A Kiss Before Dying (5 page)

Striding into the classroom Friday morning he felt weightless and tall and wonderful. It was a beautiful day; sunlight poured into the room and bounced off the metal chairs to spangle the walls and ceiling. Taking his seat in the back of the room, he stretched his legs all the way out and folded his hands across his chest, watching the other students crowd in. The morning’s radiance had inflamed them all, and tomorrow was the first Varsity baseball game, with the Spring Dance in the evening; there was chattering, shouting, grinning, and laughter.

Three girls stood off to the side and whispered excitedly. He wondered if they were dorm girls, if they could possibly be talking about Dorothy. She couldn’t have been found yet. Why would anyone enter her room? They would think she wanted to sleep late. He was counting on her not being found for several hours; he held his breath until the girls’ whispering erupted into laughter.

No, it was unlikely that she would be found before one o’clock or so. ‘Dorothy Kingship wasn’t at breakfast and she wasn’t at lunch either’ – then they would knock on her door and get no answer. They’d most likely have to get the house mother or someone with a key. Or it might not even happen then. Many of the dorm girls slept through breakfast, and some of them ate lunch out occasionally. Dorrie hadn’t had any close friends who would miss her right away. No, if his luck held, they might not find her until Ellen’s phone call came.

The night before, after saying goodbye to Dorothy on the telephone, he had returned to the dorm. In the mailbox on the corner he had posted the envelope addressed to Ellen Kingship, the envelope containing Dorothy’s suicide note. The first mail collection of the morning was at six; Caldwell was only a hundred miles away and so the letter would be delivered this afternoon. If Dorothy were found in the morning, Ellen, notified by her father, might leave Caldwell for Blue River before the letter arrived, which would mean that an investigation of some sort would almost certainly be launched, because the suicide note would not be found until Ellen returned to Caldwell. It was the only risk, but it was a small one and unavoidable; it had been impossible for him to sneak into the Girls’ Dormitory to plant the note in Dorothy’s room, and impractical to secrete it in the pocket of her coat or in one of her books prior to giving her the pills, in which case there would have been the far greater risk of Dorothy finding the note and throwing it away or, still worse, putting two and two together.

He had decided upon noon as the safety mark. If Dorothy were found after twelve, Ellen would have received the note by the time the school authorities contacted Leo Kingship and Kingship in turn contacted her. If his luck
really
held, Dorothy would not he discovered until late afternoon, a frantic phone call from Ellen leading to the discovery. Then everything would be neat and in its proper order.

There would be an autopsy, of course. It would reveal the presence of a great deal of arsenic and a two-month embryo – the way and the why of her suicide. That and the note would more than satisfy the police. Oh, they would make a perfunctory check of the local drugstores, but it would net them only a fat zero. They might even consider the Pharmacy supply room. They would ask the students, ‘Did you see this girl in the supply room or anywhere in the Pharmacy Building?’ – displaying a photograph of the deceased. Which would produce another zero. It would be a mystery, but hardly an important one; even if they couldn’t be sure of the source of the arsenic, her death would still be an indisputable suicide.

Would they look for the man in the case, the lover? He considered that unlikely. For all they knew she was as promiscuous as a bunny. That was hardly their concern. But what about Kingship? Would outraged morality inaugurate a private inquiry? ‘Find the man who ruined my daughter!’ Although, from the description of her father that Dorothy had painted, Kingship would be more likely to think ‘Aha, she was ruined all along. Like mother, like daughter.’ Still, there might be an inquiry …

He would certainly be dragged into that. They had been seen together, though not as frequently as might be expected. In the beginning, when success with Dorothy had been in question, he had not taken her to popular places; there had been that other rich girl last year, and if Dorothy didn’t work out as he planned there would be others in the future; he didn’t want the reputation of a money-chaser. Then, when Dorothy did work out, they had gone to movies, to his room, and to quiet places like Gideon’s. Meeting at the bench rather than in the dorm lounge had become a custom.

He would be involved in any inquiry all right, but Dorothy hadn’t told anyone they were going steady, so other men would be involved too. There was the red-headed one she’d been chatting with outside the classroom the day he first saw her and noticed the copper-stamped
Kingship
on her matches, and the one she’d started knitting argyle socks for, and every man she’d dated once or twice – they would
all
be brought into it, and then it would be anybody’s guess as to who had ‘ruined’ her because all would deny it. And as thorough as the investigation might be, Kingship could never be certain that he hadn’t completely overlooked the ‘guilty’ party. There would be suspicion directed at all the men, proof against none.

No, everything would be perfect. There would be no quitting school, no shipping clerk’s job, no oppressing wife and child, no vengeful Kingship. Only one tiny shadow … Suppose he were pointed out around campus as one of the men who’d gone with Dorothy. Suppose that the girl who had let him into the supply room should see him again, hear who he was, learn that he wasn’t a Pharmacy student at all … But even that was unlikely, out of twelve thousand students … But suppose the very worst happened. Suppose she saw him, remembered, and went to the police. Even then, it would be no evidence. So he was in the supply room. He could make up some kind of excuse and they would have to believe him, because there would still be the note, the note in Dorothy’s handwriting. How could they explain—

The door at the side of the room opened, creating a draught that lifted the pages of his notebook. He turned to see who it was. It was Dorothy.

Shock burst over him, hot as a wave of lava. He half rose, blood rushing to his face, his chest a block of ice. Sweat dotted his body and crawled like a million insects. He knew it was written on his face in swollen eyes and burning cheeks, written for her to see, but he couldn’t stop it. She was looking at him wonderingly, the door closing behind her. Like any other day; books under her arm, green sweater, plaid skirt. Dorothy. Coming to him, made anxious by his face.

His notebook slapped to the floor. He bent down, seizing the momentary escape. He stayed with his face near the side of the seat, trying to breathe. What happened? Oh God! She didn’t take the pills! She couldn’t have! She lied! The bitch. The lying goddamned bitch! The note on its way to Ellen – Oh Jesus, Jesus!

He heard her sliding into her seat. Her frightened whisper – ‘
What’s wrong? What’s the matter?
’ He picked up the notebook and sat erect, feeling the blood drain from his face, from his entire body, leaving him dead cold with sweat drops moving. ‘
What’s wrong?
’ He looked at her. Like any other day. There was a green ribbon in her hair. He tried to speak but it was as if he were empty inside with nothing to make a sound. ‘
What is it?
’ Students were turning to look. Finally he scraped out, ‘Nothing – I’m all right—’

‘You’re sick! Your face is as grey as—’

‘I’m all right. It’s – it’s this,’ touching his side where she knew he had the army scar. ‘It gives me a twinge once in a while—’

‘God, I thought you were having a heart attack or something,’ she whispered.

‘No. I’m all right.’ He kept looking at her, trying for one good breath, his hands clutching his knees in rigid restraint. Oh God, what could he do? The bitch! She had planned also, planned to get married!

He saw the anxiety for him melt from her face, a flushed tension replacing it. She ripped a page from her assignment pad, scribbled on it, and passed it to him:

The liar! The goddamned liar! He crumpled the paper and squeezed it in his hand, fingernails biting into his palm. Think! Think! His danger was so enormous he couldn’t grasp it all at once. Ellen would receive the note – when? Three o’clock? Four? – and call Dorothy – ‘What does this mean? Why did you write this?’ – ‘Write what?’ – then Ellen would read the note and Dorothy would recognize it … Would she come to him? What explanation could he invent? Or would she see the truth – blurt out the whole story to Ellen – call her father. If she had kept the pills – if she hadn’t thrown them away, there would be proof! Attempted murder. Would she take them to a drugstore, have them analysed? There was no figuring her now. She was an unknown quantity. He’d thought he could predict every little twitch of her goddamned brain, and now …

He could feel her looking at him, waiting for some kind of reaction to the words she’d written. He tore paper from his notebook and pulled open his pen. He shielded his hand so she couldn’t see how it was shaking. He couldn’t write. He had to print, digging the point of the pen so hard that it shredded the surface of the paper. Make it sound natural!

He handed it to her. She read it and turned to him, and her face was warm and radiant as the sunlight. He pressed a smile back at her, praying she wouldn’t notice the stiffness of it.

It still wasn’t too late. People wrote suicide notes and then stalled around before actually doing it. He looked at his watch: 9.20. The earliest Ellen could get the note would be – three o’clock. Five hours and forty minutes. No step by step planning now. It would have to be quick, positive. No trickery that counted on her doing a certain thing at a certain time. No poison. How else do people kill themselves? In five hours and forty minutes she must be dead.

At ten o’clock they left the building arm in arm, going out into the crystalline air that rang with the shouts of between-class students. Three girls in cheerleaders’ uniforms pushed by, one beating a tin pie-pan with a wooden spoon, the other two carrying a big sign advertising a baseball pep rally.

‘Does your side still hurt you?’ Dorothy asked, concerned for his grim expression.

‘A little,’ he said.

‘Do you get those twinges often?’

‘No. Don’t worry.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You’re not marrying an invalid.’

They stepped off the path on to the lawn. ‘When will we go?’ She pressed his hand.

‘This afternoon. Around four.’

‘Shouldn’t we go earlier?’

‘Why?’

‘Well, it’ll take time, and they probably close around five or so.’

‘It won’t take long. We just fill out the application for the licence and then there’s someone right on the same floor who can marry us.’

‘I’d better bring proof that I’m over eighteen.’

‘Yes.’

She turned to him, suddenly serious, remorse flushing her cheeks. Not even a good liar, he thought. ‘Are you terribly sorry the pills didn’t work?’ she asked anxiously.

‘No, not terribly.’

‘You
were
exaggerating, weren’t you? About how things will be?’

‘Yes. We’ll make out okay. I just wanted you to try the pills. For your sake.’

She flushed more deeply. He turned away, embarrassed by her transparency. When he looked at her again, the joy of the moment had crowded out her compunctions and she was hugging her arms and smiling. ‘I
can’t
go to my classes! I’m cutting.’

‘Good. I am too. Stay with me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Until we go down to the Municipal Building. We’ll spend the day together.’

‘I can’t, darling. Not the whole day. I have to get back to the dorm, finish packing, dress … Don’t you have to pack?’

‘I left a suitcase down at the hotel when I made the reservation.’

‘Oh. Well you have to dress, don’t you? I expect to see you in your blue suit.’

He smiled. ‘Yes, ma’am. You can give me
some
of your time, anyway. Until lunch.’

‘What’ll we do?’ They sauntered across the lawn.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Maybe go for a walk. Down to the river.’

‘In these shoes?’ She lifted a foot, displaying a soft leather loafer. ‘I’d get fallen arches. There’s no support in these things.’

‘Okay,’ he said, ‘no river.’

‘I’ve got an idea.’ She pointed to the Fine Arts Building ahead of them. ‘Let’s go to the record-room in Fine Arts and listen to some records.’

‘I don’t know, it’s such a beautiful day I’d like to stay—’ He paused as her smile faded.

She was looking beyond the Fine Arts Building to where the needle of station
KBRI’S
transmission tower speared the sky. ‘The last time I was in the Municipal Building it was to see that doctor,’ she said soberly.

‘It’ll be different this time,’ he said. And then he stopped walking.

‘What is it?’

‘Dorrie, you’re right. Why should we wait until four o’clock? Let’s go now!’

‘Get married
now
?’

‘Well, after you pack and dress and everything. Look you go back to the dorm now and get ready. What do you say?’

‘Oh yes! Yes! Oh, I want to go now!’

‘I’ll call you up in a little while and tell you when I’ll pick you up.’

‘Yes. Yes.’ She stretched up and kissed his cheek excitedly. ‘I love you so much,’ she whispered.

He grinned at her.

She hurried away, flashing a smile back over her shoulder, walking as fast as she could.

He watched her go. Then he turned and looked again at the
KBRI
tower, which marked the Blue River Municipal Building; the tallest building in the city; fourteen storeys above the hard slabs of the sidewalk.

He went into the Fine Arts Building where a telephone booth was jammed under the slope of the main stairway. Calling Information, he obtained the number of the Marriage Licence Bureau.

‘Marriage Licence Bureau.’

‘Hello. I’m calling to find out what hours the Bureau is open today.’

‘Till noon and from one to five-thirty.’

‘Closed between twelve and one?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Thank you.’ He hung up, dropped another coin into the phone and dialled the dorm. When they buzzed Dorothy’s room there was no answer. He replaced the receiver, wondering what could have detained her. At the rate she had been walking she should have been in her room already.

He had no more change, so he went out and crossed the campus to a luncheonette, where he broke a dollar bill and glared at the girl who occupied the phone booth. When she finally abdicated he stepped into the perfume-smelling booth and closed the door. This time Dorothy answered.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi. What took you so long? I called a couple of minutes ago.’

‘I stopped on the way. I had to buy a pair of gloves.’ She sounded breathless and happy.

‘Oh. Listen, it’s – twenty-five after ten now. Can you be ready at twelve?’

‘Well, I don’t know. I want to take a shower—’

‘Twelve-fifteen?’

‘Okay.’

‘Listen, you’re not going to sign out for the weekend, are you?’

‘I have to. You know the rules.’

‘If you sign out, you’ll have to put down where you’re going to be, won’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well?’

‘I’ll put down “New Washington House”. If the house mother asks, I’ll explain to her.’

‘Look, you can sign out later this afternoon. We have to come back here, anyway. About the trailer. We have to come back about that.’

‘We do?’

‘Yes. They said I couldn’t make the formal application until we’re actually married.’

‘Oh. Well if we’re coming back later, I won’t take my valise now.’

‘No. Take it now. As soon as we’re through with the ceremony we’ll check in at the hotel and have lunch. It’s only a block or so from the Municipal Building.’

‘Then I might as well sign out now too. I don’t see what difference it’ll make.’

‘Look, Dorrie, I don’t think the school is exactly crazy about having out-of-town girls running off to get married. Your house mother is sure to slow us up somehow. She’ll want to know if your father knows. She’ll give you a lecture, try to talk you into waiting until the end of the term. That’s what house mothers are there for.’

‘All right. I’ll sign out later.’

‘That’s the girl. I’ll be waiting for you outside the dorm at a quarter after twelve. On University Avenue.’

‘On University?’

‘Well you’re going to use the side door, aren’t you? – leaving with a valise and not signing out.’

‘That’s right. I didn’t think of that. Gee, we’re practically eloping.’

‘Just like a movie.’

She laughed warmly. ‘A quarter after twelve.’

‘Right. We’ll be downtown by twelve-thirty.’

‘Goodbye, groom.’

‘So long, bride.’

He dressed meticulously in his navy blue suit, with black shoes and socks, a white-on-white shirt, and a pale blue tie of heavy Italian silk patterned with black and silver fleurs-de-lis. On surveying himself in the mirror, however, he decided that the beauty of the tie was a trifle too conspicuous, and so he changed it for a simple pearl grey knit. Viewing himself again as he refastened his jacket, he wished he could as easily exchange his face, temporarily, for one of less distinctive design. There were times, he realized, when being so handsome was a definite handicap. As a step, at least, in the direction of appearing commonplace, he reluctantly donned his one hat, a dove grey fedora, settling the unfamiliar weight cautiously, so as not to disturb his hair.

At five minutes past twelve he was on University Avenue, across the street from the side of the dorm. The sun was almost directly overhead, hot and bright. In the sultry air the occasional sounds of birds and footfalls and grinding tramcars had a rarefied quality, as though coming from behind a glass wall. He stood with his back to the dorm, staring into the window of a hardware store.

At twelve-fifteen, reflected in the window, he saw the door across the street open and Dorothy’s green-clad figure appear. For once in her life she was punctual. He turned. She was looking from right to left, her pivoting glance overlooking him completely. In one white-gloved hand she held a purse, in the other, a small valise covered in tan aeroplane cloth with wide red stripes. He lifted his arm and in a moment she noticed him. With an eager smile she stepped from the kerb, waited for a break in the passing traffic, and came towards him.

She was beautiful. Her suit was dark green, with a cluster of white silk sparkling at the throat. Her shoes and purse were brown alligator, and there was a froth of dark green veil floating in her feathery golden hair. When she reached him, he grinned and took the valise from her hand. ‘All brides are beautiful,’ he said, ‘but you especially.’

‘
Gracias, señor.
’ She looked as though she wanted to kiss him.

A taxicab cruised by and slowed in passing. Dorothy looked at him inquiringly, but he shook his head. ‘If we’re going to economize, we’d better get in practice.’ He peered down the avenue. In the glittering air a tramcar approached.

Dorothy drank in the world as if she had been indoors for months. The sky was a shell of perfect blue. The campus, unfolding at the front of the dorm and stretching seven blocks down University Avenue, was quiet, shaded by freshly-green trees. A few students walked the paths; others sprawled on the lawns. ‘Just think,’ she marvelled, ‘When we come back this afternoon, we’ll be married.’

The tramcar clattered up and groaned to a halt. They got on.

They sat towards the back of the car, saying little, each enfolded in thoughts. The casual observer would have been uncertain as to whether or not they travelled together.

The lower eight floors of the Blue River Municipal Building were given over to the offices of the city and of Rockwell County, of which Blue River was the county seat. The remaining six floors were rented to private tenants, most of whom were lawyers, doctors, and dentists. The building itself was a mixture of modern and classical architecture, a compromise between the functional trend of the thirties and resolute Iowa conservatism. Professors teaching the introductory architecture courses at Stoddard’s College of Fine Arts referred to it as an architectural abortion, causing freshmen to laugh self-consciously.

Viewed from above, the building was a hollow square, an airshaft plunging down through the core of it. From the side, setbacks at the eighth and twelfth storeys gave it the appearance of three blocks of decreasing size piled one atop the other. Its lines were graceless and stark, its window lintels were traced with factitious Grecian designs, and its three bronze and glass revolving doors were squeezed between giant pillars whose capitals were carved into stylized ears of corn. It was a monstrosity, but on alighting from the tramcar Dorothy turned, paused, and gazed up at it as though it were the cathedral at Chartres.

It was twelve-thirty when they crossed the street, mounted the steps, and pushed through the central revolving door. The marble-floored lobby was filled with people going to and from lunch, people hurrying to appointments, people standing and waiting. The sound of voices and the surf of shoes on marble hung susurrant under the vaulted ceiling.

He dropped a pace behind Dorothy, letting her lead the way to the directory board at the side of the lobby. ‘Would it be under R for Rockwell County or M for Marriage?’ she asked, her eyes intent on the board as he came up beside her. He looked at the board as though oblivious of her presence. ‘There it is,’ she said triumphantly. ‘Marriage Licence Bureau – six-oh-four.’ He turned towards the elevators, which were opposite the revolving doors. Dorothy hurried along beside him. She reached for his hand but the valise was in it. He apparently did not notice her gesture, for he made no move to change hands.

One of the four elevators stood open, half filled with waiting passengers. As they approached it, he stepped back a bit, allowing Dorothy to enter first. Then an elderly woman came up and he waited until she too had gone in before entering. The woman smiled at him, pleased by his air of gallantry, doubly unexpected from a young man in a busy office building. She seemed a bit disappointed when he failed to remove his hat. Dorothy smiled at him also, over the head of the woman, who had somehow got between them. He returned the smile with an almost invisible curving of his lips.

They left the car at the sixth floor, along with two men with briefcases who turned to the right and walked briskly down the corridor. ‘Hey, wait for me!’ Dorothy protested in an amused whisper as the elevator door clanged shut behind her. She had been the last to leave the car, and he the first. He had turned to the left and walked some fifteen feet, for all the world as though he were alone. He turned, appearing flustered, as she caught up with him and gaily took his arm. Over her head he watched the men with the briefcases reach the other end of the corridor, turn to the right, and vanish down the side of the square. ‘Where you running?’ Dorothy teased.

‘Sorry,’ he smiled. ‘Nervous bridegroom.’ They walked along arm in arm, following the left turn the corridor made. Dorothy recited the numbers painted on the doors as they passed them: ‘Six-twenty, six-eighteen, six-sixteen …’ They had to take another left turn before they reached 604, which was at the back of the square, across from the elevators. He tried the door. It was locked. They read the hours listed on the frosted glass panel and Dorothy moaned dejectedly.

‘Damn,’ he said. ‘I should have called to make sure.’ He put down the valise and looked at his watch. ‘Twenty-five to one.’

‘Twenty-five minutes,’ Dorothy said. ‘I guess we might as well go downstairs.’

‘Those crowds—’ he muttered, then paused. ‘Hey, I’ve got an idea.’

‘What?’

‘The roof. Let’s go up on the roof. It’s such a beautiful day, I bet we’ll be able to see for miles!’

‘Are we allowed?’

‘If nobody stops us, we’re allowed.’ He picked up the valise. ‘Come on, get your last look at the world as an unmarried woman.’

She smiled and they began walking, retracing their path around the square to the bank of elevators where, in a few moments, there glowed above one of the doors a white arrow pointing upwards.

When they left the car at the fourteenth floor, it happened again that they were separated by the other alighting passengers. In the corridor they waited until these had hurried around the turns or into offices, and then Dorothy said, ‘Let’s go,’ in a conspiratorial whisper. She was making an adventure of it.

Again they had to make a half-circuit of the building, until, next to room 1402, they found a door marked
Stairway.
He pushed it open and they entered. The door sighed closed behind them. They were on a landing, with black metal stairs leading up and down. Dim light sifted through a dirt-fogged skylight. They walked upwards; eight steps, a turn, and eight more steps. A door confronted them, heavy reddish-brown metal. He tried the knob.

‘Is it locked?’

‘I don’t think so.’

He put his shoulder to the door and pushed.

‘You’re going to get your suit filthy.’

The door rested on a ledge, a sort of giant threshold that raised its bottom a foot above the level of the landing. The ledge jutted out, making it difficult for him to apply his weight squarely. He put down the valise, braced his shoulder against the door, and tried again.

‘We can go downstairs and wait,’ Dorothy said. ‘That door probably hasn’t been opened in—’

He clenched his teeth. With the side of his left foot jammed against the base of the ledge, he swung back and then smashed his shoulder against the door with all his strength. It gave, groaning open. The chain of a counter-weight clattered. A slice of electric blue sky hit their eyes, blinding after the obscurity of the stairway. There was the quick flutter of pigeons’ wings.

He picked up the valise, stepped over the ledge, and put the valise down again where it would be clear of the door’s swing. Pushing the door further open, he stood with his back to it. He extended one hand to Dorothy. With the other he gestured towards the expanse of roof as a head waiter gestures towards his finest table: He gave her a mock bow and his best smile. ‘Enter, mam’selle,’ he said.

Taking his hand, she stepped gracefully over the ledge and on to the black tar of the roof.