The Man Who Died Twice

by The Man Who Died Twice (retail) (epub)

  He stopped to glance out the window and his voice still carried an undertone of quiet awe.

  “Forty barrels a day,” he said. “Ten wells. Say we only get five. Two hundred barrels a day and I get a sixteenth. Twelve barrels at two dollars and a half. Thirty dollars a day, American. That’s a minimum, and maybe for fifteen years or more. Think of it?”

  He did not expect any reply and when he had taken the agreement from Ward he said: “I was due all right. I tried a lot of things. A thousand here, a couple thousand there whenever I could save up enough to take a gamble. Tried an interest in a gold-mining venture in British Guiana, oil in Venezuela, another lease in Canada. I never collected a penny and all I ever got was a lecture from Johnny and an I-told-you-so when the particular deal went bust.”

  He looked at his glass, found it empty, and pushed it aside. He slid a thigh over the corner of the desk and glanced again at the agreement in his hand.

  “I wish he was around to hear about this,” he said quietly. “I wish I could tell him how much I appreciate what he did for me. You see, it wasn’t like Johnny to give anyone anything for nothing. He did pay for my last two years at Princeton—my parents left enough to put me through the first two—but then he wanted me to come back here. I wanted to go on to law school and he said no, and I guess I didn’t have enough guts to hit out on my own because this was easier. It was a pleasant sort of a rut but I never liked it; that’s why I was always taking a flyer when I had a few pounds.” He shook his head. “I still can’t get over it. But I guess it’s true or they wouldn’t have cabled, and I wouldn’t even be in it if it hadn’t been for Johnny.” He looked up and his glance steadied as he brought his mind to bear on less selfish thoughts. “Who do you think killed him, Jim?”

  Ward had been thinking of the same thing while Osborne had been talking. He was wondering about motives; he wondered if Osborne had any unexpressed ideas that perhaps he, Ward, could be guilty.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “If you think about motives a lot of people stand to gain one way or another.” He hesitated, reminding himself that he was still playing the part of Jim MacQuade. “Me, for instance. I understand I’m supposed to get half of the estate after certain bequests. Dunham certainly benefits.”

  “He certainly does.”

  “And through him his wife benefits. It could be that in the end Mike Fabyan might be better off, and I’m not talking about the mortgage that comes due next week.”

  Osborne tipped his head and his mouth twisted sardonically. “Then you know about Mike and Judith?”

  “I caught them in a clinch the first night I was here. I thought the girl was Alma at the time.”

  Osborne chuckled. “Oh, no. It wouldn’t be Alma.… As for Mike and Judith, I think they’ll get together if she can divorce Gordon, and I think she can because he’d like to marry Barbara Connant. With his inheritance he’ll have some money but with this kind of news”—he glanced again at the agreement—“I doubt if he’ll make it. This puts me out in front, if you know what I mean.”

  He took off his shirt and unstrapped his wrist watch. “Barbara’s wonderful,” he said. “But her alimony gets cut in half when she marries and she hasn’t been in any hurry about that. I know she likes me but I had my doubts whether she liked me enough to make up for that cut. But with this”—he glanced again at the agreement and shook his head happily—“I think I can move to the head of the class.… I’ll get cleaned up,” he said as Ward moved towards the door. “Tell them I’ll be down in ten minutes.”

  15

  THE Dunhams came for dinner, after which they all went into the drawing-room to wait for Mr. Talbot, the family lawyer, who had made an appointment to read the will. He came at nine o’clock, a thin, dark-suited sexagenarian with pince-nez and a shiny bald head. With him came Major Gilette, and behind Gilette walked the Negro sergeant, a suitcase in hand. When he had placed this just inside the door he withdrew without a word and disappeared in the darkness.

  Talbot was introduced to Ward and nodded gravely. He made room for his portfolio on the coffee-table and glanced round to inspect the light sources while he adjusted his pince-nez. He made appropriate comments about his deep sympathy and his sense of personal loss but Ward heard none of this; he sat nervously on the divan and was concerned with the idea that his being here on such an occasion was not only wrong but ridiculous.

  He had tried his best to find some excuse for seeing Kate Royce alone so he could tell her of his experience with Melvin Tenney and get her suggestions. When he looked at Gilette he remembered all the arguments Kate had given him that afternoon, and while he was still not convinced that she was right his own feeling of insecurity was such that he could not quite bring himself to confess here in front of everyone. So he sat back and crossed his legs and concentrated on hiding his nervousness.

  He looked over at Judith Dunham, who was sitting in a straight-backed chair, her hands at ease on the arms. She wore a plain black dress which served to heighten the normal paleness of her skin, and in the overhead light her straight hair looked more red than Titian. At her side her husband was having trouble getting comfortable. His round face was pinker than usual and a sheen of moisture was visible across the forehead. He crossed and uncrossed his legs; his fingers drummed spasmodically on one knee. He kept watching Talbot shuffle his papers. Once or twice as the lawyer went unhurriedly about his business Dunham seemed about to speak in his impatience, but each time he succeeded in tightening his mouth and maintaining his silence.

  Finally Talbot was ready and the first thing he said was that the will carried a stipulation which depended on Ward’s presence. Everyone seemed to be aware of this, including Ward; what he did not understand was the interpretation Talbot put on the clause.

  In the beginning Ward had involved himself in the impersonation because he had seen a way to do a favor for his friend and, he hoped, for MacQuade. He had expected to remain a week or so, to act out the role of an affectionate nephew so that John MacQuade would make some provision for the real nephew. Once he learned that his friend was dead and could not possibly inherit anything he understood that the estate must be divided between Alma and Gordon Dunham. What he did not realize was that his friend’s death had nothing to do with the matter. For the wording of the will indicated that unless Jim MacQuade was actually present at the time of John MacQuade’s death he would inherit nothing. From that point on any provisions for the real nephew became a farce; Jim MacQuade had not been here when his uncle was killed and therefore—

  He checked his thoughts and tried to listen to what Talbot was saying. He glanced round and saw that Gilette was watching him and when this casual inspection made him think of Kate Royce’s warning, he looked at her with some resentment and asked himself again why he had been fool enough to let her influence him that morning. Why hadn’t he confessed then and there? For an instant her steady glance met his; then it passed on to Talbot, and Ward heard most of the provision that left everyone but Talbot and the woman stunned and speechless.

  “—and because of an agreement already in existence,” the lawyer was saying, “I have made no provision in this document for my wife, Katherine Royce MacQuade.”

  Talbot glanced over the top of his pince-nez and waited. Kate sat perfectly still, her strongly boned face impassive. For the space of perhaps three seconds there was nothing but silence. Then Dunham’s voice exploded in the room. He jumped to his feet, his face red and eyes popping.

  “Wife?” he said in outraged tones. “Good God, man, are you saying that Johnny and Kate were married secretly?”

  Talbot looked back at him and said nothing. Kate cleared her throat.

  “Not secretly, Gordon. Just a long time ago. In 1928, to be exact.”

  Dunham turned on her as though he had never seen her before. He seemed to lean forward slightly from the waist as his narrowed eyes inspected her, but he had begun to think now and his words were measured and intense.

  “He sai
d wife.” He waved a hand at Talbot. “Does that mean there was never a divorce?”

  He watched Kate nod and finally he straightened. He glanced bewilderedly about him and then got himself in hand.

  “I see,” he said coldly. “Then that means my mother was never legally married to Johnny. He was—a bigamist.” He felt behind him for the arm of his chair, found it, and lowered himself slowly. “Perhaps you would be good enough to explain,” he said. “I should think I’m entitled to that much.”

  “I agree.” Kate glanced down at her folded hands and brought her head up again. “This is hardly the place for confessions, but—I’ll try to keep it brief.”

  Ward looked about him as she paused. He could understand Dunham’s reaction, the shock and incredulity with which he had to contend. He had a feeling that this was some story which applied not to anyone in the room but to someone who had neither substance nor reality. He noticed the distress in Alma’s face and knew that her concern was for Kate alone. When Osborne struck a match to light his cigarette the sound was startling in its loudness. Finally Kate was ready.

  “We had a plantation outside of Georgetown. I was brought up there and except for two years of school in Canada I had always lived there. I had a sister ten years younger than I was—our mother died when we were quite young—and at the time I met Johnny my father was a semi-invalid and I was managing the estate.

  “I was never a pretty girl,” she said. “Perhaps not homely but certainly very plain looking. There was not a great deal of money and the frocks I had were seldom new and, I suppose, never very smart. Johnny was ten years older than I at the time and neither of us was exactly young. I was thirty-two and I was flattered by his attention because he had been many places, and to me, who had about given up all thoughts of marriage, there was something romantic and adventurous about him. I was never quite sure how he felt about me. At the time some mining venture of his up the Essequibo had turned out badly and he was temporarily discouraged and, as he put it, short of funds.”

  She hesitated. “I said I’d try to keep this brief. We were married in ’28 and Johnny went to work on the plantation. He never actually liked it and I knew he was restless. He carried on for nearly three years and then one day he was gone, leaving a note for me and another kind of note as security for some money that he had taken.

  “This shouldn’t shock anyone at this time,” she said quickly. “Johnny would be the first to admit his scruples left something to be desired when he was younger. At any rate I was left with the plantation and a father who could not manage by himself, and there was nothing to do but stay on and make the best of it. The things that happened later were not his fault but I associated them with his desertion and I blamed him for them.”

  She looked over at Alma and now a softness began to work on her voice. To Ward it seemed that there was a mistiness in her eyes that she was not aware of and her smile was gentle.

  “My sister was very much like you,” she said. “Small and dark and genuine. She would have been forty-five now if she had lived but I always remember her as being twenty-four or five.” She blinked quickly. “Perhaps,” she said, “that is why I’m always interfering in your affairs and ordering you about when I think it’s for your own good.”

  “But you don’t, Kate,” Alma said, her eyes wet with unwanted tears. She seemed about to add to this, faltered, and then Kate was speaking again, almost hurrying to get the words out.

  “The year my sister died Johnny wrote and sent a draft to cover the amount he had borrowed. He said he hoped I’d use the money to get a divorce because the marriage was a mistake and he knew he would never come back. I never got the divorce. I did not want a divorce and we needed all the money we could get for the estate. I was very bitter about it then. I wouldn’t give Johnny the satisfaction of a divorce and my father was getting progressively worse. When he passed on a few years later I took what I could get from the property and went to Canada.

  “It was quite by chance that I discovered Johnny was in Barbados. I met a couple at a small party who had just come from spending a holiday here and somehow Johnny’s name came up. When I was convinced that he was the right MacQuade I took the first boat down here.”

  “That was in 1940,” Dunham said slowly. “I was in school in Trinidad but mother wrote me about you and when I came back for vacation you were here.” He put his shoulders back and shook his head as if he could understand no part of the story. “Why?” he asked finally.

  “Why, what, Gordon?” Kate asked.

  “Why did you come? You weren’t still in love with him.”

  “Quite the contrary. I knew he had come here in 1933 and I knew he must be doing reasonably well or he would not still be here. I also knew he had a wife. I came for one reason only: to make him pay for what he had done to me.”

  “But you didn’t, Kate,” Alma said.

  “Not in the way I had planned. I wanted—well, call it revenge if you like. He was a bigamist, he had treated me badly and now it was time to settle accounts.… It was your mother, I think, that made me reconsider,” she said to Dunham.

  “Mother never knew, did she?”

  “No, she never did.”

  Dunham leaned back and mumbled something in an expression of inarticulate relief.

  “Johnny begged me to wait—the only time I ever knew him to beg for anything in his life,” Kate said. “And because I could see no harm in that, I waited, and finally it was too late. Because, you see, Johnny loved your mother, Gordon, and he would have done anything in his power to protect her from this mistake he had made. She knew this and was radiant in her knowledge of his love even though she was not well at the time.… I don’t think she ever suspected,” she said, “because, you see, Johnny felt no love or affection for me at the time and with me there was only bitterness. Because of this there was really nothing she could suspect.”

  She took a breath and said: “Johnny told her I was the sister of an old friend and down on my luck. In return for my silence he deeded me half of the land he then owned and Mr. Talbot is the only one who knew about it. I also own the bungalow I occupy; it is not part of his estate, and that deed was the original price for my silence. For a little while I pretended I was acting as a housekeeper but there was no need for my help in that direction. I gradually took over more and more of the duties of an overseer because this was something I knew about.

  “Later,” she said, “when your mother passed on we decided to keep the secret because of you, Gordon. She sighed and smoothed out the dress across her thighs. “There was never anything between us after he left me, but in later years there was understanding and respect, and the knowledge that the arrangement we had come to accept was best for both of us.” She looked slowly about the room, her eyes hesitating briefly on each one in turn.

  “I shall miss him very much,” she said quietly.

  Talbot began to shuffle his papers. Ward lit a cigarette. Gilette coughed politely behind his hand and looked embarrassed, and now Dunham sat up and brought forth his own cigarette case which he offered first to his wife. There was a moment when Ward thought Dunham was going to say something to Kate but instead he moved his shoulders in a faint shrug and gave his attention to the lawyer.

  “I think you understand the various provisions as I have read them,” Talbot said. “I’ll be glad to answer any questions. There is one more thing, a codicil that does not directly concern any of you. It has to do with three mortgages Mr. MacQuade held. By this will they are discharged, the amounts due are to be considered paid.”

  “Is that the same thing as tearing them up?” Dunham asked.

  “Exactly.”

  Dunham said it did not sound much like Johnny. “How much do they amount to altogether?” he asked.

  “Twenty-eight thousand B.W.I, dollars. Eighteen thousand due from Michael Fabyan and secured by his boats, built and building; five thousand each on the estates of a Mr. MacDermot in Bequia, and Mr. Reese in St. Vincent.” He
looked over at Gilette as he packed his portfolio. “I think that’s all, Major. Will you explain what you have in mind?”

  Gilette stood up. He said he would like Miss Royce’s permission, as co-executor of the estate, to remove the contents of the safe and take them to his office.

  “I brought a bag for that purpose,” he said, “and if it is agreeable to you I would like Miss Simmons to help itemize each article. I understand she would be most likely to know what should be there.… Mr. Talbot has already given his permission,” he added.

  Kate said she was quite agreeable to the request. She rose, as did the others, and Gilette turned to Alma.

  “I might add,” he said, “that I’m particularly interested in that notebook you and Mr. MacQuade used. I would like to study it this evening, and then in the morning I’ll want you to come to my office when it’s convenient so that we can go over the last few pages word by word.”

  When Gilette had first begun to speak Alma had moved close to Kate and taken the older woman’s hand, pressing it between her own two hands in a small gesture of understanding and sympathy. Now, as Gilette finished, her hands dropped to her sides and she stood very still. She waited, wide-eyed and unmoving until Gilette picked up the suitcase and looked at her. Then she said:

  “Of course. I’ll be glad to help you in any way I can, Freddie.”

  Ward stepped close to Kate Royce as Alma turned away. “I want to talk to you.… Right now, please,” he said when she hesitated.

  He took her arm and gave it a gentle pressure so that after one more glance at the others she let him turn her towards the front veranda. She went without further protest then and he waited until they were on her little porch before he told her what he had to say about Melvin Tenney and his proposition.

  Kate began to pace the floor as he gave her the details. Now and then she made faint sounds that were more like snorts of indignation than words. When he finished she turned on him and her voice was bleak.