The little boy was taken aback for a moment, then in response to Bruno’s friendly grin, he smiled, too.
At the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad terminal, he got an upper berth on a sleeper leaving at 1:30 a.m., which gave him an hour and a half to kill. Everything was perfect and he felt terribly happy. In a drugstore near the station, he bought a pint of Scotch to refill his flask. He thought of going by Guy’s house to see what it looked like, debated it carefully, and decided he could. He was just heading for a man standing by the door, to ask directions—he knew he shouldn’t go there in a taxi—when he realized he wanted a woman. He wanted a woman more than ever before in his life, and that he did pleased him prodigiously. He hadn’t wanted one since he got to Santa Fe, though twice Wilson had gotten him into it. He veered away right in the man’s face, thinking one of the taxi drivers outside would be better to ask. He had the shakes, he wanted a woman so badly! A different kind of shakes from liquor shakes.
“Ah don’ know,” said the blank, freckle-faced driver leaning against his fender.
“What d’you mean, you don’t know?”
“Don’ know, that’s all.”
Bruno left him in disgust.
Another driver down the sidewalk was more obliging. He wrote Bruno an address and a couple of names on the back of a company card, though it was so close by, he didn’t even have to drive him there.
thirteen
Guy leaned against the wall by his bed in the Montecarlo, watching Anne turn the pages of the family album he had brought from Metcalf. These had been wonderful days, his last two with Anne. Tomorrow he left for Metcalf. And then Florida. Mr. Brillhart’s telegram had come three days ago, saying the commission was still his. There was a stretch of six months’ work ahead, and in December the commencement of their own house. He had the money to build it now. And the money for the divorce.
“You know,” he said quietly, “if I didn’t have Palm Beach, if I had to go back to New York tomorrow and work, I could, and take anything.” But almost as he said it, he realized that Palm Beach had given him his courage, his momentum, his will, or whatever he chose to call it, that without Palm Beach these days with Anne would give him only a sense of guilt.
“But you don’t have to,” Anne said finally. She bent lower over the album.
He smiled. He knew she had hardly been listening to him. And, in fact, what he had said didn’t matter, as Anne knew. He leaned over the album with her, identifying the people that she asked about, watching amusedly as she examined the double page of his pictures that his mother had collected, from babyhood to about twenty. He was smiling in every one of them, a shock of black hair setting off a sturdier, more careless-looking face than he had now.
“Do I look happy enough there?” he asked.
She winked at him. “And very handsome. Any of Miriam?” She let the remaining pages slip past her thumbnail.
“No,” Guy said.
“I’m awfully glad you brought this.”
“My mother would have my neck if she knew it was in Mexico.” He put the album back in his suitcase so he wouldn’t possibly leave it behind. “It’s the most humane way of meeting families.”
“Guy, did I put you through much?”
He smiled at her plaintive tone. “No! I never minded a bit!” He sat down on the bed and pulled her back with him. He had met all of Anne’s relatives, by twos and threes, by dozens at the Faulkners’ Sunday suppers and parties. It was a family joke how many Faulkners and Weddells and Morrisons there were, all living in New York State or in Long Island. Somehow he liked the fact she had so many relatives. The Christmas he had spent at the Faulkners’ house last year had been the happiest of his life. He kissed both her cheeks, then her mouth. When he put his head down, he saw Anne’s drawings on the Montecarlo stationery on the counterpane, and idly began to push them into a neat stack. They were ideas for designs that had come to her after their visit to the Museo Nacionale this afternoon. Their lines were black and definite, like his own rough sketches. “I’m thinking about the house, Anne.”
“You want it big.”
He smiled. “Yes.”
“Let’s have it big.” She relaxed in his arms. They both sighed, like one person, and she laughed a little as he wrapped her closer.
It was the first time she had agreed to the size of the house. The house was to be Y-shaped, and the question had been whether to dispense with the front arm of it. But the idea sang in Guy’s head only with both arms. It would cost much, much more than twenty thousand, but Palm Beach would bring a flock of private commissions, Guy expected, that would be fast, well-paid jobs. Anne had said her father would like nothing better than to make them a wedding present of the front wing, but to Guy that seemed as unthinkable as removing it. He could see the house shining white and sharp against the brown bureau across the room. It projected from a certain white rock he had seen near a town called Alton in lower Connecticut. The house was long, low, and flat-roofed, as if alchemy had created it from the rock itself, like a crystal.
“I might call it ‘The Crystal,’” Guy said.
Anne stared up reflectively at the ceiling. “I’m not so fond of naming houses—houses’ names. Maybe I don’t like ‘Crystal.’”
Guy felt subtly hurt. “It’s a lot better than ‘Alton.’ Of all the insipid names! That’s New England for you. Take Texas now—”
“All right, you take Texas and I’ll take New England.” Anne smiled, stopping Guy in his tracks, because in reality she liked Texas and Guy liked New England.
Guy looked at the telephone, with a funny premonition it was going to ring. He felt rather giddy in his head, as if he had taken some mildly euphoric drug. It was the altitude, Anne said, that made people feel that way in Mexico City. “I feel as if I could call up Miriam tonight and talk to her and everything would be all right,” Guy said slowly, “as if I could say just the right thing.”
“There’s the telephone,” Anne said, perfectly serious.
Seconds passed, and he heard Anne sigh.
“What time is it?” she asked, sitting up. “I told Mother I’d be back by twelve.”
“Eleven-seven.”
“Aren’t you sort of hungry?”
They ordered something from the restaurant downstairs. Their ham and eggs were an unrecognizable dish of vermilion color, but quite good, they decided.
“I’m glad you got to Mexico,” Anne said. “It’s been like something I knew so well and you didn’t, something I wanted you to know. Only Mexico City isn’t like the rest.” She went on, eating slowly, “It has a nostalgia like Paris or Vienna and you want to come back no matter what’s happened to you here.”
Guy frowned. He had been to Paris and Vienna with Robert Treacher, a Canadian engineer, one summer when neither of them had any money. It hadn’t been the Paris and Vienna Anne had known. He looked down at the buttered sweet roll she had given him. At times he wanted passionately to know the flavor of every experience Anne had ever known, what had happened to her in every hour of her childhood. “What do you mean, no matter what’s happened to me here?”
“I mean whether you’ve been sick. Or robbed.” She looked up at him and smiled. But the lamp’s light that made a glow through her smoke-blue eyes, a crescent glow on their darker rims, lent a mysterious sadness to her face. “I suppose it’s contrasts that make it attractive. Like people with incredible contrasts.”
Guy stared at her, his finger crooked in the handle of his coffee cup. Somehow her mood, or perhaps what she said, made him feel inferior. “I’m sorry I don’t have any incredible contrasts.”
“Oh-ho-ho!” Then she burst out in a laugh, her familiar gay laugh that delighted him even when she laughed at him, even when she had no intention of explaining herself.
He sprang up. “How about some cake. I’m going to produce a cake like a jinni. A wonderful cake!” He got the cookie tin out of the corner of his suitcase. He had not thought of the cake until that moment, the ca
ke his mother had baked him with the blackberry jam he had praised at his breakfasts.
Anne telephoned the bar downstairs and ordered a very special liqueur that she knew of. The liqueur was a rich purple like the purple cake, in stemmed glasses hardly bigger around than a finger. The waiter had just gone, they were just lifting the glasses, when the telephone rang, in nervous, iterant rings.
“Probably Mother,” Anne said.
Guy answered it. He heard a voice talking distantly to an operator. Then the voice came louder, anxious and shrill, his mother’s voice:
“Hello?”
“Hello, Mama.”
“Guy, something’s happened.”
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s Miriam.”
“What about her?” Guy pressed the receiver hard against his ear. He turned to Anne, and saw her face change as she looked at him.
“She’s been killed, Guy. Last night—” She broke off.
“What, Mama?”
“It happened last night.” She spoke in the shrill, measured tones that Guy had heard only once or twice before in his life. “Guy, she was murdered.”
“Murdered!”
“Guy, what?” Anne asked, getting up.
“Last night at the lake. They don’t know anything.”
“You’re—”
“Can you come home, Guy?”
“Yes, Mama.—How?” he asked stupidly, wringing the telephone as if he could wring information from its two old-fashioned parts. “How?”
“Strangled.” The one word, then silence.
“Did you—?” he began. “Is—?”
“Guy, what is it?” Anne held to his arm.
“I’ll be home as fast as I can, Mama. Tonight. Don’t worry. I’ll see you very soon.” He hung up slowly and turned to Anne. “It’s Miriam. Miriam’s been killed.”
Anne whispered, “Murdered—did you say?”
Guy nodded, but it suddenly struck him there might be a mistake. If it were just a report—
“When?”
But it was last night. “Last night, she said.”
“Do they know who?”
“No. I’ve got to go tonight.”
“My God.”
He looked at Anne, standing motionless in front of him. “I’ve got to go tonight,” he said again, dazedly. Then he turned and went to the telephone to call for a plane reservation, but it was Anne who got the reservation for him, talking rapidly in Spanish.
He began to pack. It seemed to take hours getting his few possessions into his suitcase. He stared at the brown bureau, wondering if he had already looked through it to see if everything were out of its drawers. Now, where he had seen the vision of the white house, a laughing face appeared, first the crescent mouth, then the face—Bruno’s face. The tongue curved lewdly over the upper lip, and then the silent, convulsed laughter came again, shaking the stringy hair over the forehead. Guy frowned at Anne.
“What’s the matter, Guy?”
“Nothing,” he said. How did he look now?
fourteen
Supposing Bruno had done it? He couldn’t have, of course, but just supposing he had? Had they caught him? Had Bruno told them the murder was a plan of theirs? Guy could easily imagine Bruno hysterical, saying anything. There was no predicting what a neurotic child like Bruno would say. Guy searched his hazy memory of their conversation on the train and tried to recall if in jest or anger or drunkenness he had said anything that might have been taken as a consent to Bruno’s insane idea. He hadn’t. Against this negative answer, he weighed Bruno’s letter that he remembered word for word: that idea we had for a couple of murders. It could be done, I am sure. I cannot express to you my supremest confidence—
From the plane window, Guy looked down into total blackness. Why wasn’t he more anxious than he was? Up the dim cylinder of the plane’s body, a match glowed at someone’s cigarette. The scent of Mexican tobacco was faint, bitter, and sickening. He looked at his watch: 4:25.
Toward dawn he fell asleep, yielding to the shaking roar of the motors that seemed bent on tearing the plane apart, tearing his mind apart, and scattering the pieces in the sky. He awakened to a gray overcast morning, and a new thought: Miriam’s lover had killed her. It was so obvious, so likely. He had killed her in a quarrel. One read such cases so often in the newspapers, the victims so often women like Miriam. There was a front-page story about a girl’s murder in the tabloid El Grafico he had bought at the airport—he hadn’t been able to find an American paper, though he had almost missed the plane looking for one—and a picture of her grinning Mexican lover holding the knife with which he had killed her, and Guy started to read it, becoming bored in the second paragraph.
A plainclothesman met him at the Metcalf airport and asked if he would mind answering a few questions. They got into a taxi together.
“Have they found the murderer?” Guy asked him.
“No.”
The plainclothesman looked tired, as if he had been up all night, like the rest of the reporters and clerks and police in the old North Side courthouse. Guy glanced around the big wooden room, looking for Bruno before he was aware of doing so. When he lighted a cigarette, the man next to him asked him what kind it was, and accepted the one Guy offered him. They were Anne’s Belmonts that he had pocketed when he was packing.
“Guy Daniel Haines, 717 Ambrose Street, Metcalf. . . . When did you leave Metcalf? . . . And when did you get to Mexico City?”
Chairs scraped. A noiseless typewriter started bumping after them.
Another plainclothesman with a badge, with his jacket open and a swagbelly protruding, strolled closer. “Why did you go to Mexico?”
“To visit some friends.”
“Who?”
“The Faulkners. Alex Faulkner of New York.”
“Why didn’t you tell your mother where you were going?”
“I did tell her.”
“She didn’t know where you were staying in Mexico City,” the plainclothesman informed him blandly, and referred to his notes. “You sent your wife a letter Sunday asking for a divorce. What did she reply?”
“That she wanted to talk with me.”
“But you didn’t care to talk with her anymore, did you?” asked a clear tenor voice.
Guy looked at the young police officer, and said nothing.
“Was her child to be yours?”
He started to answer, but was interrupted.
“Why did you come to Texas last week to see your wife?”
“Didn’t you want a divorce pretty badly, Mr. Haines?”
“Are you in love with Anne Faulkner?”
Laughter.
“You know your wife had a lover, Mr. Haines. Were you jealous?”
“You were depending on that child for your divorce, weren’t you?”
“That’s all!” someone said.
A photograph was thrust in front of him, and the image spun with his anger before it straightened to a long dark head, handsome and stupid brown eyes, a cleft, manly chin—a face that might have been a movie actor’s, and no one had to tell him this was Miriam’s lover, because this was the kind of face she had liked three years ago.
“No,” Guy said.
“Haven’t you and he had some talks together?”
“That’s all!”
A bitter smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, yet he felt he might have cried, too, like a child. He hailed a taxi in front of the courthouse. On the ride home, he read the double column on the front page of the Metcalf Star:
QUEST CONTINUES FOR GIRL’S SLAYER
June 12—The quest continues for the slayer of Mrs. Miriam Joyce Haines of this city, victim of strangulation by an unknown assailant on Metcalf Island Sunday night.
Two fingerprint experts arrive today who will endeavor to establish classifications of fingerprints taken from several oars and rowboats of the Lake Metcalf rowboat docks. But police and detectives fear that obtainable fingerprints are hazy. Authorit
ies yesterday afternoon expressed the opinion that the crime might have been the act of a maniac. Apart from dubious fingerprints and several heelprints around the scene of the attack, police officials have not yet uncovered any vital clue.
Most important testimony at the inquest, it is believed, will come from Owen Markman, 30, longshoreman of Houston, and a close friend of the murdered woman.
Interment of Mrs. Haines’ body will take place today at Remington Cemetery. The cortege departs from Howell Funeral Home on College Avenue at 2:00 P.M. this afternoon.
Guy lighted a cigarette from the end of another. His hands were still shaking, but he felt vaguely better. He hadn’t thought of the possibility of a maniac. A maniac reduced it to a kind of horrible accident.
His mother sat in her rocker in the living room with a handkerchief pressed to her temple, waiting for him, though she did not get up when he came in. Guy embraced her and kissed her cheek, relieved to see she hadn’t been crying.
“I spent yesterday with Mrs. Joyce,” she said, “but I just can’t go to the funeral.”
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