“Why?” I asked.
“Because I let you take the apartment without telling you about Helen.”
“You’re damn right!” Patrick snapped out. I tried to catch his glance, but his eyes were blazing at Roger.
Roger said, “I was afraid if I told you exactly what was wrong with her you wouldn’t take the place. And of course...”
Patrick said, “I wouldn’t’ve let Jean live here at any price....”
“Helen was entirely harmless,” Roger said. “There wasn’t any harm in her, so...”
“You know damn well that all mental cases are potentially dangerous....”
Rogers eyes were bright and dark. “Please let me speak. Dr. Postgate expected at any moment to have her removed to his hospital. You know the hospital and nurse situation, Pat. He had her under observation here because he couldn’t arrange proper facilities elsewhere. She was to go on Monday—tomorrow. Also we have never before had less than two nurses on the case—one of them left just before you moved in and we haven’t been able to replace her—so Helen was never alone. Aunt Rita proposed this arrangement so that Helen could be under the care of Dr. Postgate. His office is nearby. We lived in St. Martin Parish. Until two months ago Helen has always been looked after in our own house. We always had two or three nurses. What happened tonight I simply can’t understand. Victorine has been with us four years. She was our cook and house-keeper when we were married, and when Helen got ill—her trouble started with a brain infection two months after we were married—she gradually took over the care of her. She isn’t a registered nurse. Also she’s black, so Postgate had refused to take her on the case when he moved Helen to the hospital. That upset Victorine very much. She was deeply attached to Helen, the way Negroes often are, and she had taken a dislike to Postgate and felt sure he would do Helen harm.”
Roger’s black eyebrows drew together in a black line, a characteristic movement. “Dr. Postgate has asked for a police inquiry,” he said to me. Patrick already knew that.
“You think Victorine did something to Mrs. Clary?” I asked.
Roger said, “I do not! But Dr. Postgate—for certain reasons—wants an investigation. And, unfortunately, Victorine’s going away like that doesn’t help. Also...”
Roger broke off.
“Also what?” Patrick was deeply angry with Roger because he hadn’t warned us of Helen’s condition. But I felt only sorrow for him now.
“Well,” Roger said, fidgeting, “Victorine is superstitious. I suspect that she dabbles a little in black magic. And since Dr. Postgate thinks the condition in which you found Helen tonight suggests curare poisoning...”
I interrupted.
“Curare? You mean that Indian arrow poison?” It was like a book. “But where would she get that?”
Roger said drily, “You can get anything in New Orleans. In this instance, I’m sorry to say, Postgate thinks the nurse stole the curare from his medicine case.”
“But why would he have curare in his case?”
Roger was in a hurry. “He uses it in his practice. He’s a specialist in mental diseases. Did I mention that? One of the best, too. A curare extract is used in some of his treatments. A couple of ampules of the dangerous stuff were taken from his bag a few days ago. This is one of the places he visited that day, and when he saw Helen tonight he made up his mind immediately that Victorine had stolen the curare and had given it to Helen and then had got frightened when she saw what it did to her and ran away. So he called in the police. He is quite right to do so, of course.”
We were silent a little, and I wondered if Helen had got out of her bed after Victorine gave her the stuff and then abandoned her. How long did it take it to act? How had Helen managed to stagger out on the porch and then fall down those steps?
Had Uncle George seen Victorine leave the house after I ran down to Helen in the garden? That would look bad for poor Victorine. Poor Victorine? Yes, I felt sorry for Victorine, I did really. If she had been so devoted to poor Helen Clary whatever she had done must have been done with good intent. If her superstitious African mind had tricked her into doing murder, it was tragic.
The sound I had first heard when I got up to close the shutter was a longish dragging sound. Not a succession of dragging sounds, like two feet dragging one after another toward the fatal steps. As though someone were dragging another person to the top of the steps rather than her managing to drag along under her own power.
Roger said, “Victorine fixed up potions and charms from herbs and weeds and such. Out in our parish she worked up a little business with the colored people and I used to accuse her teasingly of being competition for me. But it isn’t any joke here in this house. She has quarreled continuously with Paulette over the herbs in Aunt Rita’s garden. Paulette accuses Victorine of practicing voodoo. Paulette says the blue beads Victorine always wears around her neck are voodoo beads. I wouldn’t know anything about that but—but it would be better for Victorine at this time if Aunt Rita’s servants liked her. I’m extremely worried on her account, and I hardly know what to do about it.”
“Well, if she went away and left your wife alone...” Patrick began.
“I don’t believe it!” Roger said.
Then he said, “Well, I have to believe she left Helen, because she did. Yet she must have had a good reason. But what? I mean, could it be possible that she did steal the curare and mix it with the herbs—made up one of her potions—gave it to my wife—got frightened...?”
He left the sentence unfinished, with a wave of one of his fine surgeon’s hands.
He then continued.
“No kidding, the police will have you on the carpet, Jean. You realize that. You were the one who found Helen in the garden. Do take it easy—I mean, on your own account. After all, you’ve been banged on the head and, while a knockout of that kind isn’t necessarily alarming, I would like to order every patient with a head injury to go to bed and stay there for a while....”
Patrick’s eyes looked green and narrow. “If Jean needs to stay in bed, say so. The police can come to her. They can put off any serious questioning until tomorrow.”
Roger said, “It’s not that bad. I don’t think Jean’s condition is at all dangerous, or even serious. But I do think that if she has a headache or feels nervous she has every reason to be excused from any sort of annoyance tonight. You can say I said so. I’ve got to get back down.” He took a step toward the door, then turned, and asked quietly, “You saw Carol meet me by the church tonight, didn’t you? I know you did. I could tell by the sudden way you turned and walked the other way. I wonder if you would mind not mentioning it?”
“Of course we won’t,” I said. Patrick was still being grim, and he didn’t try to hide his smoldering anger. He said nothing.
“After all, it was my fault,” Roger said. “We never met like that before, were never at any other time alone together. Then—last night—well, I arranged it. Carol is in no way to blame.”
“We didn’t even see you,” Patrick muttered, getting back to something like normal. “May I offer you a drink, Roger?”
“No, thank you. Some other time, if you don’t mind.”
He went out by way of the gallery.
Patrick stayed where he was, leaning against the mantel. I was sitting on the sofa nearby. “What happened, exactly, after you found Helen in the garden, Jean?”
“Nothing. I thought she was dead. I ran in to look for Roger or the nurse or somebody, but I had just got across the doorsill when I got knocked out.”
Patrick glanced at one of our French windows and back at me.
“Did you see or hear anything?”
“No. Oh, I did hear a sort of rustle, the curtains, I guess. And I smelled something, something spicy and fresh....”
I remembered seeing the nurse in the herb garden. “Darling, she really was always after those herbs—that nurse, I mean. It was an herb, maybe a bunch of fresh herbs I smelled when I stepped into that room. I didn’t smell them when I cam
e to, but Roger was there smelling like iodoform, which is a stronger smell than herbs.”
“Roger swears by that nurse,” Patrick said, after a pause. “I heard him defending her from Postgate.”
‘What’s Dr. Postgate like?”
“Important little man, with hazel eyes and brown whiskers with a lot of gray in them....”
“Oh, I know what he looks like. I hate whiskers, darling. Promise me you’ll never grow whiskers?”
“I promise. Whiskers or no whiskers, Postgate is obviously a man with a reputation to protect. He’s going to be tough about that nurse.”
There was something else. “Pat, is this one of the states where you can’t divorce an insane person?”
“I don’t know exactly. I imagine so. They’ve got a lot of funny laws dating back to Napoleon in Louisiana.”
“I wonder if she was incurable, Pat? If she was, it’s a good thing she’s dead. You know it is. Roger is smart, you say, and his life lies ahead of him. And there’s Carol....”
Patrick said, “That’s the catch. I shouldn’t be surprised if Wick doesn’t make a little trouble on that score. I noticed him downstairs. He hung around while the doctors were working on Mrs. Clary. Carol was there, too....Seems she’s a nurse’s aide, which is why Roger wanted her to help them.”
“Did Ava show up finally?”
“Nobody was allowed in the room except the doctors and Wick and Carol and myself. Uncle George sat out on the porch and piped up every now and then, but he didn’t get inside the room.”
“I wonder about Ava,” I said. “Uncle George said she wasn’t in her room when he went to wake Carol, and Aunt Rita said he was mistaken. I think maybe Uncle George was right. Aunt Rita is so loyal to the family that she would say Ava was there to protect her, just in case.”
“She’s grand,” Patrick said.
Patrick’s ears are better than mine. He had heard someone coming along the gallery before I did. There was a light tap on the shutter and Patrick opened it and let in Carol Graham.
She was wearing a gingham shirt and the blue-denim pants she had put on when Roger had her called to help him in the garden. She glanced back to see that Patrick closed the shutters before she crossed to the fireplace. She said she hadn’t time to sit down.
Carol was a tallish girl with very blue eyes, dark thick brows and lashes, and thick, dark-brown hair cut straight across her forehead and curled under at the back. Her nose was short and her mouth was wide and sweet-looking, with lovely white little teeth. Ava was beautiful, but Carol was the one whose face drew you again and again.
She got right to the point.
“You saw me meet Roger tonight, didn’t you?” She trembled with emotion. “He doesn’t know you saw us. I’m sure he doesn’t or he would have mentioned it at the time. I just happened to notice when you turned around so fast. I came up to ask if you please won’t mention it. I mean, some policemen are on the way here and if—if they thought there was anything between Roger and me—and there isn’t—that was the first and only time we were ever alone together.”
All at once she began to cry. Patrick made her sit down gently, gave her his handkerchief, and said, “Of course we won’t mention it.”
“I feel so silly,” she said, wiping her eyes.
‘Well, you aren’t,” I said.
“You’re nice,” Carol said. “I’m glad it was you who saw us.”
Patrick asked, “Anyone else?”
“Oh, no. We were together only a little while. The gates were open into Jackson Square, across the street, so we went there and sat down for a few minutes. It’s against rules to go in there after eleven at night and I guess everybody obeyed the law except us. It’s Roger I’m thinking of. We didn’t know Helen would die, but the way things have happened, and with the police asking questions—well, if they thought anything and made trouble it would be terrible for Roger. It would ruin his career. And we were so careful, too. I wouldn’t even let Roger bring me home. I came on alone and he said he would take a walk and not come in for a good while, just in case...”
“In case, what?”
Carol said, “It isn’t nice to say, but Uncle George is always hanging round and prying into things, and that was what we had in mind. And sure enough he was at his window when I came home, and he popped right out when I let myself in the hall and asked if I hadn’t been a long time getting back from the hospital.” Carol smiled wanly. “He knows my hours, you see. Why, he’s out in the garden this minute and he will even want to know why I’m up here now, and what on earth can I say?”
I said, “You can tell him I bumped my head and you had to come and doctor it.”
Carol gave me a queer look, then rose suddenly and went out. “Poor kids,” I sympathized. Patrick asked me again how they were related. I said if they couldn’t figure it out how on earth could I? At that moment a young policeman in uniform buzzed our front doorbell and said we were wanted downstairs.
V
WE WENT downstairs the front way, through the hall, now brightly lit up by the crystal chandelier which hung above the well of the graceful spiral staircase.
The door of Roger Clary’s apartment was open and we walked in.
A small man with gray whiskers and dressed in a gray suit, and a big-jowled man in a summer-weight navy pinstripe with a red carnation in his lapel faced each other across Helen Clary’s bed.
It was a bed with sides on it, like a child’s. Nearby stood a studio couch which must have been used by the nurse. The sheets were neatly folded back, but the couch had not this night been slept in.
Another sheet had covered the body of Helen Clary—but had been turned back from her face. She looked very lovely. Her small girlish face looked tranquil, her eyes were closed, her skin was clear, her short, naturally wavy hair was casual above a serene forehead. Her mouth was curved in a smile which suggested a sweet nature. She looked under twenty. I was surprised later on when Roger said that she was twenty-six.
What a pity, I thought. What a waste!
Patrick had me sit down on a chair near the door. Then, for some unaccountable reason, he touched my shoulder and motioned me to follow him to the far side of the room.
From this point I had a clear view of the face of the police detective. He had light-blue eyes half-circled by brown pouches which, even though probably from his liver, made him seem to stare in a disturbing, critical way. His arms looked too short for his sturdy-looking body. His hands when hanging down looked small and ineffectual and he moved them now and then in a flapping, finlike way.
Carol Graham stood not far from the detective. Roger Clary was near Dr. Postgate.
Dr. Postgate had agate-colored eyes and when he talked you were conscious of his red lips moving in his beard. He stood so straight he seemed to rear back, and held his chin so high it seemed to make the beard point skyward in an important way. He kept talking about things I didn’t understand, using words like metrazol, shock therapy, hydrolyzable, and prostigmine. The police detective didn’t understand them either and he kept flapping his little hands and interrupting.
‘Where do you buy the curare stuff?” he asked, just after we came in.
Dr. Postgate said, with patience, “I order mine directly from the manufacturer in New York. It is essential to have it fresh.”
“Fresh? I thought that stuff was made by wild Indians in Brazil or some place?”
“Originally,” Dr. Postgate said. “But our drug manufacturers purify and standardize the raw stuff to make it safe for medical practice. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. What was stolen from my case was two ampules of the curare extract, which is the purified form. But, even in that condition, it cannot be used safely by anyone except an experienced physician, therefore...”
“How does it act?”
“It paralyzes the skeletal muscles. An overdose is dangerous because the muscles which control breathing become paralyzed and the patient suffocates. Even for the experienced physician
the danger in the drug—even in this purified form—is the narrow margin between the effective dose and that which produces respiratory depression.”
Captain Jonas squirmed.
“Okay. Okay. You think she somehow got too much, huh?”
“But of course! Why else should I have sent for the police?”
“How much was there in your—what did you call them, Doc?”
“Ampules. Small bottles. There was enough in the two bottles to kill several people, I’m afraid.”
“You think you ought to carry stuff like that around?”
Dr. Postgate groaned. “My dear sir! Any doctor’s bag is packed with dangerous drugs of every description. Ordinarily no one breaks into your bag and steals your drugs, but, I must say, I myself am very cautious about that matter. But, occasionally, I have to step into the next room to speak of something I don’t want the patient to overhear. Ordinarily, the presence of a nurse safeguards your medicine case. In this instance I frankly don’t know. I merely suggest that, considering the patient’s symptoms and the peculiar disappearance of the nurse...”
“Right,” Captain Jonas said. He turned to the young man in uniform. “Take down her address and description and whatever else they know about her. You—Major Clary—tell us what you know.”
The young policeman was a stenographer. He took out his notebook.
Roger came forward a step and, always avoiding looking at his dead wife, said that Victorine’s last name was Delacroix. She was about thirty-five years old, he thought, and was born a French citizen but had recently got her American papers. She had never, so far as he knew, married. She spoke French only, which sufficed well enough out in their parish where a French patois was in general use. She was small, not five feet tall, thin, and so black she looked blue. She was inclined to be rather taciturn. She had a room on Dauphine Street where she kept her things and had slept in when there were two nurses on the case and she had been regularly relieved. She had come to this country with French people as a nursemaid and had remained because she thought she could make a better living in the States. She had first been employed by the Clarys as a cook and general house worker. Mrs. Clary had been ill a long time, almost four years, and as the nurse shortage became acute on account of the war, Victorine Delacroix had occasionally filled in, and Roger had been astonished at her proficiency as a practical nurse.
The Indigo Necklace Page 4