

  He put down the phone and instantly the smiling, banquet face was wiped off.

  “Explain it all in detail to her when you go home, Bill. I’ll see her next week and write a check for the niece.”

  He gave a little grunt which indicated that the emergency was over, that he didn’t want anyone to bother him about it any more. I couldn’t help admiring him. Neither Lieutenant Trant nor Ellen had cost him the slightest effort or the slightest twinge of conscience. They had merely been minor obstacles to be swept aside so that he could have things arranged the way he wanted them to be arranged. That was what years of being in a position to corrupt had done for him.

  But with my admiration for him, I also felt an admiration for myself. By the maneuvering of a dozen delicate balances, I had given myself at least the potentiality of salvation.

  Daphne had lit a cigarette and was stretched out full length on one of the couches. “Well,” she said, “I’m quite an actress, aren’t I? Oozing with talent. Aren’t you proud of me, Daddy?”

  She squirmed around and grinned provocatively up at C. J. who was moving past the couch. He stopped dead and without the slightest warning slapped her hard across the cheek.

  “Proud of you after last night’s escapade?” He was quivering with rage. “Get out of here. Get out of my sight.”

  “But, Daddy…” whimpered Daphne.

  “Go to your room.”

  For a moment, Daphne hesitated as if deciding whether or not she dared to defy him. Then, pale and petulant, she got up and flounced out of the library. C. J. turned to watch her leave. Behind the fury, there was a look on his face I had never seen before. It was almost anguish. So he loves her as much as that, I thought. It was the first time I had caught him with a normal human emotion. It touched me and embarrassed me too.

  He seemed to have forgotten me. He just stood there, his broad shoulders stooped, his frog-face quite off its guard, abandoned to that curious mixture of love and despair.

  I said, “Well, C. J., I’ll be going now.”

  The sound of my voice was enough. He swung around to me. Suddenly there was nothing on his face but the rage—the bombastic, righteous C. J.-ish indignation which I knew so well.

  “You!” he said. “You and Betsy! Were you out of your minds encouraging her, lying to me, covering up, conniving…?”

  For almost five minutes he shouted at me. I listened, marveling at the skill with which Daphne had been able to twist everything so that the blame fell on Betsy and me.

  “… you knew he was a dangerous neurotic. Anyone with half an eye could have seen that. And yet you threw her into his arms; you encouraged every imaginable folly. And when he attacked her—when one night he actually attacked her like a savage beast… did you do anything about it? No, you did not. Betsy lied to me. She kept lying to me on the phone. My God, if you’d come to me, if you’d given me the faintest glimpse of what was going on…”

  As the abuse poured out of him, I made no effort to defend myself, partly because I felt safe in the realization of how much I had still been able to keep from him, but partly too because I was sorry for him and thought it would help him to vent some of his misery on me. After a while, I could tell that his genuine anger was ebbing away. But the tirade still went on unabated. It always did with C. J. Once he started to bawl someone out, he got carried away by the sheer theatrical pleasure of a scene. But I knew that the worst was over, and soon he was shifting to his other favorite role—the role of the monarch, infinitely merciful and forgiving.

  “Well, Bill, you and Betsy are intelligent people. Now that this has happened, I’m sure you realize what fools you made of yourselves. There’s no need to rub it in. After all, no real harm was done.”

  “No, C. J.”

  A faint smile curled the corners of his mouth. “Matter of fact, I think I handled it pretty well, don’t you? That policeman won’t get anything out of Ellen.”

  “No, C. J.”

/>   “And don’t think I’m not grateful. If it hadn’t been for you, there’d have been quite a mess.”

  “I guess so.”

  He was looking straight at me. “I’m glad you married Betsy. I always thought she’d end up an old maid or, worse still, get into the clutches of some fortune hunter, someone who’d string her along and keep a stable of chorus girls on the side—someone I’d have to get rid of in a hurry. But it didn’t turn out that way. You’re a good sound man, Bill. I’m proud to have you as a son-in-law.”

  For a moment I felt as if I were teetering again on the edge of an abyss. Suddenly C. J. turned into the brisk, live-wire boss, setting an example to his employees.

  “Well, boy, we shouldn’t be standing here. There’s work to be done. I’ve got to get down to the office. Blandon’s flying in from L.A., you know. I want you to tackle him, too. You’ll join us for lunch. But you’d better go fix it all up with Ellen first.”

  He started for the door and then, theatrically, as if he were trying to pretend that an idea had just occurred to him, he turned back. He looked enormously solemn.

  “Oh, yes, Bill, I meant to tell you. Yesterday the final medical report came in on poor old Lambert. He’s got to give up the vice-presidency.”

  As he paused, clearing his throat to enhance the weightiness of the utterance he was about to make, the phone rang. He gestured me to answer it. I crossed to it, anticipating what he was going to say, feeling a confused combination of excitement and shame. It was the Bellevue Stratford Hotel in Philadelphia. They put Betsy on the phone.

  Oddly enough, the sound of her voice didn’t make me feel guilty. It brought only a quick, warm feeling of pleasure and security.

  “I called home and Ellen said she thought you’d be at Father’s. Bill, have you read the papers?”

  “Yes,” I said. “We all know.”

  “I only just saw it. It terrified me. It is all right, isn’t it? I mean, there isn’t anything with Daphne…?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s all right.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely. Don’t worry. I’ll tell you about it when I see you. You’re still coming back this evening?”

  “Yes. It’s going very well. Helen Reed is being marvelous. Oh, Bill, I can’t tell you how relieved I am. I had visions of rushing back. I was frantic. I thought…”

  C. J. tapped me on the arm. I glanced up. He was holding out his hand for the receiver. I gave it to him.

  “Good morning, Betsy,” he said. “I’ve got a piece of news for you. I was just going to tell Bill, but I’d like you to hear it too. Lambert’s got to retire. I received the report yesterday. And I’ve decided there’s only one man in that department who can swing his job. Betsy, my dear, you have a vice-president for a husband.”

  With a flourish, he dropped the receiver back onto the stand. He was beaming now all over his face.

  “Don’t spread it around, Bill. I don’t want this to leak out until it’s official. But there it is. You take it from me. You’ve got my word for it.”

  I had no illusions at all. The beaming face was the banquet face, the Ellen face. He had paid Ellen off with the plane ticket. Now he was paying me off too. Deeply implicated though I was in lies, I still had my pride and my pride came out as anger.

  I said, “When did you think that up, C. J.? Ten minutes ago? If you did, I don’t want any part of it. If I don’t rate being vice-president on my own merits—to hell with it.”

  Against all reason, saying that gave me great satisfaction. The banquet smile was wiped away. For a moment C. J.’s face was thunderous. Then a trace of amusement showed in his complex eyes.

  “You’re a smart boy, aren’t you? You know how to handle me. Sure, Bill. Sure it’s on your merits. You’ve proved it right now. Dave Manners would never have dared say that to me.”

  He stood looking at me. The look became abstracted, almost bored. Then, ignoring me completely, he walked out of the room.

  chapter 7

  I left C. J.’s apartment and took a taxi home. I was plagued by a sensation of urgency. It was after ten; C. J. expected me for lunch with his Coast sales manager at one. I had to see Ellen first, because C. J. would certainly expect a report. But, until I could get to Paul and Angelica, the crucial alibi for Angelica would remain only a plan in my head and my salvation was only potential.

  As I let myself into the apartment, I heard Ellen’s voice in the living room. For a moment I thought she was talking to Rickie; then I realized that she must have taken him to his kindergarten school at least an hour ago. I went into the living room. Lieutenant Trant was sitting on the arm of a chair.

  The sight of him jolted me. I hadn’t expected him to follow through so quickly. When Ellen saw me, she jumped up with exasperating primness. She never felt it her “place” to be seated in front of an employer except in the nursery. She even felt it was above her station to be in the living room at all. These standard symptoms of respect should have reassured me. But it wasn’t Ellen’s atmosphere which predominated in the room; it was Lieutenant Trant’s. He, too, had risen at my entrance. He was standing now, smiling at me with the same deferential unobtrusiveness which he had shown at C. J.’s. But somehow he didn’t look as young as he had seemed at C. J.’s, and nowhere near as simple.

  “Hello, Mr. Harding. I’ve just been talking to Miss Hodgkins. I like to get things over with as quickly as possible.” He turned to Ellen who was looking down at the floor, being Just-Nobody-the-Child’s-Nurse. “Well, Miss Hodgkins, that all seems very satisfactory. I don’t think there’s any need to take up your time any longer.”

  Ellen went out of the room. I was as sure as I could be that she had carried out C. J.’s instructions to the letter. And yet Lieutenant Trant made me uncomfortable. I was itching for him to leave so I could get finished with Ellen. But he seemed in no hurry at all. He even sat down on the arm of the chair again.

  “Well,” he said, “it’s early yet, of course. But we don’t seem to be making much progress.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said.

  “The main trouble is that we haven’t found anyone yet who really knew him. There are only the Browns in the next apartment and they just knew him casually as neighbors. He sublet the apartment from Mrs. Brown’s mother. He came to New York very recently. From California, I believe.”

  “I believe so.” I had taken it for granted that the police would almost immediately get on to the connection between Jaimie and Angelica. But suddenly I remembered what Angelica had told me at our second meeting. She had said she had never gone to Jaimie’s apartment; he had always come to hers. So long then as Trant’s only contact was the Browns, he might not get on to Angelica at all.

  Trant was looking away from me at the picture over the mantel. “Of course, this might be just a routine killing by a thug, but there’s no sign of breaking or entering. It was quite a disappointment to me when none of you people could give me a lead. You say you hardly knew him?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You met him here in New York?”

  That question was just as casual, just as respectful as all the others. He wasn’t even looking at me. I was almost certain that all this was nothing. He was just following the book and formally gathering information. And yet, in spite of my relief about Angelica, the discomfort he was creating increased.

  Trying to be just as amiably chatty as he, I said, “Yes. I met him in New York. He was a friend of a friend of mine in Europe. He brought a novel manuscript into my office. He hoped I might be able to help him get it published. That’s where he met Daphne.”

  “Perhaps you could give me the name of your mutual friend in Europe, Mr. Harding.”

  “Charles Maitland,” I said quickly. “But I’m terribly sorry. I have no idea where he is right now.”

  “I see.” The engaging smile came again. He got up from the chair arm and went over to examine the picture above the mantel more closely. “This is a Buf
fet, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I said, a little startled. What sort of a policeman was this?

  Still studying the picture, he said, “At least we know something. It isn’t very much, I’m afraid. Yesterday evening, around six, the Browns knocked on Lumb’s door and asked him if he’d like to go along with them to their party. He said he had a date. So we know he must have been expecting to see someone that night—unless, of course, the idea of the party bored him and he just made an excuse.”

  Lieutenant Trant finished his examination of the Buffet and came back to me. He put his hand in the pocket of his jacket. “The only thing we found which seemed out of place in a man’s apartment was this, Mr. Harding. I can’t imagine that you would be able to identify it.”

  His hand came out of his pocket. Cupped in his palm was my mother’s dolphin ring which I had given to Angelica before our marriage.

  I knew then that I was afraid of him. There was still no tangible reason for fear. In his voice there hadn’t been the slightest trace of suspicion and he was looking at me merely as one friend looks at another, with absolutely no professional wariness. But I was assaulted by the conviction that he hadn’t believed a word I said or a word any of us had said from the beginning, and the, fear was there, merging with surprise and anxiety at the sight of the ring.

  “It’s a woman’s ring,” I said.

  “Yes,” said Trant. And then, “Oh, well, it’s probably just some souvenir. Probably it belonged to his grandmother. It’s about that vintage.”

  He put it back in his pocket. Moving with that curious fluid grace of his, he strolled over to a chair and picked up from it the manila envelope which I had seen him carrying at C. J.’s. He opened it with care and produced from it an object wrapped in a handkerchief.

  “At least we’ve got this, Mr. Harding.” With elaborate daintiness, he started to lift back one of the handkerchief flaps. “I don’t know why I’m being so delicate. There aren’t any fingerprints. That’s already been checked. But at least we’ve got it. It was on the floor by his side. It shouldn’t be too difficult to trace its ownership. And when we’ve done that, of course, we will have a lead.”