Alibi for Isabel: And Other Stories

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

  “What are you talking about?” Negley asked impatiently. “Who’s been sick? The old cook?”

  Mosely was shocked.

  “Oh no, sir, I thought I told you. I’m a little nervous, I guess. It’s Mr. Johnny’s wife.”

  It was a moment before Negley could speak. Then he got up and going around his desk put a hand on the man’s shaking shoulder.

  “You’re a better man than I am, Mosely,” he, said gravely. “I only talk. You act. So you’ve got her. Good God, why didn’t you say so before? I’ve been going through hell all day.”

  Mosely was apologetic.

  “I wanted to tell you last night,” he said, “but I was afraid. You might have gone back and told Mrs. Stafford, and I didn’t know how she would take it.”

  “She’s going to take it and like it,” said Negley grimly.

  The story, when he got it, was brief. The girl, Mrs. Johnny as Mosely called her, had come to the house when she received the word her husband was dead. “She seemed to think Mrs. Stafford would want to see her.” But she had fainted in the lower hall, and when she came out of it he had not known what to do. In the end he called a taxicab and took her to his sister, who had a small apartment in the Bronx. She was a semi-invalid, and Mosely supported her.

  “The girl was delirious that first night,” Mosely said. “She kept calling for Johnny, and we couldn’t quiet her. She’s been sick ever since, but she’s better now. My sister is elderly, but she took good care of her. Only of course we couldn’t afford the things she needed, so—well, I told her Mrs. Stafford had sent them.”

  His voice trailed off. There as a moment’s silence. Negley broke it.

  “Why on earth haven’t you told Mrs. Stafford?” he asked impatiently. “At least she’s a just woman.”

  “She had no love for this girl,” Mosely said simply, “and that’s what she needed.”

  Well, it was as good an answer as any, Negley thought. Perhaps that was what the world needed, more love, and less hard justice. He shoved his mail to one side and got his hat.

  “I want to see her,” he said. “Maybe I won’t give her love, but you can be sure she’s going to get what’s coming to her. And you’re not going to suffer, either.”

  His face felt stiff as he left the office with Mosely that afternoon. It still felt stiff with indignation when, at nine o’clock that night, he rang the Stafford doorbell. He was remembering a thin bit of a hollow-eyed girl who had smiled at him wanly from her bed.

  “Please thank Johnny’s grandmother for being so kind to me,” she said. “Johnny would be pleased.”

  She had not cried. She had simply lain back among her pillows, alive but not caring.

  “I’ll get up soon,” she said. “I don’t want to be a burden to her.”

  The parlormaid let him in, and he stalked rigidly up the stairs. This was the showdown. He didn’t care if he never saw Henrietta Stafford again. He didn’t care if they lost her business. He didn’t care if she threw him out of the house. But he was aware as he entered the room that something in it was changed. Not Henrietta, sitting stiffly in her chair behind the coffee tray. Not the furniture. And then he saw it. The portrait was gone from over the mantel.

  It threw him off step, so to speak. He started at the landscape which had replaced it, but Henrietta did not mention it. She eyed him coolly.

  “If you have come about Mosely,” she said, “it is entirely useless.”

  “I haven’t come about Mosely.”

  “Then perhaps you will explain this unexpected visit.”

  “I’ll be glad to,” he said. “I’ll be damned glad to, as a matter of fact.” For the first time in that room—or in that house—he took out a cigarette and lit it. She did not say anything. “I’ve come to tell you you are going to take Mosely back, and that I think you ought to get down on your knees and beg his pardon. What he took from you, Mrs. Stafford, went to feed your grandson’s wife. He has nursed and cared for her. And when I asked him why he didn’t tell you about her, what do you think he said?”

  She still said nothing.

  “He said she needed love, and he didn’t trust you for that. So he hid her.”

  Then at last she flushed. Out of habit she looked up for the portrait, but it as gone. She looked at Negley.

  “Those are hard words, Mr. Negley.”

  “They’re true, aren’t they?”

  It was some time before she spoke. Some of the rigidity had gone out of her as she sat. She looked old and rather pathetic. But she was still Henrietta.

  “I am too old to change,” she said. “Don’t ask too much of me. I don’t know this girl. I can’t promise to love her. But I will look after her. And I will apologize to Mosely. I didn’t know of course, but I want him back. I need him and I—am fond of him.”

  He was quite sure there were tears in her eyes when he left.

  He walked home that night. He had done his best. He had not changed Henrietta, but at least the portrait was gone. Now at last she was on her own, with no painted image to nourish her bitter memories. And perhaps—who could tell?—she might care for Johnny’s wife some day. He had an idea that she needed someone to care for.

  He had undressed and was looking over a magazine when his telephone rang. He hardly recognized the voice as Henrietta’s. There was something new in it, something he had not heard before. It was, he thought, almost human, although it had lost none of its dignity.

  “I am sorry if I have disturbed you,” she said, “but Mosely has just shown me a picture in the newspaper tonight. It is of some men picked up at sea by a tanker and taken to Murmansk. Mosely thinks one of them is John’s boy. It’s possible. It looks very much like him.”

  “Certainly I hope so,” Negley said. “It’s great news if it is.”

  She seemed to hesitate.

  “I am calling the War Department now,” she said. “I know some men there. If it is true I would like to be the one to tell his wife.”

  Perhaps miracles did happen, after all. He was a trifle dazed as he put down the receiver. He felt sure that the boy would be Johnny, and he thought vaguely that there must be a Power somewhere which did things in its own way. It took care of reckless boys and old men like Mosely, and even of lovers, although sometimes it separated them to meet, perhaps later, in some young and thrilling heaven of its own.

  He even thought that it took care of the Henrietta of this world and saved them from themselves. And after his own fashion he muttered what—in spite of its words—amounted to a prayer as he crawled into bed that night.

  “Well, I’ll be eternally God-damned,” he said.

  Alibi for Isabel

  SALLY ALWAYS FELT BETTER in church after the general confession. It gave her a sort of moral support, as though it said that not only she, Sally Fielding, had committed a sin; but that all other men and women were sinners. The remission too was comforting. It promised forgiveness in exchange for repentance, and Sally had been faithfully repenting for the last twelve years.

  She rose slowly from her knees. The hassock had been small and hard, and her knees hurt a little. As usual she sat down on her purse, and the children giggled. Scott put out a hand to quiet them, and she glanced at him. Looking at him had somewhat the same effect on her as had the service. He gave her the same sense of safety. But there was something wrong with him just then. His face had set, suddenly, as though something had shocked him.

  She watched him furtively through the sermon. He did not relax, she thought. He sat staring forward as though he did not dare to turn his head. The children wriggled and squirmed, but he paid no attention. Then, during the Te Deum, she glanced around the neighboring pews, and she saw Isabel. It was certainly Isabel, Isabel in a gay red hat, looking sober and devout. But Isabel just the same. Sally swayed and caught the back of the pew in front of her. Only that held her upright. She felt as though her heart had stopped.

  When she sat down Anne was whispering to her.

  “Daddy looks
funny, doesn’t he?”

  “Hush, Anne. Don’t talk.”

  Her brain was whirling. After twelve years, she thought desperately. Twelve years of building a life with Scott, of bearing the children, of good deeds and repentance, and now the past had caught up with her. She never doubted that. Why else was Isabel there in this small suburban church, fifty miles from where she belonged? And Isabel, slightly behind her and to the right, was watching her. She could feel her eyes on her, interested and calculating. She did not want to go out when the service ended. She straightened Anne’s hat and found Johnny’s cap on the floor. Scott was waiting patiently in the aisle. She had to pass him, and as she did so she felt his hand on her shoulder.

  “Forget it,” he said in a low voice. “Why on earth should she scare you?”

  She braced herself and tried to stop trembling.

  “What’s she doing here?” she asked.

  There was no answer, of course, and to her relief the red hat was already near the church door. Perhaps it was coincidence after all. The rector in his cassock greeted them with a smile.

  “How is my favorite family?” he said cheerily. “And how’s the Victory garden?”

  Scott said something, but Sally could give him only a faint smile. Isabel was waiting on the walk outside, a tall showy woman with bold eyes and slightly faded blonde hair. She did not look ominous. She was merely waiting, casual and poised. She had always been very sure of herself. Sally felt Scott grip her arm.

  “Steady, old girl,” he said. “She probably lives somewhere around here, or she’s visiting someone. Why should she worry you?”

  That gave her a little courage. If Scott was only afraid that there might be a revival of the old story about Terry, at least it showed that he had no suspicion of the truth. It even enabled her to look surprised when Isabel greeted her.

  “Hello, Sally,” she said. “Don’t tell me these kids are yours!”

  “Of course they are. Scott, you remember Isabel Worthing, don’t you?”

  “Isabel Eaton, now,” Isabel corrected her. “I married Jim Eaton years ago. Or maybe it only seems like that. When his mother died he took a yen for the old place. God knows why.”

  So Isabel was living in the old Eaton house outside of town, Sally’s heart missed another beat.

  “It bores me stiff,” Isabel said. “Let me come in and see you sometime, Sally. We can talk over old times.”

  Sally repressed a shudder.

  “Of course. Do you know where we live?”

  “Know where the outstanding citizens of the community live? The leading exponents of family life! My dear, how could I help it?”

  It was innocuous, of course. Isabel under her red hat, smiling, and Sally feeling as though she had been impaled like a butterfly on a pin. For now she was certain Isabel had come to church deliberately, for some purpose of her own. What was she going to do, after all these years? What could she do?

  She was trembling when she got into the car beside Scott, and he reached over and put a hand on her knee.

  “Stop it, darling,” he said. “She’s not a bad sort. After all she was a good friend when you needed one, and if she’s married to Jim Eaton I’m sorry for her.”

  He was starting the car. He did not see her white despairing face.

  “I’m afraid she means to make trouble,” she said. “What she said about old times—”

  “Nonsense,” he said gruffly. “That’s all water over the dam. What happened to you has happened to a lot of women. If she’s a nuisance throw her out.”

  As easy as that, she thought. Just throw Isabel out and forget her. If only she had told Scott the truth before she married him she might have done just that. But she hadn’t. She had tried after he proposed to her.

  “There’s something you ought to know, Scott. It’s about Terry.”

  He had looked impatient.

  “Can’t you forget Terry? I’m not marrying his widow. I’m marrying you.”

  She had persisted.

  “I’ll feel better if I talk about it.”

  “Well, I won’t.” He had held her off and looked at her. “Unless,” he said gravely, “you can’t forget him. If you still care about him, or his memory—”

  “Oh, no. Never,” she gasped. “How could I, Scott? I don’t think I ever loved him. Not really.”

  So she had never told him, and now here was Isabel, threatening all she had so carefully built—her home, her family, the husband who was all he should have been. She looked at him, his handsome face, his tall strong body, the heavy hair slightly gray over the ears, and she knew that no price was too great to keep him.

  At the house Scott put the car in the garage while she took the children into the house. It was cool and neat, and the hall was filled with the odor of frying chicken. The children sniffed excitedly.

  “Chicken and ice cream,” they chanted. “Chicken and ice cream.”

  They ran for the funny papers, and Sally looked around her house. Everything had changed, yet everything was the same. In the dining room Gracie, the second maid, was putting a bowl of peonies in the exact center of the table. She looked concernedly at Sally.

  “Don’t you feel well, Mrs. Fielding?”

  “I’m all right. Why, Gracie?”

  “You look sort of pale. Maybe it’s the heat.”

  “Yes, it is warm.”

  Perhaps it was all right after all. Outside Scott was whistling on his way in from the garage, and the children were reading the funnies with their usual sobriety. Queer, how they never laughed over them. It might have been any Sunday, as it had been for years and years. Or as Isabel had said, maybe it only seemed like that. Isabel again! She must put her out of her mind or she would go crazy.

  She managed to get through the meal, and the day followed its usual course. Scott put on a pair of overalls and went out to work in the vegetable garden at the back of the house. Anne took her doll for a walk, and little Johnny took a nap and got up to run around the lawn, firing a wooden machinegun at all and sundry. Sally took her knitting onto the shady porch, but she did not knit. She merely waited. She knew that from now on she would always be waiting, until Isabel came and she knew the worst.

  It was Tuesday before she came, and it caught her unawares, at that. It was Gracie’s day to help the laundress, and Mrs. Ward, the cook, would not take a step beyond the pantry door. Sally was carrying out the lunch dishes when she heard someone in the hall.

  “Hello!” said Isabel’s voice. “Where are you?”

  Sally almost dropped the tray. She put it down and drew a long breath.

  “I’m here,” she said. “Wait a minute. I’m coming.”

  Isabel however did not wait. She sauntered into the living room, cool and nonchalant, and looked around her. Sally noticed that she wore a scarf around her neck.

  “Very domestic, aren’t you?” she said. “I always knew you would have a room like this, chintz and flowers and so on. It looks like you.” She lit a cigarette and sat down. “I gather it’s a success. Your second marriage, I mean.”

  “I’m very happy, Isabel.”

  If there was appeal in her voice Isabel did not notice it.

  “I suppose there’s a law of some sort. You get so much misery and so much happiness out of life. Only it seems to have missed me.”

  “Missed you? Is something wrong?”

  Isabel laughed.

  “That’s putting it mildly,” she said drily. “I’m married to a drunken beast who is trying to get rid of me. And he doesn’t care how.”

  So it wasn’t going to be bad after all. Isabel was not inimical. She was merely unhappy. Sally relaxed.

  “I’m dreadfully sorry, Isabel. You deserve something better than that.”

  Isabel however was not asking for pity.

  “It’s a good thing I’m stronger than he is.” She touched the scarf at her throat. “He has an idea when he’s drinking that the best way to get rid of me is to choke me to death. So far I�
��ve been lucky.”

  Sally gasped.

  “Why on earth don’t you leave him?” she asked.

  Isabel shook her head.

  “I’m not giving him that satisfaction. And I’m not joining the alimony squad just yet. He’s a drunken sadist. I thought I knew my way about, but I didn’t know there were such people. He killed my canary last night. That’s what we fought about.”

  Sally looked incredulous.

  “He must be insane, Isabel. Like—like Terry.”

  Isabel laughed.

  “Try to get him committed! It isn’t crazy to choke your wife and kill birds. Not in the courts anyhow.”

  She changed the subject abruptly.

  “That’s enough about me,” she said. “Let’s hear about you. I suppose it was worth while, wasn’t it?”

  Sally stiffened. So it was coming after all.

  “I’ll never forget how you looked,” Isabel went on. “To tell the truth I didn’t think you had it in you. You were such a mild little thing. It was funny, too. You couldn’t even scream. I had to do it for you.”

  “Do we have to talk about it?”

  “Why not?” said Isabel carelessly. “It was my one good deed, like the Scouts. Maybe I like to remember it.”

  Sally was quiet now, with the stillness of desperation.

  “Just what is all this about, Isabel?” she said. “You’re not merely making a call. You’re trying to do something to me. If you’re trying to make me wretched, you are. If you mean to break up my home—”

  Isabel raised her eyebrows.

  “Break up your home when I helped you get it? Why should I? Can’t we talk about the past? It’s over. What harm in that?” She looked about the room again. “I can’t say I don’t envy you. You’ve got everything; even a couple of kids. Maybe I’m just envious.”

  But she let it go at that, and she left soon after, driving away in her smart coupé, and waving to Sally as she started. Sally went back into the house and stopped in front of the hall mirror. What she saw was a pale young woman in a blue house dress with a smudge on her nose and a small set face. For she was not fooled. She knew now that some day Isabel meant to come back, and that when she did she would wipe away her marriage and all it stood for with one sweep of her large white hands.