Black Widow

by Patrick Quentin

  Most of her life both on and off the stage had been acting. How natural that, from the moment after the murder, the actress should have taken control. She must have known her only hope was to fake a suicide, and once she’d done it, once she’d torn off the title page of the story and doodled the hanged girl, once she’d somehow lugged the body up to the chandelier—Lottie Marin, the actress trained to believe her role, had already started to believe the suicide.

  Probably, it had not been hard for her—because the role she had had to play from then on had been nothing but Lottie Marin—Lottie Marin swooping down to welcome Iris home, discovering the body, accusing me of driving “the poor little girl” to suicide, Lottie Marin doing and saying all the things that Lottie Marin would say and do.

  And later, Lottie Marin hurtling to the theater with the red-hot news, Lottie Marin rushing back to our apartment, commiserating with her “poor dear darlings,” Lottie Marin shocked at the revelations of Lucia’s sister, Lottie stoutly championing her best friend Iris against her shameful husband, Lottie Marin still being my best friend, Lottie indignant when I wouldn’t play ball, Lottie Marin, in a final genius gesture of play-acting, flying into a tantrum and walking out of the show.

  Yes, it had all been consistent. And it was wonderful in a way—even the magnificent shamelessness of that final pointing, accusing finger.

  I felt a sudden, unreasonable sadness. Lottie had been the greatest actress of our time. There wouldn’t be another Lottie, not in my day.

  Trant had got up from the chair. Iris was hovering uncertainly at his side.

  I said, “I guess you’ve got her now, Lieutenant. A confession in front of witnesses.”

  “Yes.” He glanced at me and there seemed to be in his eyes a trace of my own regret. “Knowing what Nanny Ordway was—” He shrugged. “But I don’t like murder, and I guess I’ve got this murderer.”

  My mind, racing forward into the future, was full of new speculations.

  “I wouldn’t be too sure.”

  “Not sure, Mr. Duluth?”

  “Right now she’s down. Wait till she’s up again. Just wait till you see her at the trial. Before she’s through, she’ll have that jury carrying her out of the courtroom on their shoulders—cheering.”

  Lottie and Brian emerged from the bedroom. Brian was carrying a small case. Lottie didn’t even look at us. She went right on to the door. Brian and Trant followed her.

  For a moment Iris and I stood there together in silence. Then we went down to our own apartment. I mixed us drinks. Neither of us said anything for quite a time. But gradually, with Lottie away, with the power of her personality fading, I came back to myself. I was Peter Duluth with a wife—Peter Duluth unexpectedly reprieved from the abyss.

  And, because it’s my nature to worry, I started to worry. Iris was sitting on the couch, pale and preoccupied. I crossed to her. I sat down next to her.

  “Baby,” I said, “you haven’t signed with Alec, have you?”

  She glanced up. “Signed? To go to England? Of course not. I didn’t even like the play.”

  Slowly it was coming back to me—that wonderful, half-forgotten feeling that life was ordinary, that a day was just a day, that you wake up in the morning and there is your wife and you have your breakfast and you—

  “Peter.” She twisted around on the couch, her face still grave and reflective. “I’ve been thinking.”

  “Yes?”

  “Miss Mills says the part in Let Live would be fine for me.”

  The feeling of life re-established was growing, swelling. It was wonderful.

  “Do it,” I said. “Do it, baby. It’d be perfect for you. And it would thrill Thomas Wood.”

  Dell, 1954