Wife or Death

by Ellery Queen

  Denton investigated the garage. The car was still there. So her lover came by to pick her up, he mused. Probably parked up the street and waited for his Cleopatra to steal out of the house, shaking in his boots for fear that Outraged Husband might come blasting out before they could get away.

  You damn fool, he thought. If you'd driven right up to the door I'd have handed her to you.

  The coffeepot was perking. He turned the heat down to Low, poured himself a cupful, took it into the living room and sat down and calmly began to read the Sunday paper. It was the Buffalo American; the Clarion did not publish on Sundays.

  There was food in the refrigerator, and Denton was not in the mood for dining out. He had still not left the house when the telephone rang at 8 P.M.

  "Recovered from last night, Jim?" It was George Guest "Hell, yes," Denton said. "I slept till noon." "Feel like some bridge tonight?"

  "I'm afraid I can't, George. No partner, for one thing." "Oh? Where's Angel?"

  Denton hesitated. For the first time it struck him that Angel's running off with some unknown Casanova was going to be the cherry on the cheesecake for Ridgemore. Now the tongues would really wag. Why give them the chance? The hell with them all—even George, he thought with a grin. "She's gone off to visit her parents. You know. Titusville." "Oh. Going to be gone long?" "A couple of weeks, she said."

  "Well, that's that," George said. "How about me sending Corinne to a show and getting up a poker game?" "Give me a raincheck, George. I have a big day on tap." "Okay," said George cheerfully. "I tried. Drop by the store tomorrow, Jim, and I'll buy you a cup of coffee."

  Denton got to bed early. He was up at 6:30. Forty-five minutes later he was climbing into his car.

  He had turned on the ignition and was about to pull out of the garage when, automatically as usual, he checked the mileage meter. That was funny. Or had he made a mistake in the last tally? The total was different. Fifteen miles had been added since he put the car away at 3 o'clock Sunday morning, on their return from the Wyatts'.

  He sat there frowning. The more he thought, the surer he was that he had not mistaken the mileage total. And he certainly hadn't used the car Sunday; it had stood here in the garage all day.

  The only possible explanation was that, after he had fallen asleep when they got home from the Wyatts' on the night of Saturday-Sunday, Angel had, moused the car out of the garage and driven somewhere and back. Somewhere seven and a half miles away. Or, say, between seven and eight.

  She's waiting for her hot-pants swain to pick her up, Denton thought, and while she's waiting she makes a round trip of fifteen miles—to do what? see whom? It sounded too kooky even for Angel.

  Denton shrugged. Why break his head over another of her vagaries? Let the other guy have the headaches now.

  He backed from the garage, grinning, and drove downtown to work.

  6

  Jim Denton was sole owner, publisher and editor of the Ridgemorc Clarion. A weekly with a circulation of nearly 6000, more than half of it rural, it was the only local newspaper in the county. While Denton subscribed to a national wire service, the Clarion's news columns were chiefly devoted to events of local interest. A speech by the Ridgemore member of the State Conservation Commission before the County Grange was likely to pull more space than the latest flare-up in U.S.-Soviet relations.

  The paper was housed in an old two-story frame building in the town square. It was a maverick three-man operation. Amos Case, a moody man in his grizzled sixties, was classified officially as a printer, and young Ted Winchester had been hired as a reporter and ad salesman. But in practice there was no clear division of duties among the three. Old Case not merely set type and ran the press, he acted as rewrite man and proofreader as well. When young Winchester was not legging it, he pitched in at the shop. And Denton himself published, edited, dug up news, proofread, sold space, even helped with the typesetting at times.

  From 7:30 to 9 A.M., when the stores opened and the business district came alive, Denton and his two-man staff could work uninterrupted. It was during this ninety minutes that he and Ted Winchester sorted through the mass of copy that had come in from correspondents—Denton had one in every village and town in the county, whose news items he paid for by the line if and when used—culled those of most interest and rewrote them in publishable form. As fast as the copy came from their typewriters Amos Case set type. At 9 o'clock the three took their habitual break, young Winchester fetching coffee from the restaurant next door.

  And, this morning for the first time, Jim Denton had time to chew over his wife's decampment.

  Analyzing his anger, he decided that it was rooted in pique. His manhood was offended. Not by the fact that she had left him for another man, God knew, but that the initiative for their final break had been hers. By the right of eminent cuckoldry, he reflected, he had been entitled to make the break, not Angel.

  At this point Denton recognized the true object of his anger. It was himself. After all, he could not blame Angel for walking out on him when for months he had been thinking of walking out on her. It was his own procrastination that had placed him in this absurd position.

  This should have been the end of it; oddly, it was not. He found himself speculating about the identity of the man with whom she had run off. Was it possible he was still in love with her? Denton laughed to himself. Love-shove. It was plain old-fashioned curiosity. He was a newspaperman, wasn't he?

  Who could the guy be? He was positively somebody who had attended the Wyatts' party after the club dance.

  Denton ran through the candidates. Matthew Fallon seemed the likeliest

  He phoned the cartoonist's home; Fallon worked at home.

  The voice answering the phone was Fallon's.

  "Oh, hi, Jim," the cartoonist said. "What's up?"

  "Just looking for news. Heard you're taking off for New York."

  "Me?" Fallon said in surprise. "That's news, all right. To me."

  "You're not going anywhere?"

  "Nope."

  "Okay, Matt. Just checking it out. See you."

  "Sure," Fallon said, and hung up.

  Denton's call to Arnold Long apparently caught the young man still asleep.

  "Sorry to get you up," Denton said.

  "It's all right. Mom fusses about me sleeping late anyway." Long yawned. "What's on your mind?"

  "I called you to settle an argument. You just got out of the Army, so I figured you'd know."

  "What's the argument?"

  "Isn't master sergeant the highest enlisted rank in the Army? Fellow here says there are now two higher."

  "He's right and he's wrong," the young playboy said. "There are three grades of master sergeant: classes seven, eight and nine. Nine's top, but they're all called master."

  "That makes it a standoff," Denton laughed. "Thanks, Arnold."

  "For what?" Long said, and yawned again and hung up.

  Denton thought it over. The only other unattached males at the Wyatts' had been Ralph Crosby and old Gerald Trevor. Of course, Angel could have taken off with a married man, but in view of her record it seemed unlikely. Besides, while as Mrs. James Denton she would sleep with anybody, the man she chose to ran away with would have to be able to restore her marital status.

  Ralph Crosby ... Could Crosby's and Angel's conduct Saturday night have been an act to fool everybody? Denton decided to check—just, he told himself, for the hell of it.

  "Ted," he said to his young reporter. "Run over to the D.A.'s office and see if anything popped over the weekend."

  The district attorney's office was in the county courthouse across the square. Winchester was back in fifteen minutes. There had been no serious criminal activity anywhere in the county over the weekend.

  'Talk to Crosby himself?"

  "Sure. Boy, does he look hung over."

  Leaving, Denton mused, Gerald Trevor.

  Something was wrong somewhere.

  Nevertheless, Denton phoned the Wyatt house. Trevo
r's daughter answered.

  "This is Jim Denton, Ardis. Either Norm or your pa around?"

  "Why, no, Jim. They've gone up to the lodge to shoot grouse."

  "There's no phone up there, is there?"

  "Well, I'm planning to drive up this evening. Can I deliver a message?"

  "Nothing like that. It's just that I'm short of news."

  Ardis Wyatt laughed. "How's this? They left here at five-thirty A.M, and weren't gone two and a half hours when, lo and behold, they were back. Norm brought dad home for a change of clothes—he'd slipped fording a creek. Is that news, Jim?"

  "This week it is," Denton chuckled. "Thanks, Ardis. Let me know if anything else dramatic happens."

  Now thoroughly challenged, Denton made a list from memory of every man who had been at the party. There had been nineteen, including himself and the five he had eliminated. He went over the list several times until he was satisfied he had left no one out. Then, since he had talked to George Guest on the phone some sixteen hours after the probable time of Angel's elopement, he crossed the name Guest off the list.

  During the day, whenever he could snatch a moment, Denton phoned the men on his list. By quitting time he had managed to reach every one.

  Not a man of the remaining twelve who had attended the Wyatts' party was absent from town.

  Starting the work day so early in the morning had one compensation: the Clarion office closed at 3 P.M. Denton walked over to the north side of the square to the Guest Hardware Store. George Guest, just finishing with a customer, signaled Denton to stand by. When the customer left, Guest nodded to his clerk and the two friends went over to Jordan's.

  Coffee at Jordan's Pik-U-Up was almost a daily ritual with Denton and Guest. As they dropped into their favorite booth a waitress automatically brought them two cups of coffee, Denton's black, Guest's with cream.

  "Mud in your eye," Guest said. He took a sip and made a face. "And I mean mud! What kind of sludge are they using in that urn today?"

  "Mine tastes all right," said Denton. "You must still be getting repercussions from that skinful you imbibed Saturday night."

  "I guess. Well, Jim, so you have to bach it, huh? Lucky dog."

  Denton glanced at him sharply. But then he relaxed. There was no reason for old George to doubt the yarn about Angel's visiting her family. George was the only man Denton knew who was as guileless as he looked.

  "I don't know yet, George. I don't start climbing into an unmade bed till tonight. I wish Angel'd arranged for somebody to come in while she's away."

  "You want somebody?"

  "I'd better get one, I suppose, or the place'll start to smell. Think Corinne could recommend a cleaning woman?"

  "My wife?" George exclaimed. "She's a walking directory. Your troubles are over, pal. I'll have Corinne call you this evening."

  Corinne Guest was as good as her husband's word. She phoned to say that she had Bridget White all lined up if he wanted her.

  "Bridget can come in mornings for two hours," Corinne said. "She works for Clara Sommers and Clara says she's marvelous. Just takes over and does without supervision."

  "That's the type character I need," Denton said. "How early will she come?"

  "She can give you eight to ten—she's due somewhere else at ten-thirty. But she'll come earlier if you prefer, Jim."

  "How about seven? I wouldn't be here to let her in much later. I leave for the shop at seven-fifteen."

  "She'll be there at seven tomorrow morning." "Corinne—"

  "I know, I'm a doll. 'Bye!" And Corinne laughed and hung up.

  He had just finished his breakfast the next morning when Bridget White arrived. The cleaning woman was squat and fiftyish, with the shoulders of a cow. He settled her wages and showed her about the house. She kept grunting in disapproval, and Denton grinned to himself. Angel had not been exactly the ideal housekeeper.

  "I better do everything," Bridget said at last, as if she had reached an irrevocable decision.

  "You do that," Denton said meekly. "Whatever you think has to be done. Anything you need in the way of supplies, buy it." He handed her a five-dollar bill.

  She took off her coat, removed her hat, hung both in the foyer closet, donned a spotless apron, marched into the living room and went purposefully over to the sofa. From the way she lifted and moved it, it might have been a light chair. She stared coldly at the accumulation of dust and lint, then set it down.

  "Yump," she said. "I better do everything. Well, Mr. Denton? Don't you go to work?"

  Denton fled.

  7

  Denton and young Winchester were seated opposite each other at the long galley table, reading proof, when the reporter suddenly said, "Say, I heard your wife's out of town."

  Denton slowly looked up. "Yes, Ted? What about it?"

  "Well, I've been checking the society page, and I don't see it. Isn't it going to look funny for the Clarion not to print a social item about the wife of its publisher?"

  Denton thought it over. The day before, several people had made perfunctory inquiries about Angel, and he had given them the same story that he had told George Guest. The story would keep spreading, as stories did in Ridgemore, and people might start speculating. The printed word had a magic of its own; people were far readier to believe what they read than what they heard. Publishing the item would probably tend to hold the gossip down.

  Eventually Ridgemore was going to have to know that he and Angel Were through. It would be less awkward for him if it were kept from them at least until he knew where Angel was and what her plans were. The hiatus would also accustom them to Angel's absence, and so cushion the impact of the fact when he was ready to make it known.

  So Denton nodded. "You're right, Ted. I clean forgot about it. You do the item. Say Mrs. James Denton is visiting her parents in Titusville, Pa."

  Winchester scribbled a note. "What's their name?"

  Angel's professional name had been Angel Varden, which she always gave as her maiden name. The "Varden" was a phony. She was the daughter of an immigrant coal-miner of Polish origin. For some reason she had considered this a mark of shame.

  He got a small measure of satisfaction out of saying to Winchester, "Koblowski, Mr. and Mrs. Stanislaus Koblowski," and spelling it out like any conscientious editor.

  When Denton got home Tuesday afternoon he found a house that sparkled even to his eye, dulled by long exposure to Angel's slovenly housekeeping.

  How Bridget White had managed this legerdemain of cleaning and straightening up in a mere two hours defied his sense of the miraculous. She had even changed the beds and Stowed the soiled bed linen in the laundry bag. A stickler for detail, Denton thought admiringly, roaming about in wonder. She had not been satisfied merely to empty the wastebaskets, for example; she had burned their contents in the trash burner out back.

  On Wednesday, during the late morning, Corinne Guest stopped by the Clarion office with an item about her Garden Club.

  "How's Bridget working out?" she asked.

  "Terrific," Denton said enthusiastically. "She must be the Houdini of cleaning women. Be sure to thank Clara for me."

  "I'm so glad. Incidentally, have you heard from Angel?"

  "She almost never writes." The old trouble, Denton thought; no lie stands on its own feet, it has to be propped up. "The most she'll do is send a card, 'Arrived safely,' and another one toward the end telling me when and how she's coming home."

  Corinne laughed. "Sounds like George. Only he sends wires."

  "Speaking of George, I was just going to lunch. How about if I phone him to meet us and we can make it a threesome?"

  "George carried his lunch today, Jim. He can't leave the store. Emmet's uncle over in Olean died, and he had to go to the funeral." Emmet was George's clerk.

  "Well, how about a twosome?"

  "It's a little early for me. I don't get up at the ungodly hour you do. But I'll have a cup of coffee with you."

  As they waited in the booth at Jordan'
s for his sandwich and milk and Corinne's coffee, Denton looked her over with approval. She was wearing a jewel of a tailored suit and a cocky little hat.

  "Why are you looking at me that way?" Corinne said. "You'll have me blushing in a minute. Is something wrong?"

  "Wrong!" Denton said. "As a matter of fact, I was just thinking that you're the only woman in the place who isn't wearing a dish towel tied under her chin."

  Corinne did blush. "The babushka is a local status symbol. I'm the one who's out of style. They're probably all accusing me of snobbishness or something for wearing a hat."

  She was glancing around, and suddenly he saw the blush fade into pallor. "Oh, damn," she said.

  "What's the matter, Corinne?" He followed her glance. They were being stared at avidly by two women in a booth on the opposite side of the restaurant. When the women saw him turn to look at them, they quickly giggled and began to whisper. Ellen Wright and Olive Haber—the pair he had overheard gossiping about Angel and Ralph Crosby at the Hallowe'en Ball.

  Corinne said in a troubled voice, "Now well be talked about."

  "Why be different?" Denton grinned. "Those two talk about everybody."

  "No, Jim, I mean it." She did not grin back. "A thing like this could turn into something nasty."

  "Oh, for pete's sake, Corinne. Just because you have a cup of coffee with me?"

  "It's not just that. Remember Julian Overton's walking in on us in the men's locker room Saturday night? You know what a blabbermouth Julian is. And the billiard twins over there never miss a tidbit. They've probably got it all worked out by now that you and I are having an affair."

  She was really distressed. Denton said lightly, "By God, if it weren't for George, I'd consider that a mandate from the people." That made her smile faintly, and he said, "Why do you call that pair the billiard twins?"

  "It's George's description of them. He says Ellen Wright is built like a billiard ball and Olive Haber like the cue."