I decided that was good advice, and pulled out of the parking place as she staggered back toward the Lodge. The damp night air felt clean and good and I inhaled deep lungfuls of it. North of the Lodge I turned onto our private road and approached Lynecrest. There was a Cadillac parked in the driveway, but I was thinking of Vivien and paid no attention to the car. I parked behind it, switched off the engine, and went into the house.
I could see Brannen walking through the dining room toward the kitchen quarters. He paused to look toward me, then smiled and continued on into the kitchen. I thought that a cup of hot cocoa would be nice before going to bed and waited. Then I glanced through the dark living room and to the open door of the library, which was gleaming with light. I could have my cocoa in there.
Jeffrey was in the library. It could have been John, but he was wearing slacks and a gray sweater and gaily checked socks. Perhaps he had been drinking heavily, as Scott claimed, but if so, he carried it well. His sandy hair was mussed and his eyes were faintly bloodshot, but there was no other indication of heavy drinking.
He watched me as I entered the room and kept his eyes on me as I approached him and then dropped to the couch. He sipped at the highball in his hand, then shifted his position to lean both elbows behind him on the fireplace mantel. His eyes were lacking expression, but his lips were thin and angry.
“Have a good time?” he asked.
I shrugged and replied, “It was interesting.”
“I thought Brannen must be kidding me when he said you were with the Chandlers.”
“No.” I leaned back and ran my fingers wearily through my hair. “No,” I repeated, “he wasn’t kidding. I wanted to talk with her.”
His eyes slid away from mine as he asked, “What did you two talk about?”
“Oh, nothing and everything. Lies, for one thing. You and John never had an argument about me. There was a bad quarrel, no doubt of that, but I was not the subject. That I learned. There is something very strange about you and John. What are you trying to hide?”
“You and Vivien had quite a talk.”
“Yes. I also learned that she’s in love with you. Jeff, tell me honestly, are you in love with her?”
He looked over my head, a faraway expression in his eyes, and said, “No. You should have asked that before. I am not in love with her and never could be. That’s an impossibility.”
I took a deep breath and said, “But you are carrying on an affair with her.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I already know. A little slip of the tongue she made. Then, too, I was in Scott’s studio. It was so easy to picture you in my place, facing all those nudes of her. I could see how you, or any man, would be more than a little fascinated by the wraithlike quality of the living woman standing there in curious contradiction to that lush interpretation on canvas. From here it would be but a simple step to satisfying that curiosity. Assuming, of course, that Vivien is interested. And where the Hamlynes are concerned, I know that Vivien is interested.”
He was watching me closely as he asked, “So where is all this leading us?”
“Oh, God, I don’t know. I thought that if it was just that and only that, that if it didn’t go beyond a tawdry affair, then possibly my own pride could be forgotten.” I stumbled to a halt. I could not go on. It was altogether too one-sided.
He tilted his head to one side, as if seeing me for the first time, and studied me for a long time. When I stirred restlessly, he said, “You know, my dear, I am so much in love with you it’s almost frightening.”
That declaration of his went through my body like an electric shock. It was so obviously a simple statement of fact that there was no possibility of doubting its sincerity. He had not bothered to explain why he had stayed on drinking at the country club on what should have been our first day together, nor had he denied my accusations concerning an affair with Vivien, but I was so deeply touched by what he had said that my own love for him came to the fore and shoved all else aside.
Yet, when we went upstairs and I was in bed, waiting for Jeffrey to undress, the strange feeling returned that I was watching John and not Jeffrey. I tried to shake it from my mind, but it persisted. Then, when he came toward me, I saw the rather large mole on the left side of his lean hips. I could not remember ever having seen such a mole on Jeffrey and doubted that he had one. I was instantly frightened, but also paralyzed by that fear. When he switched off the lights I wanted to scream and was incapable of uttering a sound. I simply lay there, unable to move, as he slid into the bed at my side and took me in his arms.
Again I felt myself sinking deeper and deeper into a terrifying abyss. It was not Jeffrey. It was John making love to me. I was positive. The feeling was so definite that it was beyond all doubt.
I suppose that passion must feed on terror as well as other basic emotions. There could have been no other reason for my response to this man who I was sure was not my husband.
Later, when I was sure he was asleep, I sat up and switched on the small lamp by the side of the bed. The light did not bother him, as he never stirred. I leaned over him, my heart beating violently against the cage of my ribs, and closely studied his face. Except for a few added lines and a slight hollowness to the cheeks, it was the same face I had known and loved so well. I remembered having done the same thing one night on our honeymoon, only that night I had been appraising him with love, not terror. But the face was the same. Yet, I thought wildly, being the same, having to be the same, it could also be John’s.
I got out of bed, went into the dressing room, and found his coat and trousers hanging on door hooks. Two letters in a coat pocket were addressed to Jeffrey Hamlyne and all of the identification in the billfold I found in his trousers was that of Jeffrey Hamlyne.
What else, I wondered, had I expected to find? The feeling that it was John had to be wrong. There was no basis for it, no reason. No brothers would ever play a monstrous jest of that sort. At least, not sane men. Nor was there any other reason for it not to be Jeffrey.
It had to be Jeffrey.
I went back to bed and turned off the light and he rolled over and came awake and was again making love to me and again I was positive that it was John. But it couldn’t be. It was the wildest sort of insanity with not the slightest reason for existence. Regardless of the warning tick in my mind, regardless of the intuitive fear taking possession of me, I had to accept the inescapably logical fact that it had to be Jeffrey.
That I grasped and held to tightly. It had to be Jeffrey. Otherwise the dark avenue that opened before me could never be faced. It had to be Jeffrey.
Chapter Six
JEFFREY was a pleasant companion at breakfast, as if we were the ideal couple with not a worry in the world. We ate in a small room between the solarium and the kitchen quarters, the west wall of plate glass affording a panoramic view of the ocean and the rugged coast. Below us was the ledge I had discovered and the vertical black cliff. I glanced down from the windows but could not see the stone benches.
Jeffrey had been up at dawn and out riding and was still wearing boots and whipcord breeches. He attacked his cereal and ham and eggs with quite an appetite. My brain was still reeling. I ate practically nothing.
While Jeffrey ate he talked about horses. “There’s a bay mare,” he said, “with a blaze and an off-fore stocking that should be just right for you. Name’s Queenie. Lots of spirit and a good jumper, intelligent as they come, and the manners of a lady. I told Luke this morning to put her in condition for you.”
I said, “I’m not much of a horsewoman, Jeff.”
“Post?”
“Yes.”
“Jump?”
“A little, but not much. My riding has been confined to Central Park.”
“You’ll do all right. Queenie will love you, so long as you don’t have heavy hands, and I’m sure you don’t.” He glanced at me over his cup of coffee and said, “How about golf?”
I shook my head.
<
br /> “Tennis?”
“Well, not too good, but I get along well enough not to fall over my own feet.”
He said, “I’ll have to teach you to play golf. We have the best courses in the world right here. It would be a shame not to take advantage of them.” He looked out at the sparkling water of the ocean and sighed with satisfaction. “Most people think I play just for the hell of it. I don’t. I play to win.”
“Anyone enjoys winning.”
He put his coffee aside, leaned his elbows on the table, and grinned at me. “Well, Carol, what’s the schedule today? I’ll fill out the vacancies.”
“Jeff,” I asked, “does your mind go blank when you drink?”
“Never.”
“Then could that have been John I was talking to last night?”
“Hardly.” He smiled. “John got stuck with a produce wholesaler in San José. I heard Brannen talking to him on the phone a little while ago. He was just leaving for Salinas. Should be there in an hour or so. Maybe I’ll run over and meet him.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s hard telling when he’ll get back home and I have a few things to talk over with him. I haven’t forgotten last night, either.”
“But don’t you think you have more to talk over with me than with John?”
“Later, yes.”
I said, “But maybe I won’t be here later, when you finally make up your mind to get around to me.”
He dropped his napkin and got up from the table, still smiling at me. “I think you will be.”
“You could be very wrong about that. I’m going to call Sam Brandt in a few minutes and then I’m going to pack and — ”
He shook his head. “You’ll be here.” He stepped around the table and kissed my cheek. “I’ll see you somewhere around noon. I have to talk to John.” He squeezed my shoulder, then turned on his heel and walked out.
I remained at the table, toying with a cup of cold coffee, but hadn’t a chance to think. Miss Laura, the housekeeper, came in to inform me that my “vacation” was over and it was up to me to assume the management of Lynecrest. She was polite about it and very careful in her choice of words, but nevertheless firm. She stated, frankly, that the job was too much for her. She needed help and direction.
She went after Brannen and the three of us talked over the organization of the household staff and how it should be run. We studied floor plans, allocated work, talked over personalities, and had a look at the accounts. Everything lacked direction. I could understand what John had meant when he said that Lynecrest required talent to manage.
I had never handled anything like that before, but it was similar in many ways, to the production of a show. I regarded it from that angle and anticipated little difficulty. Brannen and Miss Laura did not realize that they were becoming part of a production, but in my mind they were director and stage manager, respectively. They assumed their new authority with dignity but, of course, with relief in the belief that now all responsibility would rest upon me.
Jeffrey telephoned later to tell me that he was in Salinas and would return to pick me up a little later on. He talked but a minute and said that he was with John and then hung up. I had hardly turned away from the telephone when Brannen called me back. It was Western Union reading a telegram from Sam Brandt: “Accepted Paramount offer production staff. Am at airport leaving at once. Have you room for a guest? Much love, Sam.”
Oh, damn, I thought. I wanted to see him, and badly, but there was nothing about his wire to indicate his destination. He could be flying to Los Angeles or to San Francisco and then down to Monterey. But it seemed more likely that he was on his way to Monterey. Otherwise, why the mention of room for a guest? I started up to my rooms and suddenly felt tremendous relief. Of course he was on his way to Monterey and would arrive the following day. And, naturally, I would be there to meet him. Now I would not have to think. Sam had taken it out of my hands. Ten minutes after setting foot in Lynecrest he would know all the answers. I was sure of that.
Ann was in my apartment unpacking my trunks. They had been sent express from New York and I had forgotten all about them. She said that they had just arrived and she seemed very pleased about the matter, obviously because she wanted to run through a complete Eastern wardrobe.
She was dying to talk about something, fairly quivering with it, and after I had changed to sports clothes and was ready to leave she asked me suddenly how I liked Lynecrest.
I regarded her curiously and said, “It’s terribly big, Ann, but nice, too.”
“I don’t know, ma’am. There’s something about this place …”
“Well, it isn’t a cozy little cottage, if that’s what you mean.”
“Not just that. I’ve worked in big mansions before, but none of them gave me a creepy feeling like Lynecrest.”
“Creepy, Ann?”
“Yes’m.” She fiddled with her dress, enjoying the impression she was making on me and even relishing the creepiness of Lynecrest. She was probably an avid Poe fan. She said, “I don’t know just how to say it, but ever since I’ve been here I’ve had the feeling that something’s wrong.”
I had experienced exactly that same feeling, but I didn’t want her to realize that, so I asked casually, “In what way?”
“It’s nothing I can put my finger on, but this is the first place I’ve ever propped a chair against the doorknob when I’m in my room.”
I laughed, but rather shakily. “My goodness, Ann, the way you talk, you’d think Lynecrest was populated with ghosts. This isn’t an English manor with an old history. I doubt if the building is very much older than I.”
She shook her head and stepped closer to look into my eyes. “It isn’t so much the building, it’s — well, a feeling of something wrong. Something in the air. You know what I mean? Like the way Mr. Jeffrey and Mr. John prowl all around. Miss Laura tells me they never turn on the lights but just prowl all over the place, ‘most every night.”
“Oh, nonsense. That’s strictly pantry gossip.”
“No, ma’am, it isn’t. Mr. Jeffrey’s the worst. He’s a restless man. Last night one of the second-floor maids heard him on the ledge under the solarium. It sounded like he was talking with someone and she was crying.” Her eyes glowed as she emphasized “she.” Then she said, “It gives me the creeps.”
“Was that early in the evening?”
“No, ma’am. It was after you come home. It was about one in the morning, maybe later. But Mr. John, too, he prowls around a lot.”
I said, “Simply restless natures.”
“Of course, ma’am. But I can’t say I understand their riding at night, though, the way they go to the stables and take out a horse and ride for hours in the dark. I’ve heard Brannen talk about that. But maybe it’s just getting used to seeing two people who always look like the same person. You never know who you’re talking to.”
“Yes. That is upsetting.”
I walked away from her in a decidedly thoughtful frame of mind. It was not wise to let Ann gossip in that fashion, and yet her reaction had been just the same as mine. Furthermore, I had picked up a few odd bits of information.
I went out of the house and around to the ledge of the cliff under the solarium. The box under the bench had not been disturbed, but Ann’s information was correct; I found small marks in the dust of a woman’s high-heeled shoes. Some were mine, but the others were different. The ledge was also a trysting place. It was a good one, as it was so narrow and the face of the house so high and steep that it could not be seen from any window. And it was easy to reach, unobserved, through the gardens.
When I walked back to the corner of the house I saw a white silk scarf hanging limply on a piece of barbed wire that had been forgotten by the workmen. I picked it up, inhaled the delicate perfume, and recognized it at once. Vivien Chandler had been wearing it the night before.
I looked up at the sound of shoes crunching on gravel and faced Jeffrey as he stopped before me. He glanced to
ward the ledge and then at the scarf in my hand. His eyes looked angrily into mine.
“I suppose,” he purred, a dangerous note in his voice, “you have been told that this ledge is dangerous.”
“Well, I—”
“Yet you insist on going out there. Dodd told me about it. I gave him orders to string barbed wire — ”
“You mean John did.”
“So did I. We’ve realized the danger of that ledge for a long time. One of the gardener’s sons almost fell from there last summer. A slight misstep and no one would ever hear of you again.” He reached his hand out for the scarf. “May I have that, please?”
I gave it to him, surprised and angry, too, at his attitude. My own temper came to the fore and I said, “I’m surprised Vivien didn’t fall off, considering the condition she was in when I last saw her.” Then, as a new and horrible thought struck me, I cried, “My God, to see her last night — to come down here — you had to leave my arms and my bed — ” I paused. The idea was so monstrous that I was unable to form another word.
He took my arm and started walking me along the garden path. He glanced at me and one eyebrow raised slowly above the other. “You think I met Vivien here last night?”
“You must have. That’s her scarf I gave you. She was wearing it last night. And she would have no reason to go out to that ledge except to meet someone.”
He was silent for a moment, but as we swung around the gardens toward the porch he said, “Yes, I did meet her. She telephoned after you had fallen asleep. Insisted on seeing me. I had to meet her.” He paused to light a cigarette, then continued walking. “I’m going to put my cards on the table, Carol. I have been thinking of the unusual tolerance you exercised last evening. You were magnificent. You made me feel like a heel.”
“I was a fool. I’ve just begun to realize how stupidly I’ve acted ever since I’ve been here.”
Marriage Bed Page 9