I felt Teddy watching me, looking on with sincere interest as I lifted a bottle of Cointreau from a shelf and measured out an amateurishly precise jigger. Whether the drink I built turned out to be a proper sidecar or not I don’t know, but I shook the concoction over ice and poured it into two martini glasses. Less than twenty minutes later, I found myself repeating the process. The effort made my forehead bead up with perspiration, and stray hairs stuck to the sweaty skin, making it itch.
“It’s a nice night. She may be a while. Why don’t we take the air on the terrace while we wait?” I suggested. Teddy’s eyes widened, and he shot me a sudden fearful look. It dawned on me this was an odd request—something usually recommended by a seducing lover—and I blushed. But Teddy coughed and shrugged, and after I’d mixed us a third drink, we adjourned to the terrace, where only hours earlier I’d stood watching the moon sail into the sky with its blood-tinged warning.
The muggy warmth of early autumn had left no trace of its oppressiveness behind on the night breeze. It had turned into the kind of evening I can only describe as delicious. The air was lukewarm and carried just the tiniest hint of a chill in it when the wind lifted. The crisp scent of wet leaves wafted over from the park, and the silvery light of the moon was so bright, our shadows stood behind us in sharp outlines, giving us the indirect impression we had invited a third and fourth guest to join us. We stood in silence for several minutes, resting our elbows on the terrace ledge and peering out over the city below. Somewhere several floors down and what seemed like a whole universe away there was a very low, faraway din of bustling traffic, of horns honking. I watched Teddy as he took a long pull at his drink.
“She’s something of a sphinx, isn’t she,” he commented rhetorically when he finally came up for air and tipped his face away from his martini glass.
“What exactly do you hope to get out of her, Teddy?”
He looked around the terrace uncomfortably and shrugged. “The truth, I suppose.”
“And what if the truth is bad?”
He regarded me for a very long minute. “How bad?”
I shrugged. “The worst you can imagine.”
His eyes widened. “Do you know something?” he asked. There was a shade of eagerness in it, but there was a shade of terror, too. I shook my head quickly.
“No, no. I don’t know anything,” I said. “But don’t you sometimes think . . . there are things you would rather not know?”
“No,” he answered. “I don’t.” I searched the glowing white shapes of his face under the moonlight and realized he would not stop until he knew all of it—whether the girl he’d known as Ginevra was in fact Odalie, and whether she’d once upon a time been capable of retaliating in some tragic, irreversible way. I saw now his blue eyes were full of steel; he was going to know it all.
“What would you do,” I began to ask, my heartbeat speeding up at the mere thought of his likely answer, “if Odalie admitted to . . . to doing something terrible, even if . . . even if it was only a fleeting impulse—and a bad one, true enough—but that she hadn’t meant any of it?”
“I think you know, Rose, what I’d do.”
I did. He would bring her to justice. Not the way I’d done with Edgar Vitalli. No, Teddy was not yet ready to strike that bargain and cross that threshold. In some ways he was an earlier version of me: one who desperately wanted to see justice done but who still (naively, I could argue) believed there were strict rules by which to achieve this. He would report her, and if one police district refused to entertain his claims he would go to another, and doggedly to another and another, until he finally found one bold enough to cinch a pair of handcuffs around Odalie’s wrists. It would be the right thing to do. The very definition of justice, in fact. Nonetheless, my hands grew clammy as I realized I was having pangs of regret. I had betrayed the one bosom friend who had ever really stood by me.
Just then, a shape stepped onto the terrace with a sleek, feline grace. I wondered, for the briefest of seconds, how long Odalie had stood by the terrace door, and how much she might have heard.
“What a glorious night,” she said. Her voice had that husky rattle in it, and she carried a small mirrored tray upon which three martini glasses balanced. As she distributed them into our hands, I wondered how she’d known to make sidecars. Then I remembered I’d left the open recipe book out on the bar. Suddenly Teddy’s hand jerked, and he pointed at something. Following the arrow of his finger, I realized he was pointing at our wrists—first Odalie’s and then mine. With a shock, I realized I had forgotten about the bracelets, which twinkled brilliantly now under the bright moonlight.
“Oh!” was all he could muster. “Oh . . . Oh!”
I felt my stomach turn, and I realized I was wild with a fresh terror. I understood what was at stake now, and I knew my fear was the dread of losing Odalie. Odalie, for her part, was unfazed. She ignored Teddy’s distress and stretched languidly in the tepid evening air, finishing with a small, ladylike yawn.
“You know what I’d love? I’d love to stand out here and smoke a cigarette.” Her teeth glowed eerie and phosphorescent in the silvery moonlight as she flashed a cool smile at us. She opened the clasp of her purse and pretended to look inside. “Oh! But I’m all out. Rose, darling. Would you mind terribly running to the newsstand and getting some?”
I nodded but was hesitant to go, unsure as to whether I should leave her alone. The instinct to protect her was surging strongly in me now. Whereas before I had wanted to see Odalie confronted, now I only wanted Teddy to go away, and as quickly as possible. I considered that perhaps if I dashed out for the cigarettes, it might give Odalie a chance to set him straight and send him on his way. As an afterthought I considered the walk might do me good anyhow; I was slightly fevered with drink by that time, and it felt as though hot embers were smoldering steadily under the apples of my cheeks. Odalie put some change in my hand, and I hardly remember riding the elevator—although I must have done so—for the next thing I knew I was walking in an awkward, aggressive stride along the city sidewalk.
The first two stands I tried were closed, so I tried a little corner-store I remembered on Lexington. I don’t recall what the clerk at the store looked like, but I do recall making some sort of conversation with him about the weather (we both agreed it was cooling off and turning very fine—what a relief after that relentless summer!). As drunken citizens everywhere so often try to do, I tried my best not to appear as though I was concentrating too hard as I counted out the change. I could feel the warm glow in my face affecting my eyesight, and I was aware I was probably squinting closely at the coins to see which was which. But the clerk either didn’t notice or else had long since ceased to notice the erratic behaviors of his late-night customers entirely. But it was clear I was not a prized customer, as he simply handed me the pack of cigarettes without putting them in a paper bag. On the way back to the hotel, I noticed a man out walking a rather sleek-looking greyhound. I made some pleasant remarks about the dog’s winning countenance and stopped to pet it, then continued on my way. I wouldn’t have been that familiar and easy with a stranger before my time with Odalie. I was really coming out of my shell, as they say. She had changed me, I reflected, and for the better. I would apologize to her for telling Teddy where to find her, and we would be sisters again. No more of these silly spiteful betrayals. Oh, the irony of my thoughts at that crucial moment in time . . .
It wasn’t until I was a mere half-block from the hotel that I heard the sirens. By then a small crowd had gathered around, and already the policemen were working to keep the onlookers at bay. There was something everyone was pointing to in the middle of the crowd, something below their knees, lying on the ground. As I drew closer, my stomach balled itself into a tight fist. I could feel the warmth leaving my cheeks already, my eyes widening with the jarring clarity of sudden sobriety, my mind bracing itself for the harsh spectacle that inevitably awaited. By t
he time I got close enough to catch a glimpse of Teddy’s body sprawled out in a broken posture upon the gray impassive concrete of the sidewalk, it was as if I had already seen it all before.
21
From time to time, I still puzzle over whether Odalie put the young elevator-boy up to it, or if it was an honest mistake and he was simply an overeager Good Samaritan trying to do the right thing. It doesn’t matter, of course, but it would be nice to know. For some reason (now that I know Odalie for what she is) I’ve taken a measure of comfort imagining she went to great pains, resorting to all sorts of masterful plotting. But there are some things, I suppose, to which I’ll never be privy, and I must resign myself to this fact. Either way, whatever motivated the elevator-boy’s actions drew its power from a sure and steady source, for he did not falter as he stood across the circle of clustered onlookers and raised his arm to point a finger in my direction.
“There she is! That’s the lady who rode up with him!” he cried. It was a simple statement—and a true one at that—but it struck me as an accusation, and I recoiled with a faint shiver of knee-jerk indignity.
“Excuse me? I beg your pardon, Clyde—”
“Name’s not Clyde. It’s Clive.”
“Oh.”
“Ask her—just ask ’er if she ain’t the one that rode up with him!” Suddenly there was a police officer at my elbow.
“Do you know the name and identity of the deceased?” the officer asked. I admitted that I did. “And where are you coming from, miss?” he asked. I explained to him about the cigarettes, about going to the news-stands, the corner-store, and even about the sleek-looking greyhound. Already I could tell it was too much; he lifted an eyebrow. “And your friend, this Teddy, you say you left him alone up there?” He gestured toward the upper levels of the hotel.
I didn’t answer at first, still under the spell of the impulse to protect Odalie. I glanced in the direction of where Teddy lay, but could not bring myself to look directly at the body. Surely he had not survived the fall. “Is he . . . ?”
“’Fraid so.”
I let my eyes trail up the side of the hotel until I was looking in the direction of the terrace. From down here it seemed like a very alien, impersonal, faraway place. It slowly dawned on me the police were sure to go up there for further inspection. I swallowed. “I have a room-mate,” I said, carefully trying to figure out how to volunteer this information. “She may know what happened. She might have seen the . . . the . . . accident.” As soon as I said the word accident aloud it left a funny tang in my mouth. I was desperate to get upstairs, to see Odalie, to look into her wide-set eyes and read in them the truth of what had just occurred. The police officer (a patrolman; I was distraught, but still knew how to tell the difference between a beat cop and a real detective, of course) was silent as we rode up in an elevator cage helmed by the eagerly disapproving Clive.
After taking us to our floor, Clive proceeded to follow us as we left the elevator and walked down the hall. The officer did not say anything to stop him, and I could feel both men’s eyes on me as I fumbled with the key to the front door. There was something loose and echoing in the air as I turned the doorknob to our apartment and swung the door open. A bottomless sense of vacancy permeated the sitting room, and I was overcome with a sick, panicky feeling. Right away, it was clear Odalie was gone. My mind attempted to piece together an innocent explanation as to where she was and why she had left, but already the threads of this were slippery and would not hold. The cop, to his credit, did not treat me like a crazy person straightaway, but rather conducted a polite-yet-perfunctory tour of all the apartment’s rooms in an attempt to locate the room-mate I had promised was awaiting him. I trailed behind him as he moved through the apartment. We concluded our tour on the terrace. Less than an hour earlier the terrace had seemed balmy and pleasant; now it had taken on an atmosphere of oppressive foreboding. I watched the police officer take stock of things: the little mirrored cocktail tray left to idle on a low wicker table, the two empty martini glasses abandoned on the brick ledge (I never did find out what became of that third glass). He peered over the rail at the wreckage below, then glanced at the pair of martini glasses again.
“You say you were up here earlier this evening?”
“Yes,” I said. Then, after a pause, I added, “I’m sorry I can’t tell you more about how it happened.” It was the truth; I was sorry, and getting sorrier by the minute. Perhaps it is laughable now, but at the time I was worried about Odalie. Perhaps the shock of it was too much for her, I thought, but she shouldn’t have left the hotel like she has. If she’d ever been to Newport at any point in her past, if it looked like she and Teddy had been having a row before he fell, the whole ugly truth of it would come out and whatever had happened on the terrace tonight wouldn’t look right.
“S’all right,” the officer replied. “Somebody already ’phoned for a detective.” I nodded. By then the Cognac I had consumed earlier had worked its way further into my system and my head was beginning to pound with a tight pressure. The daze I’d felt upon coming back from the corner-store was wearing off, and I looked down to see the carton of cigarettes still clutched in my hand. In an automatic gesture, I opened it and offered a cigarette to the officer. He gave me one of the queerest looks I have ever received in my life and shook his head, so I decided to smoke the rejected gift myself, thinking it might calm me. Odalie always said cigarettes had a wonderful calming effect on her. Still eyeing me cautiously, the officer reached over to light my cigarette. I noticed his hand was trembling. Mine, by contrast, was very steady as I smoked the cigarette. My nerves never showed themselves like that. I exhaled, tilting my head upward and allowing the smoke to curl from my mouth, imitating something I’d seen Odalie do a hundred times.
“What a terrible accident. Terrible, isn’t it?” I said. It was an innocuous remark. Or so I thought, but the officer flinched. His head snapped in my direction, and his eyes widened with curiosity.
“Hmph . . . yes . . . accident . . . ,” he murmured.
I finished my cigarette and stubbed it out, then deposited it neatly in the green bottle-glass ashtray that sat on the wicker table. In addition to the table, there was a little rug on the terrace, two wicker chairs, and a settee. Since it had become apparent we were waiting for something, I sat down on the settee and crossed my legs. A tiny twinkle caught my eye, and I looked down to see Odalie’s bracelet lying by my foot. Had Teddy torn it from her wrist? She wouldn’t want it lying there, so I picked it up for safe-keeping. There was no better way to keep hold of it than to wear it, so I slipped it around my other wrist and did up the clasp. Odalie was right, I thought to myself. They do look a bit like handcuffs. I twisted my wrists slowly and admired the precious stones as they shimmered icy-cold in the moonlight.
Later more officers arrived, and they escorted me downstairs, where a car was waiting to take me to the local precinct. As I was helped into the car, I overheard the patrolman recounting our interlude to a group of fellow officers.
“. . . and as I live and breathe, you shoulda seen ’er. She was just as cold as ice, I tell you! Stood there, smoking a cigarette, admiring her diamonds, calm as could be . . .”
• • •
SEEING AS HOW I was otherwise engaged, I can’t say for sure when Odalie returned to the apartment, but I assume it was some hours later. Over and over, I’ve pictured it all now as it must’ve been: Odalie walking down the street toward the hotel and “discovering” the crowd of onlookers, the police cars, the newspapermen, and the blinding-bright flashes of bulbs popping on their cameras. There she is in my mind, drawing near the curb with her brow furrowed. Clapping a hand over her mouth upon glimpsing the coroner setting about his macabre work. Demanding to know what is going on while being bumped and jostled about by the crowd.
Oh, but I have a room-mate. Where’s my room-mate? Where’s Rose? I picture her saying to a nearby police office
r. And then the officer—in my mind it is the same patrolman who stood with me on the terrace waiting for the detective to arrive—clamps a kindly hand on her shoulder to steady her and informs her of the bad news. Her eyes widen and the sunny tint of her skin pales, but she nods as she takes it all in, a small gesture to indicate horror, but not surprise. Poor Teddy, she says, her eyes glistening. He didn’t deserve such a thing.
You ought to know, she implied you were up on that terrace tonight, he tells Odalie, relaying what has clearly now become my impossible accusation. He does not have to say be careful of that one, he does not have to call me a murderess and a slanderer; his tone says it all for him.
• • •
THERE WAS AN INQUEST, of course, and my trip to the local precinct turned out to be issued on a one-way ticket. That first night, I sat in an unfamiliar interview room being asked questions by an unfamiliar detective, while a typist sat quietly in the corner typing my answers with a dull receptivity. It was all I could do, when they first led me into the room, not to seat myself at her desk and poise my fingers over the keys of the stenotype merely out of habit.
The Other Typist Page 29