Penelope

by Howard Fast

  “I’ll get right to the point, Dr. Mannix,” Hastings said. “I have just left my wife. We had a rather stormy session, but I may state with some satisfaction that I controlled myself. The point is that my suspicions are completely verified.”

  “And what are your suspicions, Mr. Hastings?” Gregory asked in a detached and professional manner.

  “That my wife is insane, psychotic. I want to have her committed.”

  “Oh?” said Gregory. “So your wife is insane? And how, pray, did you come to this conclusion?”

  “By observing her.”

  “Oh.”

  “You are her physician. Surely you agree with me?”

  “Put away—committed. That would give you control over her funds, her fortune.”

  “That is completely beside the point,” Hastings protested. “I have no need for her money. I am a very wealthy man in my own right, as you surely know.”

  “Of course,” Gregory replied, thrilled with the evenness of his professional voice, the calm of his clinical manner. Oh, he thought, if only Penelope could see me now, how pleased she would be with my objectivity; and with a honey voice that matched James R. Hastings’ honey voice, Dr. Mannix asked:

  “And what event, precisely, brought you to the conclusion that your wife is insane, Mr. Hastings? I mean, you mentioned a scene between you—which I am sure you handled very well. What was the basis of this scene?”

  “Anything I tell you is privileged?” Hastings demanded cautiously. “You cannot be forced—”

  “Certainly not!” Gregory replied indignantly. “One hint that I talk, and my professional life is done. I have an oath, sir. More than that, if this concerns Mrs. Hastings, wild horses could not drag it out of me.”

  “It does concern her.”

  “Then please talk freely.”

  “Very well. I came home late this afternoon and confronted her with the fact that I was in possession of knowledge to the effect of her robbing a bank.”

  “What! Now wait a moment, Mr. Hastings. That was somewhat involved. Are you telling me that you accused your own wife of robbing your bank?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  Dr. Mannix drew a deep breath, and nodded.

  “And she admitted that my charges were true. She admitted that she robbed my bank.”

  “She admitted that?” Dr. Mannix asked incredulously.

  “Indeed she did.”

  “We must never underestimate people—especially the female of the species. Mr. Hastings”—Gregory leaned forward, his voice firm, confiding and sincere—“Mr. Hastings, at the moment your bank was being robbed, your wife was right here in my office.”

  Stunned into silence, at first James R. Hastings simply stared at Dr. Mannix. Then at last he shook his head. “No,” he said weakly. “That can’t be.”

  “No? And what time yesterday was your bank robbed, Mr. Hastings?”

  “Two thirty-three P.M. was the time the police gave, I think.”

  Dr. Mannix touched the buzzer on his desk and Nurse Doris Gilmore entered. She carried her appointment book, and Gregory’s cold eye told her plainly that if she muffed this one, she was finished. Her own eye said, “I adore you, and you might adore me if that Penelope bitch were only out of the way.”

  “Miss Gilmore,” Dr. Mannix asked casually, “at what time yesterday was Mrs. Hastings’ appointment?”

  Nurse Gilmore consulted her book, swallowed, almost choked over the words, and finally said, “Two-thirty P.M.”

  “And when did she leave?”

  “Three-fifteen.”

  “Thank you. You may go.” And as Miss Gilmore left, Gregory said somewhat diffidently to Hastings, “We have a forty-five-minute hour, you know. A part of the practice.”

  Hastings only stared at him dumbly.

  “I’m sorry,” Gregory said, “are you not well?”

  “Why would my wife admit to robbing my bank?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “No—I am afraid not,” Hastings said.

  “Well, it’s obvious, but perhaps you are too close to the whole thing. You said you came home very disturbed?”

  “Yes, very disturbed, Doctor.”

  “Agitated?”

  “Yes, I will admit to a degree of agitation. I had just been told some very disturbing news. Very disturbing indeed.”

  “Of course. And your agitation was visible?”

  “Yes. I saw no reason to conceal it from Penelope.”

  “Well, there you are,” Dr. Mannix said, leaning back and spreading his hands. “There’s the whole answer.”

  “What answer?”

  “Your wife, Mr. Hastings, is a sensitive woman—an extremely sensitive woman. She is waiting eagerly for your homecoming, this gentle and delicate matron. She waits to open her arms and welcome you. But when you enter, you are enraged. You are disturbed. You are agitated. Conceivably, you are shaking with anger and fear. Then you hurl at her the most incredible of all charges. You do not accuse her of being unfaithful. You do not accuse her of spending too much of your money. No, no—you accuse her of robbing your bank …”

  Hastings nodded wordlessly.

  “You see—then?”

  Again Hastings nodded.

  “What is she to do?” Dr. Mannix asked softly. “Deny your charge? But she has learned enough about dealing with disturbed people to know that this would be both wrong and dangerous—”

  “Dangerous? My God, do you think I might have—”

  “Who knows?” Gregory shrugged. “Who knows what black depths are hidden in our hearts? Who knows what you might have done?”

  “Oh, my God,” Hastings whispered.

  “So she agreed with you. She confessed to all your accusations. She sacrificed herself to your obsession.”

  “God help me—so she did,” Hastings whispered. “What a swine I am—”

  “No worse than any of us,” Gregory said magnanimously.

  “I must get down on my knees and beg her forgiveness.”

  “No, no, no—that would be the worst possible thing that you could do, Mr. Hastings. Don’t forget that your wife is my patient—that she needs help and care—”

  “Tell me what to do,” James R. Hastings said earnestly. “She has been a good mother, a faithful wife, and in return—Dr. Mannix, tell me what to do.”

  “Good. Say nothing to her about the robbery, not another word. All that must be forgotten. Be cheerful, pleasant. You both need to get away from each other. I would suggest a cruise—five or six weeks in the Mediterranean, the Greek Islands, the Red Sea. As a matter of fact, the Arden sails day after tomorrow. With your influence, Mr. Hastings, a suite for your wife should not be difficult to obtain—”

  “Alone?”

  “Of course alone. That is the healing process. She must be alone. And by the way, Mr. Hastings—how were you informed of this bit of slander, your wife robbing a bank?”

  “A woman called Sadaba—a wretched blackmailer whom the police will deal with—”

  “No, no—how could you even think in such terms? The notoriety would destroy Penelope, not to mention what it would do to your own reputation.”

  “I paid her twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  “Charge it to your wife’s happiness. My dear fellow,” Gregory said, coming around the desk and laying one arm across Mr. Hastings’ shoulder, “you are a rich man. What is this money to you? Nothing. But your wife’s health …? Forget it all, and concentrate on one thing—getting your wife out of this rat race and onto that cruise ship.”

  Hastings was visibly moved as he shook hands with Gregory. He tried to pay for the time he had been with him, but Gregory refused. “Not one penny, sir.”

  “I always heard that you chaps were such money-grubbers,” said Hastings, “and here you are, sending Penelope off for her good—and a nice piece of change out of your own pocket. I admire that, Dr. Mannix.”

  “Thank you. But first, sir, always—the patient.”

&
nbsp; “Thank you,” James R. Hastings said sincerely.

  When Hastings had gone, Gregory Mannix did the little jig he had learned playing the part of a judge in a college production of Trial by Jury. Then he put his two forefingers in his mouth and blew that piercing blast which is the only proper whistle in moments of spiritual elevation. As Miss Gilmore entered, he gave her a fine, full, five-finger slap on her buttocks and cried:

  “Doris, my love, cancel all my appointments. I am about to embark on a long-needed vacation—six weeks, to be exact.”

  “When are you leaving?” Miss Gilmore asked.

  “Day after tomorrow.”

  “But you can’t leave on such short notice,” she protested.

  “But I can and I shall.”

  “Your patients—”

  “My patients will survive. So start canceling. But first get me Max Hoffner’s travel agency.”

  And when a despairing and distraught Miss Gilmore finally had Max Hoffner on the phone, Dr. Mannix said:

  “Max, I want a cruise on short notice.”

  “What ship?”

  “The Arden, day after tomorrow. Any accommodations in first class. Can you do it?”

  “Leave it to Max,” said Max.

  Once again, Gregory did the heady little dance he had learned in his college production of Trial by Jury.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Penelope had to call off her lunch date. “Dear man,” she said to John Comaday on the telephone, “I can’t tell you how this devastates me. I had so looked forward to it. But I have only one day to pack for a six-week cruise, and that is asking the impossible. So how could I possibly lunch with you?”

  “Cruise? Cruise? You say you are going on a cruise?”

  “A gift from James. He wants me to have six weeks in the Mediterranean and the Red Sea, or something of the sort. And Gregory agrees with him. I think that’s nice.”

  “Who’s Gregory?”

  “My doctor. But why am I boring you with all these details? You must come to see me off.”

  “And the ship?”

  “The Arden. We sail at eleven in the morning, and I shall have drinks in my suite. It will be such a nice party. Please come.”

  “Dear lady, I am afraid that my day will be as full as yours,” the commissioner said—and then rang off with what Penelope thought was indecent haste.

  Larry Cohen had the same sense of haste when he talked to the commissioner an hour later. “Aren’t you lunching with Mrs. Hastings today?” he asked Comaday.

  “How the hell do you know, and what damn business is it of yours?” Comaday demanded.

  “Don’t blow your top. She mentioned it yesterday, remember?”

  A half hour later, Cohen had occasion to call Comaday again, and this time the commissioner’s secretary told Cohen that Comaday had gone.

  “I’ll call him tomorrow,” Cohen said.

  “I’m afraid he won’t be back tomorrow,” the secretary said.

  “Then when will he be back?”

  “Look, Mr. Cohen,” said the commissioner’s secretary, “I can tell you this, but I would like it to go no further. The commissioner wants us to keep it as quiet as possible. In fact, he asked me not to leak a word of it to you. On the other hand, if the D.A.’s office doesn’t know, it’ll only mean nuisance, and what harm anyway?”

  “What harm anyway?” Cohen agreed.

  “You see, the commissioner hasn’t been well. Rundown and exhausted, and his physician says that if he doesn’t get away, the doc won’t be responsible. So he’s taking off—quietly.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “With his wife, no doubt.”

  “No—no, the doc wants him to go it alone. Peace and rest. I suppose you know it is not all roses with the wife. She rides him hard.”

  “Of course. Naturally. And how long will he be gone?”

  “Six weeks. One of those cruises.”

  “Of course,” Cohen said. “Of course.”

  Then Cohen telephoned the Hastings residence and spoke to Martha. “Just a friend of the family, Martha. Flowers to the cabin, Martha, or champagne?”

  “Champagne, of course.”

  “Cabin D on Main Deck?”

  “Suite Four on the Boat Deck. Who am I speaking to?”

  “Time?”

  “The ship sails at eleven. Guests at ten. Who is this?”

  Cohen hung up, but later that afternoon Mr. Hastings’ secretary called and invited him to a small party on the Arden in Mrs. Hastings’ suite. Meanwhile, the sailing departures had informed him that the only ship leaving at eleven for six weeks of cruise was the Arden; and armed with that information, he walked into his chiefs office and demanded six weeks off.

  “You can’t be serious, Larry?”

  “But I am. Never more serious in my life.”

  “No use asking why?”

  “No use.”

  “Then I guess you’re fired,” his chief said. Cohen was already looking at his watch and counting the hours.

  The party in Penelope’s suite was all that a shipboard party should be—with only three omissions that served to put a damper on her enthusiasm. Not only was Josie Stoneham there, wearing the $120,000 bracelet that she had received in the mail from the unknown thief, but the Carters and the Parkinsons and the Crichtons were all there, Cobey Parkinson stoned at ten-thirty in the morning; and the Richardsons and Ward Copley and the Pollacks, all of these directors of the City Federal Bank; and two telegrams from Penelope’s children, Brown and Vassar respectively.

  Penelope had herself undertaken to invite not only Lieutenant Leonard Rothschild and Captain Harold Bixbee of New York City’s finest, but also Sadaba and Ducky—having decided that they had suffered sufficiently and that twenty-five thousand dollars, tax free, entitled Sadaba to mingle with the indecently rich. When James R. Hastings was confronted with Sadaba in the flesh, Penelope had a sudden fear that he would either choke or burst, but he composed himself to the extent of causing Sadaba to remark to Penelope, “Is a wonderful control of his disposition your husband has, Mrs. James R. Hastings.”

  Ducky kissed Penelope’s hand.

  Lieutenant Rothschild appeared with a gift, the Givenchy suit, cleaned and as good as new, as he put it; and Penelope embraced him and kissed him heartily. Then, of course, she had to kiss Captain Bixbee—a process that her husband bore with commendable toleration.

  Happily, the party was short-lived, and in the midst of the champagne-generated good will and excitement, the guests were gently handled off the ship—leaving Penelope with the mess of her room, and her memories.

  She stood in the very center of the room for a while, trying bravely not to cry and wondering how three men of whom she was so inordinately fond could have deserted her so crassly and completely. The ship sounded its whistle, gangplanks rumbled, ropes dropped, and under the firm touch of the tugs the great hulk came alive and into motion.

  Still Penelope stood in her room, feeling bereft as never before. She walked over to one of the portholes to watch the receding pier, and standing there, heard someone enter the room. Thinking it was the steward, she said:

  “You can clean up now if you wish, don’t mind me.”

  “Clean up? But all the loose ends are tidy, Penny. I saw to that.”

  “No,” she said, refusing to turn around. “I do not believe it.”

  “Claphorn,” the voice said, and now Penelope turned and Dr. Mannix stood there.

  “Main Deck, Room Forty-two—for six glorious weeks, Penny,” Mannix-Claphorn said.

  “Who the devil is he?” John Comaday wanted to know, coming through the door, his arms filled with roses.

  “Dear John Comaday,” Penelope said.

  “Fine. But who’s that?”

  “Gregory?”

  “Gregory—by God, wouldn’t you know!”

  “Of course, Gregory”—Penelope was smiling with delight at Larry Cohen, who stood in the doorway now, a great
magnum of champagne cradled in his arms—“and why couldn’t we anticipate that? Penelope, my lovely one, there is a process of justice and a process of punishment, too. Do you remember the Dunsany play where the hell of the two criminals is to open empty bottles endlessly, with the eternal hope that one at least contains a mouthful of beer?”

  “How did you get here, philosophy and all?”

  “I walked,” Cohen replied, beginning to shake with laughter.

  “Shall I throw them both overboard?” asked Ernie Claphorn, ne Mannix.

  Penelope was not alarmed, even though Gregory was large enough to carry out his threat, though running to fat a trifle in the waistline. “Dear Gregory,” she said, taking his arm, “I am sure you could, but it would be an overt manifestation of hostility—and then you and I should be totally compromised, shouldn’t we?”

  “I intend to marry you,” Gregory said firmly.

  “My own intentions are precisely that,” Comaday barked.

  “Since I am not divorced, marriage is not on the agenda for the next six weeks—is it, Larry?”

  “I think not.”

  “Well, here are three of us,” Comaday said. “I think you have to choose.”

  Penelope smiled again and shook her head. “I choose to be very, very happy for at least six weeks,” she said.

  At dinner that evening, the four of them sharing a table, Penelope lifted her glass and said:

  “To the practice of wickedness!”

  “I drink to that,” Larry Cohen agreed, “and also to the four most inept neophytes who ever attempted it.”

  John Comaday, who had ordered the wine as his treat, reached for his wallet to tip the wine steward. He went through pocket after pocket, but the wallet was in none of them. Gregory, with fine awareness, handed him a dollar bill under the table, so that the toast might not be interrupted.

  A Biography of Howard Fast

  Howard Fast (1914–2003), one of the most prolific American writers of the twentieth century, was a bestselling author of more than eighty works of fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and screenplays. Fast’s commitment to championing social justice in his writing was rivaled only by his deftness as a storyteller and his lively cinematic style.