Troubled Daughters, Twisted Wives: Stories from the Trailblazers of Domestic Suspense
Page 32
There was no answer. Only the slow measured sound of someone breathing—breathing loudly, and with deliberate intention; the sounds pounded against her ear like the slow reverberation of the sea. In, out. In, out.
For several seconds Miss Fosdyke simply sat there, speechless, the hand that clutched the instrument growing slowly damp with sweat, and her mind reeling with indecision. During her long decades of solitary bed-sitter life, she’d had calls of this nature quite a number of times, and she knew very well there was no infallible method for dealing with them. If you simply hung up without a word, then they were liable to ring again later in the night; if on the other hand, you did speak, then they were as likely as not to launch forth immediately into a long rambling monologue of obscene suggestions. It was a nerve-racking situation for an old woman all on her own in an empty flat and late at night
Miss Fosdyke decided to take the bull by the horns.
“Listen,” she said, trying to speak quietly and control the quivering of her voice. “Listen, I don’t know who you are or why you’re calling me, but I think I ought to tell you that I’m—”
That I’m what? Eighty-seven years old? All on my own? Crippled with arthritis? About to call the police?
That would be a laugh! Anyone who has been an elderly spinster for as long as Emmeline Fosdyke knows well enough what to expect from officialdom if she complains of molestation. No, no policemen, thank you. Not any more. Not ever again.
But no matter. Her decisive little speech seemed to have done the trick this time. With a tiny click the receiver at the other end was replaced softly, and Emmeline leaned back with a sigh of relief, even with a certain sense of pride in what she had accomplished. Funny how these sort of calls always came when you were least prepared for them—late at night, like this one, or even in the small hours, rousing you from your deepest sleep.
Like that awful time five years ago—or was it six?—when she’d been living all alone in that dark dismal flat off the Holloway Road. Even now she still trembled when she thought about that night, and how it might have ended. And then there was that other time, only a few years earlier, when she’d just moved into that bed-sitter in Wandsworth. There, too, the telephone had only recently been installed, just as it had been here . . .
Well, I told her, didn’t I? That prissy, know-it-all little chit of a welfare worker—no one can say that I didn’t warn her! I told her that a telephone was dangerous, but of course she had to know better, she with her potty little three-year Training Course which she thinks qualifies her to be right about everything for evermore!
Training Course indeed!—as if life itself wasn’t a training course much tougher and more exacting than anything the Welfare could think up, if it sat on its bloody committees yakketty-yakking for a thousand years!
Nearly one o’clock now. Emmeline still had not dared to undress, or to make any of her usual preparations for the night. Even though it was more than half an hour since she’d hung up on her mysterious caller, she still could not relax. Of course, it was more than possible that nothing further would happen, that the wretched fellow had given up, turned his attentions elsewhere. Still, you couldn’t be sure. It was best to be prepared.
And so, her light switched off as an extra precaution, and a blanket wrapped round her against the encroaching chill of the deepening night, Emmeline sat wide-awake in the velvety darkness, waiting.
It was very quiet here in this great block of flats at this unaccustomed hour. Not a footstep, not a cough, not so much as the creaking of a door. Even the caretaker must be asleep by now, down in his boiler room in the depths of the building.
Emmeline had never been awake and listening at such an hour before. Her mind went back to earlier night calls when the sounds outside had grown sharper, louder. Did she hear them again?
Emmeline was trembling now, from head to foot. She’d never get out of it this time, never! Ten years ago—even five—she’d at least have been mobile, able to slip through a doorway, to get away from the house, and if necessary stay away for days, or even for weeks.
Not now, though. This time she would be helpless, a sitting duck. And as this thought went through her mind, she became aware, through the humming of her hearing aid, of a new sound, a sound quite distinct and unmistakable, the sharp click of the latch as her door handle was being quietly turned.
Softly, expertly, making no noise at all, Emmeline Fosdyke reached into the darkness for the long sharp carving knife that always lay in readiness.
It was a shame, really, having had to do this to them, after having been so nice to them on the phone, after having given them her name and everything, and encouraging them to think that her tense husky whisper was the voice of a young girl. It was a real shame; but then, what else could she have done?
In the deep darkness, the unknown male lips coarse and urgent against her own, she would have her brief moment of glory, a strange miraculous moment when it really seemed that the anonymous, ill-smelling mackintosh of some stranger was indeed a khaki battle dress of long ago, that the blind clutchings in the darkness were the tender caresses of her first love. For those few wild incredible seconds, in the meaningless grip of some greasy, grunting stranger, she would be young again, and loved again, under the poignant blueness of a wartime summer sky.
During those mad brief moments she could allow hard masculine fingers to fumble with her cardigan in the darkness, and with the buttons of her blouse, scrabbling their way nearer and nearer . . . a shame it was, a crying shame, that at exactly that moment, just before the eager questing fingers had discovered the sagging, empty loops of skin and had recoiled in horror—that was the moment when she’d had to stab the poor nameless fellow, if possible in the heart.
Had to: It was self-defense. Even the law had agreed about that, on the rare occasions when the law had caught up with her.
She’d had to do it—had to stab them all, swiftly and surely, before they’d had a chance to discover how old she was.
“No, no telephone, thank you. It’s too dangerous”—for them.
SUGGESTIONS FOR FURTHER READING
THIS BIBLIOGRAPHY includes all sources used in the writing of this book’s introductory essay or the individual biographical notes. It also includes certain biographies, books, articles and Web sites related to the topic of domestic suspense, and other commentaries on particular authors and themes.
Abbott, Megan. A Hell of a Woman. Texas: Busted Flush Press, 2007.
Connolly, John, and Declan Burke. Books to Die For: The World’s Greatest Mystery Writers on the World’s Greatest Mystery Novels. New York: Atria/Emily Bestler Books, 2012.
Cypert, Rick. The Virtue of Suspense: The Life and Works of Charlotte Armstrong. Susquehanna University Press, 2008.
DeAndrea, William L. Encyclopedia Mysteriosa. A Comprehensive Guide to the Art of Detection in Print, Film, Radio, and Television. New York: Macmillan, 1994.
Foxwell, Elizabeth. Clues: A Journal of Detection, various issues. MacFarland.
George, Elizabeth. A Moment on the Edge: 100 Years of Crime Stories by Women. New York: HarperCollins, 2004.
Marks, Jeffrey. Atomic Renaissance: Women Mystery Writers in the 1940s and 1950s. Delphi Books, 2003.
Nolan, Tom. “Ross Macdonald and Margaret Millar: Partners in Crime.” Mystery Readers International 17(3), 2001.
Paretsky, Sara. A Woman’s Eye. New York: Delacorte Press, 1991.
Schenkar, Joan. The Talented Miss Highsmith. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2009.
Steinbrunner, Chris, and Otto Penzler. Encyclopedia of Mystery and Detection. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1976.
Swartley, Ariel. “Fever Pitch.” Los Angeles Magazine, May 2004.
Swartley, Ariel. “Guns and Roses: The Women of Noir.” LA Weekly, 1999.
Winn, Dilys. Murder Ink: The Mystery Reader’s Companion. New York: Workman, 1977.
Web Sites
The Bunburyist: elizabethfoxwell.blogspot.com
Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine Author Index, 1941–1972: rimes12.tripod.com/eqmm.html
The Fiction Mags Index: www.philsp.com/homeville/fmi/0start.htm#TOC
Golden Age of Detection Wiki: gadetection.pbworks.com/w/page/7930628/FrontPage
Recovering Nedra: www.recoveringnedra.blogspot.com
CREDITS
GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENT is made for permission to reprint the following copyrighted works:
“The Splintered Monday” by Charlotte Armstrong. First published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Copyright © 1966 by Jeremy B. Lewi, Peter A. Lewi, and Jacquelin Lewi Bynagta. Reprinted by permission of Brandt & Hochman Literary Agents, Inc. Any copying or distribution of this text is expressly forbidden. All rights reserved.
“Lavender Lady” by Barbara Callahan. Reprinted by permission of the Estate of Barbara Callahan.
“Sugar and Spice” by Vera Caspary. © 1943 by Vera Caspary. Used by permission of ICM Partners. All rights reserved.
“Lost Generation” by Dorothy Salisbury Davis. Copyright © 1971 by Dorothy Salisbury Davis. Reprinted with permission of McIntosh & Otis, Inc. All rights reserved.
“A Case of Maximum Need” by Celia Fremlin. © The Estate of Celia Fremlin 1984. Reprinted by permission of Gregory and Company Authors’ Agents.
“The Purple Shroud” by Joyce Harrington. Reprinted by permission of the Joyce Harrington Estate.
“The Heroine” from Eleven by Patricia Highsmith. Copyright © 1945, 1970 by Patricia Highsmith. Used by permission of Grove/Atlantic, Inc. Any third party use of this material, outside of this publication, is prohibited.
“The Stranger in the Car” by Elisabeth Sanxay Holding. Originally published in 1949 in The American Magazine. Published by arrangement with the Estate of Elisabeth Sanxay Holding.
“Everybody Needs a Mink” by Dorothy B. Hughes. The Saint Detective Magazine (UK) 1965; Walker & Co., 1987; Berkley Books, 1989. Used by permission of Blanche C. Gregory, Inc.
“Louisa, Please Come Home” by Shirley Jackson. Copyright © Shirley Jackson, 1960. From Come Along With Me: Classic Short Stories and an Unfinished Novel by Shirley Jackson. Used by permission of Viking Penguin, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
“The People Across the Canyon” by Margaret Millar. In Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, October 1962. Copyright © 1962 by Margaret Millar. Copyright renewed 1990 by Margaret Millar Charitable Remainder Unitrust, u/a 12Apr82. Reprinted by permission of Harold Ober Associates Incorporated.
“Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree” by Helen Nielsen. Copyright © 1992 by the Estate of Helen Nielsen. Originally appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Reprinted by permission of the Estate of Helen Nielsen and its agent, Barry N. Malzberg.
“A Nice Place to Stay” by Nedra Tyre. Copyright © 1970 by Davis Publications. Originally appeared in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, June 1970. Reprinted by permission of Scott Meredith Literary Agency.