She Died a Lady

by John Dickson Carr

  ‘About the Emperor Nero?’

  ‘That’s right. He said the Emperor Nero met him on the Baker’s Bridge road yesterday, and gave him a ten-shilling note. Then, because he – I still mean Johnson – was a condemned sinner, he spent the money on liquor and today the Emperor Nero started chasing him in a flying throne with wings. Of course, they just figured he had the screaming mimis and they threw him in the hoosegow. But now I’m not so sure.’

  Molly did not seem certain about anything.

  ‘Father was here too,’ she volunteered. ‘He had to see a client at Lynmouth. I asked him whether he could do anything for the Johnson man, and he surprised me.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He said he would,’ Molly replied naïvely. ‘Or at least that he’d try.’

  ‘Come into the back garden, both of you,’ I said. ‘I want to talk to you. There’s news.’

  They must have seen it was serious. I could even have guessed Molly had been expecting it.

  ‘We have news for you too,’ she said.

  In the garden, where the wicker chairs stood under the apple-tree, I motioned them to sit down and wondered how to start.

  ‘You’ve been all right?’

  ‘Oh, I’m swell.’ Belle’s face was expressionless. She dropped her cigarette on the ground and trod it out. From her sleek appearance, the trim green frock, the tan stockings and shoes, you would never have identified her as the hysterical girl of twenty-four hours ago.

  ‘They tell me,’ she went on, ‘that I’ll have to stay and identify Barry’s body at the inquest to-morrow. I’ve probably lost my job at the Piccadilly, but what the hell? I persuaded a nice bank-manager down in Lynton to cash a cheque for me, so everything’s fine.’

  ‘They’ve treated you well?’

  ‘People have been swell.’ She smiled at Molly. ‘The men have been sympathetic, too. They say my mind needs distraction, and they’ve all tried to date me up. One wants me to go to the Valley of Rocks. Another to Dartmeet, whatever that is. Another says to see the caves in the cliffs. I’d kind of like to take a boat-ride and see those caves.’

  ‘My dear Belle,’ cried Molly, ‘those caves are way up the cliffs. You can’t reach them by boat except at high-tide, four o’clock in the afternoon or one o’clock in the morning. And you mustn’t do it anyway! People would talk.’

  ‘Would they? What the hell?’

  ‘I mean it!’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Belle, ‘the person who invited me was your old man, so I’d be well taken care of.’

  Molly was so amazed that she must have wondered whether she had heard aright.

  ‘My father?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ Belle smiled again; but sympathetically, and without any trace of the sardonic. ‘Baby, my business is to size up men. Haven’t you guessed from the way he dresses that he likes to be a natty squire of dames? Don’t get me wrong, either! He’s a nice guy underneath that manner. If he wants to play Sir Galahad at his age, where’s the harm?’

  Molly folded her arms. By the rise and fall of the arms, you could see her breathe. The blue eyes moved sideways, studying Belle briefly, then moved back to contemplate the tips of her shoes.

  ‘What’s your opinion, as a connoisseur,’ she asked, ‘of Mr Ferrars?’

  ‘Paul? He’s a good egg,’ Belle answered promptly, ‘who’s so thin-skinned that everything worries him, and then he thinks he has to be nasty about it. You ought to hear him when he gets eight or ten drinks under his belt. Quotes romantic poetry and everything.’

  ‘I’m sure he does.’

  ‘And not so much of the “connoisseur”, either.’ Belle wrinkled her nose. ‘I may be able to size up men, in a way, but I sure am one terrible frost when it comes to picking ’em for myself.’

  I couldn’t dodge it any longer.

  ‘Mrs Sullivan. About your late husband …’

  Belle lifted her shoulders. ‘For Pete’s sake, Doctor, don’t talk that way. Don’t call him my “late husband”. It gives me gooseflesh; it sounds like something out of a family Bible. Just call him Barry.’

  ‘But that’s just the trouble, my dear. His name wasn’t Barry, and it wasn’t Sullivan. You’ll hear it all tomorrow, when they hit you over the head with it at the inquest, so you’d better hear it from me.’

  Though an afterglow of sunset remained in the sky, the garden had turned shadowy. Belle had her head turned slightly away from me, and she kept it poised there. Her body had grown tense, as though she were about to get up and run.

  ‘Then the old guy was right, after all,’ she said.

  ‘The old guy, as you call him, has a habit of being right. Tell me one other thing. Do you still feel as you did yesterday – about not loving your husband after all?’

  ‘I’d better go,’ observed Molly, and got to her feet.

  ‘No you don’t!’ Belle cried fiercely. Turning round, she stretched out her left hand to Molly, and Molly took it. There they were, one in green, one in grey, one sitting, one standing against the colours of the twilight garden.

  ‘Anything I say,’ Belle went on, ‘and practically anything I think, can be shouted from the roof. Don’t you go!’

  ‘All right, Belle.’

  ‘As for being in love with that cluck,’ Belle said to me, ‘what I told you yesterday still goes and more so. Naturally,’ I’m sorry he’s dead. But as for being in love with him … I mean, so much so you want to bite the pillow and scream …’ Belle looked at Molly. ‘You’re what they call a nice gal, baby. You wouldn’t understand that.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ agreed Molly. Her eyes seemed to hover over Belle in a curious way.

  ‘You can wash that out, Doctor,’ Belle said firmly. ‘This little chicken isn’t wearing any widow’s weeds. I’m heart-whole, fancy-free, and only twenty-eight.’

  I could not help drawing a breath of relief.

  ‘Your husband’s real name was Jacob McNutt. He was going to elope with Mrs Wainright. They had planned to take the liner Washington, which calls at Galway some time this week.’

  ‘I knew it!’ cried Belle, after a long pause while her eyes widened. She slapped her right hand down on her knee. Didn’t I tell you he’d never have the nerve to knock himself off?’ And then, presently, she said: ‘Mrs Jacob McNutt. Oh, my God,’ and started to laugh.

  ‘You never saw his passport or his alien’s registration certificate, evidently. If you didn’t travel, there was no reason why you ever should.’

  ‘But wait a minute!’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Sullivan?’

  Belle put up a hand to shade her eyes.

  ‘I remembered about that ship. We were talking about it. Barry said, “Darling sweetheart, I’d like to take you to America and out of this, but we simply haven’t got the money.” His floosie had the money, I suppose? But how did she think she was going to get aboard that ship? Being British and not married to him?’

  ‘She got a new passport under false pretences. Some professional man recommended her from personal knowledge …’

  ‘Suitcase!’ Molly exclaimed softly, but with such emphasis that we both looked at her.

  ‘What you’re saying, Dr Luke,’ Molly announced, ‘doesn’t surprise me at all. I said I had some news for you. It’s all over the village. This morning one of the fishermen hauled up something heavy in his net and found it was a suitcase – a grey leather suitcase – with a woman’s clothes in it. I haven’t seen the things, but I think I guessed whom they belonged to.’

  (Part of the missing luggage. I hoped fervently the news would reach Craft in short order; but he had the bit in his teeth and it was going to be difficult to convince him.)

  ‘Where did they find it, Molly?’

  ‘I haven’t heard, exactly. Fully half a mile away from the Wainrights’ place, though.’

  ‘Half a mile … ?’

  ‘But wait a minute!’ Belle was repeating. She made elaborate gestures, like a temple dancer, and withdrew her hand from Molly’s. ‘I still
don’t see how this floosie worked. Didn’t she have to have a birth-certificate?’

  ‘Yes. She just used a copy of her original Canadian birth-certificate, claiming she’d never been married. But the written recommendation from the professional man had to be genuine, in case they checked up.’

  ‘Who recommended her?’

  This was the difficult part.

  ‘Well, my dear, they’re now claiming I did.’

  Both girls stared at me.

  ‘You see, it’s a little involved. Willie Johnson isn’t the only one who’s likely to be confined in what you call the hoosegow. I’m the next candidate.’

  ‘Dr Luke, you’re smiling!’ cried Molly. ‘I don’t believe a word of it!’

  ‘This, my dear, is what the novelists call a wry smile. There’s going to be a terrific rumpus at the inquest tomorrow morning, unless a miracle happens tonight; and I wanted to warn you in advance.’

  ‘Rumpus? How?’

  ‘Sir Henry Merrivale and I claim those two were murdered when they were on the point of running away. But we haven’t a single card in our hands to play.

  ‘Craft, on the other side, has a whole handful of trumps. He claims they changed their minds about running away, and backs it up with the undeniable fact that they didn’t take the diamonds which were the only thing they could have used for money. He claims – on so far unbreakable evidence – that they committed suicide. Afterwards he claims I stole the gun and got rid of their car to remove what he romantically calls the stigma of suicide.’

  Molly stood up straight.

  ‘But you didn’t, Dr Luke? Or did you?’

  ‘Not you too, Molly? Of course I didn’t.’ And I gave them a sketch of the facts.

  ‘Look,’ said Belle, feverishly lighting another cigarette and sweeping it up away from her in a broad gesture.

  ‘They don’t claim you were the man who nearly soaked me in quicksand on Sunday night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I never heard of such God-damned hooey in all my born days,’ cried our pocket Venus. ‘Why, the guy was crying his eyes out! Crying his heart out! I heard him!’

  ‘Unfortunately, Mrs Sullivan, at my age the blood gets thin and the emotions aren’t always under control. When they were accusing me today, I got so mad that the tears did come into my eyes, and …’

  Belle’s jaw grew square.

  ‘You let me get into that so-and-so witness-chair,’ she declared, attributing to witness-chair a lascivious habit not common to them. ‘I’ll tell ’em a thing or two that’ll curl their hair.’

  ‘Yes, my dear, that’s just what I’m afraid of. I want to warn you: try to control your language in front of the coroner. He’s a Scotch Presbyterian, a friend of Molly’s father, and you’re supposed to be a stricken widow. Don’t get into any more trouble than is necessary.’

  Molly’s face was flushed.

  ‘But what are you going to do, Dr Luke?’

  ‘I’m going to tell the truth. If they don’t like it, Mrs Sullivan can probably suggest a course for them to adopt.’

  ‘Dr Luke, you mustn’t! They’ll have you for perjury and not a doubt about it! After all, what does it matter? Hasn’t this thing been horrible enough already? Why don’t you say what Superintendent Craft wants you to say?’ Molly whirled round. ‘Don’t you agree, Belle?’

  ‘Oh, so-and-so, I’ve got no objection to telling lies,’ Belle announced broadly. ‘I’ll tell lies by the bucket and like it. No. What burns me up is to have a good guy like Dr Croxley get up and swear he left a gal sinking in quicksand and never lifted a finger to save her.’

  Molly has, as I have indicated before, inherited a good deal of her father’s practical instinct.

  ‘But don’t you see?’ she insisted, clenching her hands. ‘He doesn’t have to say he sank the car. I admit that would be bad, because it was an expensive car – or at least I’ve heard it was – and he’d have to replace it at the very least. But they can’t prove he sank the car. Whereas they can prove this point about his being the only one who could have moved the gun. Just let him admit that; bring in a double-suicide verdict; and Craft will be satisfied.’

  Belle was evidently deeply impressed by this point about the car.

  ‘That’s right,’ she admitted, and puffed furiously at the cigarette while she pondered. ‘Look!’ she said at length. ‘I’ve got an idea.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Suppose I said I saw the guy who sank the car, and it wasn’t Dr Croxley?’

  Molly considered this.

  ‘Who would you say it was?’

  ‘Well suppose I said it was a little guy in a derby hat. Or with whiskers, or something like that. Nothing definite, but enough to prove it wasn’t him. I’m the stricken widow. They’d sure as hell believe me.’

  ‘It might do.’ Molly nodded thoughtfully. ‘It might do.’

  Though it is dangerous to make generalities, this was far from being the first time in my life when I have observed the absolute incapacity of any woman for telling the truth when truth becomes unsuitable. There is no intent to do wrong in this. To the female sex, it simply does not matter. Truth is relative; truth is fluid; truth is something to be measured according to the emotional needs, like Adolf Hitler’s.

  ‘I appreciate your intentions, both of you. But it won’t work. Don’t you understand?’

  ‘No,’ said Belle.

  ‘Rita Wainright was murdered. Deliberately and swinishly murdered. I’m going to find and punish the person who did it if I have to spend the rest of my life in the … in the …’

  ‘Hoosegow?’

  ‘Hoosegow or can. Yes. Don’t you feel like that about your husband?’

  This took her a little aback.

  ‘Sure, I want to have the guy caught. Don’t misunderstand! But my husband happens to have been a cheap, chiselling –!’ Belle caught herself up; tears of rage were coming in her eyes. ‘They weren’t either of them any prize packages, if it comes to that. It makes me sore to see you stand up for this floosie, that’s all.’

  ‘And I still think, Dr Luke, you’re not being very sensible,’ insisted Molly, with that soft, enveloping smile of hers. ‘It’s not as though we were asking you to do anything dishonest. Why don’t you talk it over with my father? He’s coming down the path now.’

  I felt so sick and beaten that I didn’t even turn to look.

  Steve Grange, as immaculate as ever in a blue double-breasted suit which was fashionable without being too noticeable, joined us under the apple tree. He touched his hat with grave gallantry to Belle, who instantly – and rather revoltingly – became almost coy. He addressed Molly in a friendly voice.

  ‘My dear, I’m afraid you’ll catch your death of cold sitting out here when it’s nearly dark. Besides, your mother will want you. Hadn’t you better run along?’

  ‘But you’ve got to speak to Dr Luke!’

  ‘Speak to Dr Luke? Why?’

  ‘He wants to go to the inquest to tell them Rita Wainright was murdered. And they won’t believe him. What difference does it make if it is true?’

  Steve looked at me.

  ‘We must always tell the truth, Molly,’ he informed her, seriously, but rather absently. ‘Truth is the only sound, sane, conservative policy. Haven’t I always told you that?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Haven’t I?’

  ‘Yes, you’ve always said you said so.’

  Steve regarded her sharply, but did not pursue the matter. Smoothing at his thin line of moustache, he addressed me with a sort of dry and ordered jocularity.

  ‘But we’ve always got to be sure we know what truth is, and not what we think it is. What’s on your mind, Dr Luke?’

  ‘Steve,’ I said, and I remember clasping my hands, and turning them over, and looking at the knuckles that are of a clumsier size than they ought to be, ‘if I get into trouble with the authorities to-morrow – as seems likely – it’s just as well to accumulate all the information
I can now.’

  His eyes were quizzical.

  ‘What’s all this nonsense about getting into trouble with the authorities?’

  ‘It’s a long story. Molly will explain. In the meantime as I say, I want to tap any possible source of information I can about Rita Wainright. Will you tell me something I very much want to know?’

  ‘Certainly, if I’m not violating any confidence.’

  Molly had sat down again; and Steve, in disobedience of his own rule about damp air, perched on the arm of her chair. He sat very gingerly, very stiff-backed, and was all attention. I continued to look at my hands, at those infernal big knuckles and heavy fingers, while I searched round desperately for some key that would unlock this door before morning.

  ‘Well,’ I said, and humped my shoulders and tried to stir my brain, ‘will you tell me what was the cause of your original quarrel with Rita? I mean, the time she asked you to do something unethical?’

  SEVENTEEN

  STEVE laughed. It was a homely and pleasant sound against the quiet.

  ‘Luke, old man! You don’t think that’s got anything to do with this business?’

  ‘No. But – for instance, did she ask you to write her a recommendation for a passport?’

  Steve looked astounded, as well he might.

  ‘No, certainly not. Besides, what’s unethical about that?’

  ‘In her maiden name, I mean. As Miss Margarita Dulane.’

  It was Molly who interposed here.

  ‘But that won’t work either, Dr Luke,’ she protested. ‘Don’t you remember? She and father had that row before ever she met Barry Sullivan. I remember particularly, because it was the day war was declared. Barry and I met you and the Wainrights outside here …’

  Then memory returned.

  ‘And I hesitated about introducing Barry to them, because I knew there’d been a quarrel of some kind. Rita couldn’t have been wanting a false passport as long ago as that.’

  I am a mutton-head. Of course it was true, and I have noted it in this record; but I caught at blowing straws wherever they were. Steve was much amused when I explained to him, though less amused at the conclusion of the whole story. He kept smoothing at his moustache, and smoothing at his withered cheek while the garden grew darker and darker.