Little Less Than Kind

by Charlotte Armstrong

  “Oh,” said Dr. Jones, “those.”

  “Were they dangerous?”

  “Dangerous?” The doctor cocked his head and looked amused. “Well, I don’t suppose that if you were to swallow them down by the handful that they would do you any particular good. However, I don’t order very strong drugs for Abby. The suggestion is often enough.”

  Again David had the sense of treachery. “Could they have killed him?” David was sharp.

  “Killed whom?” The doctor was jolted upright.

  “Hob Cunningham, if he took them all?”

  “But he didn’t.”

  “Didn’t?”

  “Not those pills. As a matter of fact, those pills are kicking around my office, somewhere, to this very day.”

  “You have them?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “But how?”

  “Why, I had a patient in the hospital, as I remember, on the same floor with Mr. Cunningham, and the nurse spoke to me. She showed me my own prescription, written for Abby, and wanted to know what to do with those pills.”

  “I see. Then they were found. When?”

  “I can’t give you the day.”

  “Before Hob died?”

  “I suppose so. I think so. What difference? He certainly didn’t take them. I took them. That is, I put them in my pocket and promised to get them back to Abby. But somehow or other, whenever I had the chance I managed to forget. I knew, you see, that she had wanted to be helpful. It was her little sacrifice. I hated to … Well, let’s just leave it that I never did give them back to her. They are not … expensive.” And anyhow, Abby Cunningham could afford the loss. The implication hung in the air.

  David sank back into his own chair. “I wonder if there was any time … Was this before Thanksgiving, do you know?”

  Dr. Jones shook his head. He did not know. He was wary, now.

  “I am wondering if the boy had seen those pills in his father’s room.”

  “The boy?”

  “Yes. You see, he thinks his father was poisoned.”

  “Does he indeed?” said the doctor thoughtfully. “But Abby doesn’t know that?”

  “No.”

  “Then you should tell her.”

  “I should?”

  “Yes, I think so. She needs …”

  “What?”

  “Well, a rationale.”

  “For the boy’s behavior?”

  “That’s it.”

  “I see.”

  Now Dr. Jones smiled. “I am primarily concerned for my patient,” he explained with charm.

  “Yes. Well, then, I’ll go up. Thank you.”

  They shook hands. Then the doctor said smoothly, “These super-sensitive people, you know, have a much more difficult time of it than those of us whose skins are thicker. Is the boy, perhaps, a little like his mother?”

  “Perhaps,” said David guardedly.

  As he went upstairs David was thinking to himself, I do not like thee, Dr. Fell.

  Abby was lying quietly upon her bed, not truly in it, wearing one of her pretty dressing gowns, with a soft “throw” over her feet. Cleona melted away like a fat shadow. David sat down on the bed’s edge and took his wife’s hand. “Well?” he said, smiling.

  “I am sorry, David. I frightened myself, I felt so …”

  “But you are better?”

  “Oh, much,” she said without enthusiasm.

  “Do you want to talk? Or would you rather not?”

  “I don’t know. Where is he?”

  “Cleona says he went off in his car.”

  “Yes.” Abby rolled her head. She was not stupid. She was perhaps frail of her very lack of stupidity. “It worries me,” she said. “It worries me.”

  “Abby, dear, I’ll have to tell you something. Please listen.” (Her eyes came to his begging this not to be bad news, not to be terrible.) “It is Ladd who has got it into his head that Hob was poisoned. Ladd was the one who called the policeman on the phone.”

  Her flesh seemed to fall backward and downward from the prow of her dainty nose. Her eyes widened slowly. “How could he?”

  “I don’t know, dear. But I’ve just talked to Dr. Jones about your famous pills, and there is nothing to worry about on that score.” He told her what had happened to her pills and Abby sighed. The color crept a little higher on her delicate skin.

  She popped, up on one elbow. “Oh, do you think Ladd could have seen them in Hob’s room?”

  “He may have.”

  “Oh … and then he thought …” Her eyes fled. “But oh, why”—She sank back—“why didn’t he come to me when he first …?”

  (Because you couldn’t bear it, thought David.)

  “Because he loves you.” said David lightly, “for one reason.”

  Abby flushed and struggled higher against her pillows. “I wonder. I wonder. The policeman said that the phone call said that you had done it. But do you suppose Ladd thinks …?”

  “That we both did?” David finished for her.

  “But then,” she cried, almost in delight, “we must find him! And the sooner we find him the sooner we can explain. And the sooner he will be rid of that terrible thought! Oh, my poor baby!” There was something a little false in her joy.

  “I don’t quite know how to find him, Abby. He’s riding around, or at the beach, or with some friend. It’s a big city.”

  “He’ll be home for dinner,” Abby said, with an absurd confidence. She let herself slowly sink into the pillows, and turned one cheek against the linen.

  “Do you want to tell me,” said David in a moment, “what Ladd did or said?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said drearily. “I don’t want to quote him, especially. I don’t know that I could. But now that I understand how he has been troubled … And then there’s been some involvement with Felicia Lorimer.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, some romantic skirmish. I’m not sure. He didn’t really know, at all, what he was saying. So I don’t suppose he will remember. Maybe it is better if he never does remember.”

  “Will you sleep now?” David kissed her soft cheek. She did not move her head. She looked at the lamp and said, “David, do you think Aaron Silver would talk to Ladd?”

  (Oh, Abby, inconsistent!)

  “I’m sure that Aaron would. I’m not sure that Ladd would let him,” David said honestly.

  She rolled her head. “I don’t think so,” she said, as if it had been his proposal. “I think when we explain, he’ll be all right.”

  “We’ll see,” said David. He patted her and started away.

  As he got to the door she said in a low voice, “David, don’t leave me.”

  “No, no.”

  “I mean, now,” she said. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  “All right—except down to beg some lunch from Cleona.”

  “All right, darling.”

  She fluttered to repose.

  David went away.

  His confidence that they had reached an understanding, even if obliquely, was wavering a little. Was Abby satisfied, or determined to think that reason could reach the boy and heal everything? David was not sure. And was she determined, with all her power, to “forgive and forget?” David was not so sure of that, either. Something in a pronoun …

  What the devil kind of scene had the kid made? he wondered. And where the devil is he? And what the devil am I going to do? He went downstairs, pondering his dilemma, which existed just as it had before.

  David spoke to Cleona (who was one jump ahead of him) about lunch. Then he called the Fenwick house. There was no answer. He was flipping through the pages of the little book of handy phone numbers wondering where next, what friends, to call, when Cleona announced his meal.

  No person had yet told David Crown that Rafe Lorimer had been in the house during the morning or involved in any way. So the Lorimers were not pertinent to his thoughts. He had made nothing of Abby’s remark about Felicia. He was mildly surprised when Cleo
na mentioned the girl.

  “Miss Felicia Lorimer came by, Mr. Crown, a while back.”

  “Oh?”

  “She don’t look like she feels so good.

  “That’s too bad.”

  “She knows where the key is at.”

  “The what?”

  “The key to the swimming pool.”

  “Yes, of course she does. The Lorimer kids are always in and out. Did she want to go swimming?”

  “I don’t know did she or didn’t she,” Cleona said.

  .”Well, if she went by, then she didn’t.” He smiled at her.

  “She going to some slumber party. She talked so silly! Head nor tail, to me.”

  Cleona’s eyes were trying to say more than her mouth said but David was attacking his plate, anxious to get back to his own problem. He said carelessly, “Some of these kids speak a language all their own.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When he had eaten, David went into the library and did what he knew he ought to do. He called Dr. Silver. Dr. Silver was not in. He called the Fenwick house again. No answer.

  He called the plant to say that he would not be back. Some business calls ensued.

  Then it was two o’clock. Abby was asleep. Cleona kept to her own part of the house. David, knowing no way to find Ladd Cunningham, gave up telephoning, went out upon the terrace, and settled himself. It was a bright hot day. The pool was very pretty, lying unruffled in the sunshine. David considered, lazily, the prospect of getting himself into a pair of trunks and splashing about. But he did not. He was a clumsy swimmer. He had not been in the pool much. It was for the young.

  He lay back in a long chair, cool enough, comfortable. Everything was quiet He could see the roof of Rafe’s studio, the upper part of the Lorimer house, glimmering pale through green trees. Nothing stirred there.

  This was Hob Cunningham’s place, Hob’s castle. David thought, I ought to take my wife and move away.

  He thought, with longing, of his own girls. Skinny, long-legged Angie, so full of mischief—slangy and quick—being a young mother now. And Patty, so full of ambition and young grace and young pride. He thought of June, who never had had two cents’ worth of pity for herself. And it is well known, he thought, that kids don’t learn through precepts but through their pores.

  Wait. Hold it. Too easy to visit the sins of the children upon their parents. Too simple to be true. If he was the reasonable, the honest, the examining man, then he had better hold it a minute and think twice. Soberly and fairly, he considered Abby, who was not June, and not anybody else but Abby. Poor Abby. Whatever she knew or guessed or merely sensed which he quietly conceded to be, under Abby’s mixture, probably everything—the fact was that Abby was being tortured. And it would have to be stopped.

  But how?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Rafe Lorimer sat on the box with his head in his hands, trying to think. He’d raise some money. He’d raise hell with the Cunningham boy. He’d go there. He’d—But he knew that Abby was in one of her twits right now, and had the doctor coming. No use trying to raise hell with Abby. He’d get hold of that damnable boy. Who was mad. For surely, to destroy, for the sake of destroying, was madness. What use trying to raise hell with such a boy? Then he’d raise all the devils of hell with David Crown. With someone. With them all.

  But not until he felt cooler and steadier. No. Rafe had a vision of himself, foolish and furious, sputtering without plan, in no direction, making no impression. No, no, I must be composed. I must know exactly what I am going to say. I must have my dignity back. (But oh, never my little daughter!) He wept. I will have to tell her and then …?

  His hands moved of themselves. Laid out on a kind of taboret were his tools, and his hands went to them. He shifted his rump. The block of wood stood on the floor. There had been a vision in it. He had worked off one upper corner. The curve of the skull of the head of the vision was invisible but it was there; he had begun to let it out. His eyes were tearful. He could scarcely see, but the knife jumped into his hand. His hand went to work. The work went of itself. His tears dried. His mind began to settle.

  When Mr. and Mrs. George Harper came, calling his name, to the studio door, Rafe was in his own world again.

  “Your daughter doesn’t answer the doorbell.”

  “Why should she?” Rafe said. He went on to say that she had her rights. The house was her house and her home. If she did not wish to receive callers, she need not. As for going to stay with them, that, too, was Felicia’s choice. She had said not? Then, not.

  Mrs. Harper was a little woman, timid and faded. She watched him fearfully. “No, I am not a monster,” Rafe told her in a kindly aside.

  But what was he going to do? They wanted to know.

  Obviously, Rafe told them, he was going to have to sue. Mrs. Harper moaned. “But I must,” Rafe said. “Not for my own sake. I have my work. I don’t need anything else. I have never cared, and never will care, what people say. The worse for them if they believe a lie.”

  “But the little girl,” moaned Mrs. Harper. “Her whole life …”

  “I shall send Felicia abroad to school,” said Rafe. “Switzerland, or perhaps France. She is not an ordinary child, in any case.” He could see her in this vision, becoming an artist perhaps. Shaking off this cramped provincial atmosphere. He would wrest good from evil and set her free.

  Mrs. Harper said, “Mr. Lorimer, you should stop and think. You oughtn’t to make it a public scandal.”

  “I didn’t choose to have a scandal at all.”

  Old Mr. Harper said, “You’ve told the little girl, have you, what the young fellow said?”

  “No, no. Not yet But I shall. Then I shall go to the Cunninghams. A little later, when they are all there.” He lied to excuse his delay. “I’ll sue the boy and them, through him. They have plenty of money. That boy’s insane malice will have to be paid for.”

  “Money, eh?” Old Mr. Harper bristled up.

  “I have no money,” Rafe explained patiently. “It will take a good deal of money to send Felicia abroad to live.” His voice trembled a little because, even in this fine vision, he’d lost his daughter.

  Mr. Harper pursed his lips and nodded. But Mrs. Harper was trembling, all over. “Wouldn’t it be better to let it go? Ignore it? Don’t do this, Mr. Harper and I will never never say a word.”

  Mr. Harper said morosely, “I dunno how you are going to keep Elsie Marshall quiet.”

  “Then I shall sue Elsie Marshall, too,” said Rafe, smiling. “Thank you for coming.” The old pair seemed to be swept out of his studio by the broom of his grand resolve.

  Rafe puttered a moment, but his concentration had been broken. It was late. He went into the house after some lunch. A note on the kitchen table. Dad: S. in wax paper in icebox.

  Rafe found his sandwich and poured a glass of milk. The house was quiet. He thought that Felicia must be lying low because of the Harpers. He went into the hall and called her name, not very loudly. She didn’t answer. Rafe took breath to call again and his heart quailed. He would have to tell her. But oh, not yet. Not this minute. Let her have a quarter of an hour more of innocent peace. He went back to the kitchen and ate his sandwich, drank his milk.

  In their car, the Harpers were headed for home. Old Mrs. Harper could feel the aching in her bones subsiding, for she had ached, anticipating a young person in their house and their carefully studied and suitable routine all knocked to pieces. “We did our best,” she said.

  Old Mr. Harper was thinking of something else. “I suppose if he does go to law, that I got to be a witness.” He pursed his mouth. “All I can say is, if that boy’s a liar, he’s a darned good one. To fool me! Not going to be any fun a-tall to get up and have to repeat that dirty stuff.”

  “We did all we could,” his wife said, with mournful satisfaction. But Mr. Harper began to rub his chest with the heel of his hand. The car wavered and slowed.

  “Daddy?” she said in a little thin voice.
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br />   Rafe wandered to and fro in the kitchen. The Cunninghams now? No, not yet. Not quite yet. Taking no thought, he went by habit out to his studio. He sat down on the box. He was thinking about a lawsuit. For slander, is it? Or libel? He didn’t even know the terms. A lawyer, then. Court. Judge. Testimony. The old lady had reminded him of publicity. Would he have to talk to reporters? How could Rafe deal with all these unaccustomed bustling affairs? All he wanted was to work, just quietly, where he was. Bearing no ill will to anyone. Not bothering or being bothered. He didn’t understand the procedures. He didn’t know the steps to take or what would be required of him during the next step and the step after that. He would need someone to help him through it all. Someone …

  Then Rafe thought of his son. Justin, the cool and the bright. A piercing fear nailed him to the box. He could not move.

  No, he would have to think this out very carefully. He mustn’t make a mistake. The old lady might be right. Perhaps he should rise above the whole nasty business.

  David, restless, as the afternoon wore on, called Dr. Silver again. Dr. Silver was still out, very sorry. Oh yes, Mr. Crown’s calls were noted.

  It was late afternoon when at last David got an answer at the Fenwick-number, from Gary himself, who had been over to the college registering, who hadn’t seen Ladd today, did not know where he was, could not usefully guess, could not suggest anyone who might know. But, sure thing, yes, sir, he’d come over.

  Gary, being “over,” was at first a lump.

  Abby was dressing now to come down for dinner. David felt he had no time to waste on being wily.

  “You and Ladd, between you, cooked up that phone call to your uncle?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”

  “Ladd thinks that his father was killed?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Why does he think so?”

  “I don’t know, sir.” Then Gary, his big hands clenching, added, “But Uncle Walt is going to check up on that and so …”

  “So?” David waited.

  “So that’s okay.”

  “Yes, that’s okay. I think your uncle is a good man.”

  “Yes, sir.” Gary began to relax a little.

  “What I need to know” said David candidly, throwing out candor in faith (or for bait?), “is this. Does Ladd really believe that I killed his sick father? Or was he simply threshing around, to cause trouble, because he doesn’t like me?”