She Woke to Darkness

by Brett Halliday

When I assured her there really was a Michael Shayne, and all I actually did in my books was to fictionize his cases, she nodded happily and said: “I felt sure of it all along. He’s so real that you just know he can’t be made up. Not like… oh, that freak of Van Dine’s. The one who said ‘comin’ and ‘goin’.”

  “Philo Vance,” I supplied.

  “U-m-m. Even the name is patently fictitious. Characters like that remain so exactly the same book after book, year after year. They never develop.”

  I grinned and shrugged. “Writers like Van Dine have it easier than I. They control their characters. Mike Shayne makes his own decisions, and all I can do is record them for posterity. Speaking of private detectives,” I went on, aware of the way Avery Birk continued to look at her from the other side, “are you acquainted with one named Johnny Danger?”

  She was looking sideways at me and fiddling with her empty glass. Her fingers tightened on the glass and the curving line of her full lips became straight and rigid. She said in a low voice, “I know Avery Birk is right behind me. Don’t force me to put my opinion of his books into words he might hear.”

  I laughed aloud and reached for the bottle to pour us each another drink. As I set the bottle down, I caught the bartender’s eye and made a gesture to indicate I wanted my bill. As we both lifted our glasses, I said, “It might be fun to go some place where we could discuss Johnny Danger without insulting his creator.”

  “I’m sure it would be fun,” she agreed simply. “That is… my God! I’m not monopolizing you, am I? I know there are hundreds of people here who must want to talk with you. When I saw your name on the guest list this evening, I was just dying to come to your table and introduce myself. But there were so many important people there…” Her voice trailed off and she raised her glass to drink half the cognac. “Wasn’t that Dorothy Cecil you were sitting beside at dinner?”

  I nodded. “On my right.”

  “She’s… very attractive. And don’t you love her books?”

  “They’re all right.” I’m afraid I said it gruffly. The crowd in the barroom had thinned down considerably, not more than twenty-five or thirty people remaining as the hour approached midnight. Some of them I knew casually, though most were strangers. “Do you have a coat checked?”

  “Just a light jacket.” She opened a black suede purse and fumbled in it, brought out a numbered check which she handed to me when I held out my hand for it.

  We both drained our glasses and I glanced at the bar check, put some bills on it and turned away. She slid her arm into mine as we crossed to the checkroom. Walking beside me, the top of her head was just below the level of my eyes. Her arm squeezed mine with pleasant possessiveness.

  I retrieved my hat and her jacket which proved to be a black satin cape lined with scarlet satin. I slid it over her shoulders and as we went out to the street I asked casually, “Where would you like to go? I’m from Miami, you know.”

  She hesitated just a moment before saying, “What about my place? By the grace of God, there’s a bottle of brandy. And we can talk.”

  I told her it sounded just right. I held up a finger to the hotel doorman and he had no trouble snagging a taxi at that late hour.

  We got in and she gave the driver an address in the East Thirties. She had moved close to the other side when she got in and sat there demurely as the taxi pulled away. I sat not too close to her and got out cigarettes. I shook one loose and held out the pack and she took it. I put one between my own lips and struck a match. She leaned close to get a light, and her face was serene and beautiful in the little flare as she sucked in flame. Her hand had touched mine to steady the match, and she didn’t take her hand away while I got a light also. I blew the match out and lowered my lips to touch the back of her hand. Her fingers tightened spasmodically on mine, and then she drew away to her own side of the back seat and I relaxed against the rear cushion. I drew in a deep lungful of smoke and exhaled it, told her, “You haven’t told me anything about yourself at all. You’re not a member of MWA?”

  “No. Just a sort of hanger-on. Don’t worry. You’ll probably hear the entire story of my life if the bottle of brandy holds out.”

  That sounded all right to me. Her right hand was lying on the seat between us and I put mine over it. Her fingers relaxed under mine and we rode that way to the address she had given.

  3

  I paid off the taxi in front of a small, neat brick apartment building east of the Third Avenue El. Elsie went in front of me up a short flight of steps and into a small entryway with mail boxes lining both sides. She took a key from her purse to open the inner door, and we went down a short hall to a self-service elevator in the rear. It was waiting and when we got in she pressed the button for the third floor. It went up smoothly and I held the door for her to get out. She led the way to an apartment which she unlocked. She switched on a hall light just inside. Directly in front of us there was the open door of a small kitchenette. The bathroom was just to the right with a bedroom at the end of the hall beyond with a living room on the left.

  Elsie turned in the hallway and smiled diffidently and said “Welcome.”

  Her lips were curved and inviting and I put my hands on her shoulders and kissed her. She came against me without constraint, not pushing her lips or body, but not exactly withholding either.

  It was a pleasant, welcoming sort of kiss that promised more and better ones later, and I let her go without protest when she drew herself back gently after a moment. She stepped aside to turn on a floor lamp in the square living room, then slipped off her cape and said, “Make yourself comfortable while I see about the brandy.”

  The living room was pleasantly furnished in a haphazard and Bohemian sort of way. There was a comfortably shabby low couch against one wall, a couple of deep chairs with reading lamps and smoking stands beside them. One wall was lined with built-in bookshelves crammed with books.

  A metal typewriter desk stood in one corner with an open portable on it, and there was a litter of crumpled manuscript sheets on the floor, a box of bond paper beside it and a pile of typed sheets on the other side.

  There were front windows that looked down on 38th Street, and side windows for cross ventilation. Wherever there was available wall space, there were framed and unframed paintings and sketches. Some abstract oils, some realistic water colors and pastels.

  I heard Elsie moving about the kitchenette while I stepped over to the bookshelves to glance at the contents. The books were a helter-skelter jumble of modern novels, well-worn classics, works on psychology and anthropology, and volumes by some of the more liberal modern thinkers.

  I was pleased and touched to see a complete set of my books in their original bindings on the top shelf. Elsie hadn’t been kidding about her interest in my work. Not a reprint among them. I had thought I was the only person in the world who possessed such a set.

  I was standing there glancing over the old titles when Elsie came in with a tray which she set on a low glass table in front of the sofa. It held a full bottle of Monnet, two four-ounce wine glasses, two tall crystal goblets with ice cubes, and a squat, cut-glass pitcher of water.

  She smiled as she set the tray down, and said, “I’ve always assumed that authors drink exactly what they give their characters in books. If you prefer soda… or even whiskey… I’ve got it.”

  I shook my head and assured her, “No. Mike has taught me his drinking habits. That’s perfect.”

  She sat on the sofa and started pouring cognac in the two wine glasses. I told her, “This is really an interesting place you’ve got. Are the pictures yours?”

  “Oh, no. I did try dabbling with water colors once, but nothing came of it. I can’t take credit for a single bit of this,” she went on a trifle ruefully. “I’m just sub-letting from friends. Everything you see belongs to them.”

  “Except about twenty-four volumes I noticed on the top bookshelf.” I sat beside her and reached for a glass.

  She blushed slightly a
nd said, “As a matter of strict truth two of those belong to the Johnsons. They had three or four of your books, and two of them were ones I hadn’t been able to get to complete my set.”

  “The Johnsons?” I paused with the drink halfway to my mouth. “You wouldn’t mean Ryerson?”

  “That’s right.” Her face lighted happily. “I remember now that Johnnie said he’d met you at some MWA meeting. Do you know Lois, too? She illustrated one of his books a few years ago.”

  “Yes. She’s a sweet girl.”

  Elsie lifted her glass in a sort of salute and we both drank the straight cognac and then washed it down with a sip of ice water.

  I leaned back and relaxed and lit cigarettes for both of us, nodded toward the typewriter in the corner and asked, “Do you write?”

  “Yes. That is… no. Not really. I’m trying to. In fact,” she said gravely, “prepare yourself to be disillusioned. I seduced you up here under false pretenses.”

  “You mean it wasn’t just my masculine charm… my masterful technique?”

  “Not altogether.” She leaned close to draw her fingertips across my cheek. “Though I won’t deny there was that, too. But when I persuaded Miss Jane to introduce me, I had only one thought. A very carefully planned campaign. To get you up here and ply you with brandy and whatever sex appeal I possess to induce you to read a half-finished manuscript and tell me what the devil to do with it.”

  I leaned back and grinned and said, “Go ahead and ply me.”

  “I am,” she said defiantly. “Don’t you feel plied?”

  I said cautiously, “The brandy is very good.”

  She leaned toward me again, her face turned and pressing against the back of the sofa, her eyes dancing with excitement that was at least partially sexual.

  I moved closer to her and her eyes remained wide open and inviting me. Her lips parted slightly and they trembled. She said, “Darling,” in a husky, shaking voice, and I kissed her.

  It was a long kiss, and we were both shaky when it ended. She moved a little so her shoulder touched mine companionably, reached for her glass and asked, “Now do you feel plied?”

  “Most satisfactorily.” I drained my glass and lit another cigarette. “You promised me the story of your life, too.”

  “That will come later. After I’ve had a few more drinks. Aren’t you going to say you’re just dying to read my book?”

  “Is it a mystery?”

  She hesitated, biting her underlip. “Sort of. I guess I hope it will be what they call a suspense novel these days.”

  “Like THE WRITHING WORM?” I asked, trying to keep the venom out of my voice.

  “Oh! Do you know Lew’s work?”

  “No. I ran into him at the bar tonight and he gave me a lecture on how the modern mystery novel should be written.”

  “That sounds like Lew,” she said indulgently.

  “Let’s talk about you and your book.”

  “I’ve only fifty-some pages done.” She hesitated thoughtfully. “I’m stuck at that point, you see.” Then in a sudden burst of confidence, she hurried on.

  “Actually, I’m afraid I’m discovering I’m not really a writer after all. Up to this point I’ve been fictionizing a real situation. One that happened to me. It is a mystery, and a darned good one,” she went on defiantly. “An unsolved case that I thought up an ending for and decided I could make a book out of. But I can’t think of a middle part. The first fifty pages were easy because I was dealing with real facts. But now I don’t know how to go on. I thought maybe, if you read it, you could advise me.”

  I poured myself some more cognac. Elsie still had some in her glass. She was leaning back comfortably, her face hopeful. I wanted to kiss her again, but I’ve met enough budding authors to realize she would have to get the book off her mind before we could hope to move on to more interesting matters.

  I said, “Let me get this straight. You started out with an incident that actually happened to you. You’ve written that much of it, and now that you’ve reached the end of your real facts, you can’t dream up an ending.”

  “I do have an ending. A good one. But I know a book should be at least two hundred pages long and I can’t think how to stretch it out.”

  “What sort of situation have you got?”

  She hesitated a moment, a faint tinge of pink flushed her cheeks. “I’d much rather have you read it than try to discuss it openly with you. I’d be too horribly embarrassed because… well, it wasn’t a very nice experience. Quite horrible, in fact. I’ve changed all the names in my story, of course, and the physical descriptions of the people involved, so it doesn’t seem so personal when you read it all typed out.”

  “Have you shown it to anyone else?”

  “Just one friend. He’s a writer, too, and it seems different when one is a professional. So much more impersonal.” She paused and the color came into her cheeks again. “Please don’t think I’m awful while you’re reading it. I did try to put things down as honestly as I could. A writer has to, doesn’t he?”

  I poured both of us more cognac. I was beginning to get restless. Here we were alone and time was passing. Discussing a manuscript wasn’t my idea of the best way of killing the night. But she was so wrapped up in her own personal problem that I knew it was going to be difficult to change the subject.

  Nevertheless, I tried.

  While she was sipping her fresh drink, I said: “I’ll be most interested in reading your story first thing in the morning. I’ll be better able to judge it intelligently if I know a little more about you as a person. You’re not married?”

  “No.”

  “But not a virgin?” I made my voice light and didn’t look directly at her as I spoke.

  “No.” Her answer was slow but direct. “Is that important?”

  I shrugged. “Probably not, except as an indication of the sort of person you are. Completely repressed females generally don’t make very good writers. What do you read?”

  Her face lit up. “Everything. That is, I did when I was younger. Proust and Joyce. Hemingway and Dreiser and Sinclair Lewis. Lately I’ve been concentrating more on the better mysteries and suspense novels. Yours, of course, and there’s a woman writer named Helen McCloy whom I like. Do you know her books?”

  “Very well. Do you have a job?”

  “Not now. Until a couple of months ago I worked as a secretary in an importing house. Then I decided I wanted to try and write this book and I had a little money saved up, so I quit my job and moved into this less expensive apartment when the Johnsons offered to sublet it while they were in Maine. I’ve got money enough for a couple more months, but if I don’t have the book finished by then I guess I’ll have to go back to work.”

  “Perhaps I can help you get it finished,” I told her heartily. “Right now… why don’t you kiss me?”

  She said, “I’d like that,” and came toward me on the sofa. This time there wasn’t any question about her response. Her lips were soft and wet, and they spread apart like the petals of a flower. Her arms went around me, and I drew her close so the full length of her body was against me.

  And then the telephone rang!

  I would have let the damned thing ring forever. I tried to hold my lips on hers, to make her feel the telephone was the least important thing in the world right then, but she twisted away from me, drew herself up, breathing hard. With an apologetic smile at me, she crossed the room to pick up the shrilling instrument.

  I settled back to catch my own breath and sip some more brandy. I didn’t listen to her carefully. I actually tried not to listen at all, but I was sore at the interruption and was inwardly cursing the person at the other end.

  I heard Elsie say, “Yes,” and then, indignantly, “No. Of course not. Whatever gave you that idea?”

  Her back was toward me, and she straightened and stiffened as she listened some more.

  “But he’s not,” she said angrily. “He dropped me off after promising to read my script to
morrow if I send it to him… and I’m up here working like the devil to get it in shape for him to read it.”

  She listened again for a moment, then said emphatically: “No. I tell you I’m working. Good night.”

  She put the telephone down hard and stood for a moment, her back still toward me.

  I got up and when she turned slowly, I saw everything was finished for that night. Her face was set in stiff lines and there was a perfunctory sort of smile on her lips. “I’m sorry, Brett. I.…”

  I went across the room to take her in my arms, but it was no good. She let me kiss her, but she was far away from me. Her body was tense, and I didn’t know whether it was anger or fright. She moved her mouth away from mine to say, “You’d better go, darling. Really, I’m sorry as hell, but… if you still want to read my script…?”

  I was sorry, too. I told her so, and lied like a gentleman by saying of course I still wanted to read her script.

  She smiled wanly and said maybe I’d call her as soon as I’d read it.

  I promised I would, and she moved out of my arms and around the typewriter desk where she picked up a large manila envelope. She turned, and said, “I’ll give you the original copy. It hasn’t been revised or corrected, but I’ve been working some on the carbon copy and it would take too long to gather it all up and straighten it out.”

  I had the impression then that she was scared to death, and wanted to get me out of there fast. Since I didn’t particularly wish to encounter a jealous boy-friend, I told her that would be fine and what number should I call after I’d read it.

  She grabbed up a pencil and wrote a number on the brown envelope and shoved it into my hands. I was getting the bum’s rush for sure, but I didn’t argue about it.

  She moved around me fast to pick up my hat, and I went to the door and opened it.

  She followed me swiftly and flung her arms around my neck and pulled my head down for a fast, hard kiss, and then whispered, “Sorry, Brett,” and there were tears in her eyes.

  I grinned and said, “There’ll always be another time, honey. You come to my place next time where we can really talk.”