Unsuspected

by Charlotte Armstrong

  “I see. I think I do.”

  “The fellow said ‘Burn tenderly.’ Remember that. Two words. Write them down. They take records of those programs. They must have taken a record of this one. Pray they have. You’ve got to go to the radio station and find out. Maybe they took a record there. Or if they didn’t, sometimes the client does. Find out who pays for that program. See if they took a recording. Try the advertising agency. Try everywhere. Find that record, Jane. And then make them let you listen. Make up a yam, anything. Don’t you see? If you can listen, and time the thing, and spot the very minute when he said, ‘Burn tenderly’—”

  “Uh-huh,” said Jane. “Uh-huh.”

  “That’ll be the proof we’re looking for. Proof! If the time is different from what I expect, then we’re all wrong, and we’ll know it. Jane, we can’t be wrong. And if those words were said on the air that morning any time—even seconds—after twenty after ten, then we’ve got him! Got enough to go to the police. Because that would mean she was dead—” He drew away in the dark. “Oh, God, Jane, she kicked that lamp over while she was dying, and he stood there watching her!”

  Jane said, in a minute, grimly, “That’ll do it.”

  “Yes,” he repeated wearily, “that’ll do it.”

  “I’ll go into town. I’ll find out.” She might have been taking her oath.

  “Yes, you go in.” He wished the night were over. He wished it were morning.

  Jane said, “Fran, Gahagen was here.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, and I—”

  “What did he want?”

  “He was asking all about the clock. He looked at the fuses too.”

  Francis groaned. “Did he say how the police came to be wondering about that?”

  “No, he didn’t say. But I think he knew, all right.”

  Francis groaned again. “The old man is keen. Damn! Why did this have to happen tonight?”

  “How do you suppose Gahagen knew that you were the man on the telephone?”

  “They could have traced the call. I couldn’t help it. I had to check; had to know whether the police had found a blown fuse or noticed—”

  “They never would have noticed,” said Jane loyally. “You found the newspaper picture with the wrong time on the clock.”

  “But I wish Gahagen hadn’t shown up tonight.”

  “Fran, what’s the difference? We’ve got it now. All we have to do is check.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  They were whispering in the lee of a great mock orange. The night was stiil around them. Chilly. Francis shivered. His scalp crawled. He wished it were morning and Jane on her way.

  “Fran, tell me.” She clutched at his arm. “What about Mathilda? What happened?”

  “Mathilda doesn’t matter,” he said desperately.

  “But what did you tell Grandy? What did he say?”

  “I told him she was balmy. He—I don’t know. I imagine he’s wondering, right now, what I’m up to.”

  “You don’t think he believed you?”

  “No, I don’t think he believed me,” said Francis bitterly. “I’m good, but I’m not that good. I think he doesn’t understand and he’s lying low. I hope he doesn’t get his mind clear until tomorrow.”

  “Poor Mathilda,” breathed Jane.

  “Tough on her,” he admitted. He could tell Jane. “But, honey, what could I do? Go on trying to tell her that old precious is what he is? And have her run to him with all we’ve got, so far? So he could block any move we’d try to make? Don’t think he couldn’t. Or could I bow out and say, “That’s right, ma’am. I’m lying. Must have had a brain storm. So long.’ And leave the job unfinished? When we were so close? I couldn’t do a thing, Jane, but what I did. I felt like a heel.”

  “She must have been staggered.”

  “She’s got a lot of fight; she can take it. She’s got to! A few confusing days. Jane, how the old man’s got those girls under his spell! Svengali business. I don’t like it. He’s had Mathilda thinking she’s a poor little unattractive dumb bunny for years and years.”

  “She’s not,” said Jane dryly.

  “She’s certainly one of the most beautiful creatures—” said Francis irritably. “But no, she’ll take his word for it! I don’t think she knows, herself, what she is, or ever will know until she gets away from him.”

  “So if we get him, she’ll be free.”

  “Yes,” he said. “That’s the only way I can look at it.”

  There was a slam of sound. Somebody had slammed the back door. They froze in the shadows and turned their faces furtively. Someone with a flashlight went around to the garage. The overhead doors rolled up. In a moment or two, they heard a car start. It was Oliver’s. It plunged down the drive and they heard the gears clash, as if the hand that shifted was in a mood for bangs and clashes.

  “Oliver?”

  “But what—where’s he going?”

  “Hell for leather. I don’t know.” Francis took a step as if he would follow and see.

  “He was simply furious with Althea. They must have had a fight.”

  “Quite a fight,” said Francis.

  The car’s noises died away, leaving the night to its old chilly quiet. Jane shivered this time. “Better get back.” She turned to look at the quiet house that had just erupted and spit out an angry man, and now lay biding its time, to explode again with some evil or other.

  “Yes, you’d better,” said Francis with sudden urgency. “Look here, we forgot something. Grandy may not know about the radio voice, but he does know one thing. I should have seen that. He knows the icebox light went out when the fuse blew. He knows, because Althea told him. That’s what tipped him off, in the middle of the morning, that a fuse had been blown. He trotted right down cellar and fixed it. Now, she didn’t see the light go out—”

  “If it was out,” said Jane. “And if it was really Rosaleen’s death that put it out, Fran, haven’t we got proof already? Can’t we use that? Use it now, tonight?”

  “No, because it might have been the bulb burning out, after all,” said Francis wearily. “He’d wiggle out that way. Jane, I—”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “God knows what he’ll do!”

  She trembled. “What?”

  “I hate to ask you to lose sleep when you have so much to do tomorrow. Jane, watch Althea’s door.”

  “Watch?”

  “Because Oliver’s gone,” said Francis. “Oliver isn’t there. She’s alone. And Gahagen’s tipped off Grandy. Get into the house, Jane. It’s not— I don’t think it’s safe.”

  “You don’t think he’d— Not Althea!”

  “No?” said Francis. “Rosaleen was young and pretty, wasn’t she?”

  Jane said, “Oh, Fran!”

  “If you see anyone,” he told her, “flash your lights. I’ll be around.”

  As one, they turned and almost ran into the darkness to the kitchen porch. He boosted her up the trellis. Mathilda’s window was dimly lit. The house stood whitely over Francis. The night, he thought, was getting colder.

  16

  “Now,” said Grandy, “now we’re cozy.” He sat in the big yellow chair, and Tyl put herself on the yellow ottoman at his feet. They were together in a little pool of light from the tall lamp over them. The room was warm. It had an expensive smell. She’d had time to get out of the green dress and in to her own long warm robe of rose-colored wool. The soft fabric felt luxurious along her neck and arms.

  “What’s troubling you, duck? Now you shall tell me all about it.”

  “Just that Francis is a liar!” she burst out promptly. “A terrible liar, Grandy. I don’t know the man! I never saw him before! The story about my having met him and got married to him—it’s not true! Every bit of it is just made up. Because I remember exactly what I did in New York those three days. And he wasn’t in it. So it’s all a big elaborate lie!”

  Grandy’s black eyes narrowed.

  Mathild
a felt her temper rising. “Just about the biggest mess of lies I ever heard!” she cried. “Why, he had the bellhops and the hotel people all primed to say they knew about it. Even the minister, Grandy. And that letter to you! I never wrote any such letter. I couldn’t have. Because it didn’t happen. And that license business in the wrong name. It’s just a fake! It must be!”

  “Hush,” he said.

  “But you believe me? You do? Don’t you?”

  “Of course I believe you, Tyl,” he said “Of course, darling. Hush.”

  She sagged forward, put her arms on his knees and her head down. “But did you ever hear of such a thing? Why it’s—” She wanted to cry.

  “Extraordinary,” said Grandy. “It’s perfectly wild, Tyl.”

  “I know!” she cried. “I couldn’t make a fuss! I had to get home! Grandy, what in the world can we do about it?”

  “To think he fooled me,” Grandy said sadly. “To think he fooled us all.”

  “Oh, darling, I suppose you couldn’t help that,” she soothed. “The letter was so well done. I know. But it’s a fake, just the same. Grandy, what I can’t understand is, what’s he doing all this for? And what shall we do? You’ll throw him out, won’t you?”

  Grandy said nothing.

  “What do you think?” she cried.

  “Oh, poor child,” he said. “I was thinking what a dreadful day you’ve had. Poor darling, it’s a wonder you didn’t begin to think you were out of your mind.”

  “I pretty near did,” she confessed.

  “It was wicked.”

  “Yes, it was,” she agreed, her eyes smarting with a rush of self-pity. “You don’t know how confusing it was. I had to keep telling myself to hold everything and wait, because you’d fix him! And you will, won’t you, Grandy?”

  “Oh, yes, I’ll fix him,” said Grandy. She made a little satisfied sigh. “You see, duck, we did feel so dreadfully sad. And he seemed to feel the same. Quite as if he’d known you. I want you to understand—”

  “Darling, I don’t blame you.”

  “But I blame myself,” said Grandy. “To think we pitied him and let him stay! Of course, he must have supposed you would never turn up.”

  “He thought I was dead. He thought I’d never come back to tell you he was lying.” She nodded.

  “We must ask ourselves,” said Grandy, “what he wants here.”

  A car roared out the drive and off down the road. Grandy’s pince-nez fell and dangled on the cord. “Dear me, what was that?”

  “A car,” said Mathilda impatiently. “Grandy, what is it about Althea? Why did they go off together?”

  Grandy said, almost absent-mindedly, “You see, Tyl, Francis told me that you couldn’t remember him.”

  She was amazed. “He told you? When?”

  “As soon as you came. While you were upstairs.”

  “Before dinner?” her voice squeaked.

  “Yes, right away.”

  “Then— Oh, Grandy, you guessed it was all a lie. You did know.”

  “Why, yes. I knew.”

  Mathilda sank back, puzzled, bothered.

  “What I assumed was that his disappearing with Althea was a part of his act,” said Grandy, shifting in the chair. “He was your poor, flouted, forgotten lover, and of course he had to be comforted. Althea’s done a good deal of that sort of thing,” he mused—“comforting Francis.”

  “I imagine,” said Tyl faintly. She thought, Althea would. Faint color came to her face.

  “Althea’s impulse was to be kind,” said Grandy, “and it was kind.”

  She thought, But Althea’s impulse isn’t to be kind. That’s not so. She said, “Jane has impulses too. She climbed out her window just now to meet him in the garden.”

  “Eh?”

  “Oh, yes, I saw them.”

  “Jane?”

  Mathilda nodded. She thought, How many women does he need to comfort him? Her cheeks were hot. “More part of his act,” she said.

  “But what’s the act designed for, eh, Tyl?” Grandy looked both shrewd and stern. “I think we must know that. We must find out. Yes. You see, I told Francis we’d—er—wait.”

  “Wait?” Mathilda looked at him, surprised. “Wait?” she cried again, indignantly. Yet she wasn’t as indignant as she might have been.

  Grandy said, “Because I wonder what he’s after, and I’d like to know. Yes. I’d like very much to know.”

  “So would I. Mathilda felt a little flustered, a little lost.

  “You see, duck”—Grandy leaned toward her; his voice took on its old persuasive richness—“the thing’s so delicate. We don’t want it to be spread around. What fun the newspapers would have if you swear one thing and he continues to swear another. And to do with love and marriage. Oh, Tyl.” She looked at him doubtfully. “And yet”—he changed his voice, watching her face—“I should adore to kick him out of here very fast and very hard in a spot where a kick would take the best effect, eh? Perhaps we will do just that Yes, I think so.” Then he said crossly, “What does the fellow want? Did he say anything at all, duck? Any little thing?”

  She shook her head. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” she said. “At first I thought he must have wanted to get in here to get close to you. Because he wanted something from you, Grandy. But I—” She shook her head again. She remembered Francis had said he was jealous. “I don’t think so any more. I just don’t know.”

  “A very mysterious article, our Francis,” mused Grandy. “Now, what could he want of me?”

  Mathilda moved her hands, pulling her robe together nervously. Tomorrow they would kick him out like a dog, and he would deserve it. She lifted her chin. Serve him right. She said aloud, “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Eh?”

  “Maybe, if we waited, we could find out what he’s after,” she said weakly. She thought, What am I saying this for?

  “Let us go slowly,” said Grandy thoughtfully. She had a sensation of relief. They both relaxed, as if a decision had been taken. But Grandy had another thought. “Naturally, duck, you dislike him. I could see, at the table—”

  “Naturally,” she said.

  “Therefore, if he annoys you in any way, if even his being here or anything he does—”

  Mathilda tossed her head. She thought, I won’t let myself be annoyed.

  Grandy said, with sudden, almost boyish pleasure, “But isn’t it the damnedest thing!” and Mathilda looked at his twinkling black eyes and she laughed.

  “It certainly is,” she agreed. “Oh, Grandy, I feel so much better now.”

  “Don’t you let him make you think you’ve had amnesia,” scolded Grandy fondly. “Don’t you let him shake you, duck. Or undermine your confidence. No. He shan’t do that. Not if I know it!”

  Grandy kissed her. He went out. The door fell softly closed. She stood quite still a moment. It’s all right. It’s all right. Of course, it’s all right. She slipped off the rosy robe. Grandy believes me. Mathilda brushed her teeth very thoroughly and vigorously. She put herself to bed with great decision and firmness. It was almost as if she had to prove she was firm and unshaken.

  Grandy’s beautiful bathroom, a bubble of glass and luxury, had been designed and built for him by one of his famous friends, an architect of the modern school. It had been installed for some four years. Before that, Grandy had for his own the bath between his room and the garden room, which bath now served the garden room alone. The connecting door to Grandy’s room had been locked and forgotten.

  So it was that Jane, sitting in the dark with her eye to the faintest crack at the edge of her own door, where she had just not quite closed it, saw Grandy come out of Mathilda’s room, the gray room, cross the hall and pass Althea’s door without a glance. She saw him go up toward the front of the house and enter his own place. She did not see him come out again, as indeed he did not, for she watched until dawn.

  But Althea, gargling her throat, heard his tapping on the locked and bolted door.

&
nbsp; “Grandy?”

  “Slip the latch, chickabiddy. Are you decent?”

  Althea slipped the latch. “I’m decent,” she said sulkily.

  He stood in the half-open door, looking at her with a worried frown. “Oliver?”

  “Oh.” Althea slashed at the rack with her towel. She had a white satin negligee pulled tight around her hips. The wide sleeves were embroidered in silver. “We had a fight. A regular knock-down, drag-out.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Grandy. “So sorry, dear.”

  “He’ll get over it,” she said. She looked angry to the point of tears.

  “Was it because of Francis?”

  “Such stupid nonsense!” cried Althea.

  “He thought—”

  “I don’t know what he thought, but I can guess. Just because I wouldn’t tell him what we were talking about”

  “But why not, chicken?” Grandy moved in a little, all benevolence, all loving concern.

  “I might have told him if he hadn’t been so nasty.” She sniffed. “Oliver gets on a high horse and he’s just unbearable.”

  “Then it wasn’t a secret?”

  “I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. A funny cruel little smile grew on her sulky face. “You know, Tyl’s a sly one.”

  “Tyl?” Grandy showed his innocent surprise.

  “Francis didn’t tell me much,” she said, “but he’s all upset.” She turned away to reach for her lotion. Grandy didn’t move. “Such a lot of jealous nonsense!” she stormed. “So Oliver’s gone off for the night, and let him! It’ll do him good! After all, if Francis wanted me to talk to him, why shouldn’t I? Francis isn’t very happy.”

  “Why shouldn’t you, indeed?” murmured Grandy mildly. “But you’re upset now, chickabiddy, and you mustn’t be. It spoils your pretty face.”

  Althea looked into the mirror.

  “Better sleep,” said Grandy gently. “Better try to sleep it all away.”