Laura (Femmes Fatales) (9 page)

Chapter 7

Self-centered people see only what they want to see. Astigmatism might have been his excuse for his failure to notice her first, but I think it was covetousness. His gaze was so concentrated upon the antique glass vase that the rest of the room might have been sky or desert.

“Your office told me I’d find you here, McPherson. I’ve talked to my lawyer and he advises me to take my vase and let the bitch sue.”

He had to pass the sofa on the way to the mantel. Laura turned her head, the gold bells tinkled. Waldo paused as if he had heard some ghostly warning. Then, like a man afraid of his imagination and determined to show himself above fear, he stretched his hands toward the shining globe. Laura turned to see how I was taking it. Her gold bells struck such a sharp note that Waldo whirled on his heels and faced her.

He was whiter than death. He did not stagger nor fall, but stood paralyzed, his arms raised toward the vase. He was like a caricature, pitiful and funny at the same time. The Van Dyke beard, the stick crooked over his arm, the well-cut suit, the flower in his buttonhole, were like decorations on the dead.

We were quiet. The clock ticked.

“Waldo,” Laura said softly.

He seemed not to have heard.

She took hold of his rigid arms and led him to the couch. He moved like a mechanical doll. She urged him to a seat, gently pushed down his arms, handed me his hat and stick. “Waldo,” she whispered in the voice of a mother to a hurt child. “Waldo, darling.”

His neck turned like a mechanism on springs. His glazed eyes, empty of understanding, were fastened on her face.

“It’s all right, Mr. Lydecker. She’s alive and well. There’s been a mistake.”

My voice touched him, but not in the right place. He swayed backward on the couch, then jerked forward with a mechanical rather than willful reaction. He trembled so violently that some inner force seemed to be shaking his body. Sweat rose in crystals on his forehead and upper lip.

“There’s brandy in the cabinet. Get some, Mark. Quickly,” Laura said.

I fetched the brandy. She lifted the glass to his lips. Most of the liquor trickled down his chin. After a while he lifted his right hand, looked at it, and lifted the left. He seemed to be testing himself to see if he was capable of willing his muscles to action.

Laura kneeled beside him, her hands on his knees. Her voice was gentle as she explained that it was Diane Redfern who had died and been buried while Laura was staying at her little house in the country. I could not tell whether he heard or whether it was her voice that soothed him, but when she suggested that he rest on the bed, he rose obediently. Laura took him into the bedroom, helped him lie down, spread her blue-and-white cover over his legs. He let himself be led around like a child.

When she came back she asked if I thought we ought to call a doctor.

“I don’t know,” I said. “He’s not young and he’s fat. But it doesn’t look like any stroke I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s happened before.”

“Like this?”

She nodded. “In the theatre one night. He got angry that we’d called a doctor. Maybe we’d better let him rest.”

We sat like people in a hospital corridor.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “If I’d known it was Waldo, I’d have warned him.”

“You’re still planning to do it to Shelby, aren’t you?”

“Shelby’s nerves are stronger. He’ll take it better.”

Her eyes were narrow with anger.

I said: “Look here, you know that Shelby’s lied. I’m not saying that he’s committed murder, but I know he’s hiding something. There are several things he’s got to explain.”

“He can, I’m sure he can. Shelby can explain everything.”

She went into the bedroom to see how Waldo was getting on.

“He seems to be sleeping. He’s breathing regularly. Maybe we’d better just leave him.”

We sat without speaking until the doorbell rang again. “You’ll have to see him first and tell him,” Laura said. “I’m not going to let anyone else go through that shock.” She disappeared behind the swinging door that led to the kitchen.

The bell rang again. When I opened the door, Shelby pushed past.

“Where is she?” he shouted.

“Oh, you know, then?”

I heard the back door open, and I knew that he had met Bessie on the stairs.

“God damn women,” I said.

Then Laura came out of the kitchen. I saw it at once that Bessie wasn’t the woman who deserved my curses. The lovers’ meeting was too perfect. They embraced, kissed, and clung. An actor after a dozen rehearsals would have groped for his handkerchief in the same dazed way. An actor would have held her at arm’s length, staring at her with that choir-boy look on his face. There was something pre-arranged about the whole scene. His tenderness and her joy.

I turned my back.

Laura’s voice was melted syrup. “Happy, darling?”

He answered in a whisper.

My pipe had gone out. If I turned and got a match from the table, they would think I was watching. I bit on the cold stem. The whispering and muttering went on. I watched the minute hand creep around the dial of my watch. I thought of his sweetheart’s house. It had been four above ten o’clock and by midnight it was below zero. I had waited in the snow and thought about the gangster lying warm in the arms of his fat slut. I turned and saw Shelby’s hands feeling, touching, moving, moving along the tan material of Laura’s dress.

“How infinitely touching! What inexpressible tenderness! Juliet risen from the grave! Welcome, Romeo!”

It was, of course, Waldo. He had not only recovered his strength, but his bounce.

“Forgive me,” he said, “for a wee touch of epilepsy. It’s an old family custom.” He jerked Laura away from Shelby, kissed both cheeks, whirled around with her as if they were waltzing. “Welcome, wench! Tell us how it feels to return from the grave.”

“Be yourself, Waldo.”

“More truly myself you have never seen me, you beautiful zombie. I, too, am resurrected. The news of your death had me at the brink of eternity. We are both reborn, we must celebrate the miracle of life, beloved. Let’s have a drink.”

She started toward the liquor cabinet, but Waldo barred her way. “No, darling, no whiskey tonight. We’re drinking champagne.” And he bustled to the kitchen, shouting that Bessie was to hurry over to Mosconi’s and bring back some wine with a name that he had to write down on a piece of paper.

Chapter 8

Laura sat with three men drinking champagne. It was a familiar scene to them, Old Home Week. Even Bessie took it like a veteran. They seemed ready to take up where they had left off last week, before someone rang the bell and blew a girl’s face away with a charge of BB shot. That’s why I was there, the third man.

When they drank a toast to Laura, I took a sip of the wine. The rest of it stayed in my glass until the bubbles died.

“Aren’t you drinking?” Waldo asked me.

“I happen to be on a job,” I said.

“He’s a prig,” said Waldo. “A proletarian snob with a Puritan conscience.”

Because I was on a job and because Laura was there, I didn’t use the only words I knew for describing him. They were short words and to the point.

“Don’t be cross with us,” Laura said. “These are my best friends in the whole world and naturally they want to celebrate my not being dead.”

I reminded them that Diane Redfern’s death was still a mystery.

“But I’m sure we know nothing about it,” Shelby said.

“Ah-hah!” said Waldo. “The ghost at the feast. Shall we drink a respectful toast?”

Laura put down her glass and said, “Waldo, please.”

“That’s in questionable taste,” said Shelby.

Waldo sighed. “How pious we’ve all grown! It’s your influence, McPherson. As walking delegate for the Union of the Dead . . .”

“Please shut up!” said Laura.

She moved closer to Shelby. He took her hand. Waldo watched like a cat with a family of mice.

“Well, McPherson, since you insist upon casting the shadow of sobriety upon our sunny reunion, tell us how you’re proceeding with the investigation. Have you cleared the confusion surrounding that bottle of Bourbon?”

Laura said quietly: “It was I who bought that bottle of Three Horses, Waldo. I know it’s not as good as the stuff you taught me to buy, but one night I was in a hurry and brought it home. Don’t you remember, Shelby?”

“I do indeed.” Shelby pressed her hand.

They seemed to be getting closer together and shoving Waldo out into the cold. He poured himself another glass of champagne.

“Tell us, McPherson, were there any mysteries in the life of the little model? Have you discovered any evil companions? Do you know the secrets of her gay life in Greenwich Village?”

Waldo was using me as a weapon against Shelby. It was clear as water out of the old oaken bucket. Here he was, a man who had read practically all that was great in English literature, and a mug could have taught him the alphabet. I felt fine. He was hooting right up my alley.

“My assistant,” I said with an official roll in my voice, “is on the trail of her enemies.”

Waldo choked on his wine.

“Enemies,” said Laura. “She?”

“There might have been things about her life that you didn’t know,” said Shelby.

“Pooh!”

“Most of those girls live very questionable lives,” Shelby said firmly. “For all we know, the poor girl might have got herself mixed up with all sorts of people. Men she’d met in night clubs.”

“How do you know so much about her?” Waldo asked.

“I don’t know. I’m merely mentioning possibilities.” Shelby said. He turned to me and asked, “These models, they’re often friendly with underworld characters, aren’t they?”

“Poor Diane,” Laura said. “She wasn’t the sort of person anyone could hate. I mean . . . she didn’t have much . . . well, passion. Just beauty and vague dreams. I can’t imagine anyone hating a kid like that. She was so . . . I mean . . . you wanted to help her.”

“Was that Shelby’s explanation?” Waldo asked. “His was a purely philanthropic interest, I take it.”

Bright spots burned on Laura’s cheeks. “Yes, it was!” she said hotly. “I’d asked him to be kind to her, hadn’t I, Shelby?”

Shelby went to the cupboard for a log. He was glad for the excuse to move around. Laura’s eyes followed his movements.

“Had you asked him to be particularly kind to her last Wednesday, darling?” Waldo pretended to ask the question innocently, but he was slanting curious glances at me.

“Wednesday?” she said with an effort to appear absentminded.

“Last Wednesday. Or was it Tuesday? The night they did the Toccata and Fugue at the Stadium, wasn’t that Wednesday?” He rolled his eyes toward the fireplace and Shelby. “When was your cocktail party, Laura?”

“Oh, that,” she said. “On Wednesday.”

“You should have been here, McPherson,” Waldo said. “It was too, too jolly.”

Laura said, “You’re being silly, Waldo.”

But Waldo wanted to put on a show and nothing could stop him. He got up with the champagne glass in his hand and gave an imitation of Laura as hostess to a lot of cocktail-drinkers. He did not merely speak in a falsetto voice and swing his hips the way most men do when they imitate women. He had a real talent for acting. He was the hostess, he moved from guest to guest, he introduced strangers, he saw that the glasses were filled, he carried a tray of sandwiches.

“Hell, darling. I’m so glad you could come . . . you must meet . . . I know you’ll simply adore . . . Don’t tell me you’re not drinking . . . Not eating! . . . Come now, this tiny caviar sandwich wouldn’t put weight on a sturgeon . . . You haven’t met . . . but how incredible, everyone knows Waldo Lydecker, he’s the heavyweight Noel Coward . . . Waldo darling, one of your most loyal admirers . . .”

It was a good show. You could see the stuffed shirts and the highbrow women, and all the time that he moved around the room, imitating Laura and carrying that imaginary tray, you knew she had been watching something that was going on at the bay window.

Now Waldo skipped to the bay window. He changed his movements and his gestures became manly. He was Shelby being gallant and cautious. And he was a girl, looking up at Shelby, blinking her eyes and tugging at his lapels. He caught Shelby’s voice perfectly, and while I never heard her voice, I’d known plenty of dolls who talked as he had Diane talking.

“Oh, but darling, you are the best-looking man in the room . . . Can’t I even say so?” “You’re drunk, baby, don’t talk so loud.” “What harm can there be, Shelby, if I just quietly worship you?” “Quietly, for God’s sakes, kid. Remember where we are.” “Shelby, please, I’m not tight, I never get tight, I’m not talking loud.” “Sh-sh, honey, everyone’s looking at you.” “Let ‘em look, you think I care?” The doll-voice became shrill and angry. Drunken young girls in bars always scream like that.

Shelby had left the fire. His fists were clenched, his jaw pushed forward, his skin green.

Laura was trembling.

Waldo walked to the middle of the room, said in his own voice: “There was a terrible hush. Everyone looked at Laura. She was carrying that tray of hors d’oeuvres.”

Everyone in the room must have felt sorry for Laura. Her wedding was to have taken place in a week and a day.

Waldo crossed toward the bay window with catlike, female steps. I watched as if Diane were there with Shelby.

“Diane had taken hold of his lapels . . .”

Laura, the real one, the girl on the couch in the tan dress, said: “I’m sorry. For God’s sakes, how often do I have to say I’m sorry?”

Shelby raised his clenched fists and said: “Yes, Lydecker, we’ve had enough. Enough of your clowning.”

Waldo looked at me. “What a shame, McPherson! You’ve missed the best part of the scene.”

“What did she do?” I asked.

“May I tell him?” said Waldo.

“You’d better,” said Shelby, “or he’ll imagine something far worse.”

Laura began to laugh. “I conked her with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. I conked her!”

We waited until her hysteria had died down. She was crying and laughing at the same time. Shelby tried to take her hand, but she pulled away. Then she looked at me with shame on her face and said: “I’d never done anything like that before. I didn’t dream I could do such a thing. I wanted to die.”

“Is that all?” I asked.

“All!” said Shelby.

“In my own house,” Laura said.

“What happened afterward?”

“I went into my bedroom. I wouldn’t let anyone come in and talk to me. I was so ashamed. Then after a while Shelby did come in and he told me Diane had left and that I’d simply have to come out and face my guests.”

“After all,” said Shelby.

“Everyone was tactful, but that made me feel worse. But Shelby was darling, he insisted that we go out and get a little tight so I wouldn’t think about it and keep reproaching myself.”

“How kind of him!” I couldn’t help saying.

“Shelby’s broad-minded, he forgives easily,” added Waldo.

“Shelby couldn’t help it if Diane fell in love with him.” Laura ignored the other two; she was explaining it to me. “He’d been kind and polite and thoughtful as he always is. Diane was a poor kid who’d come from the sort of home where they beat up women. She’d never met a . . . a gentleman before.”

“Oddzooks!” Waldo said.

“She wanted something better than she’d had at home. Her life had been terribly sordid. Even her name, silly as it sounded, showed that she wanted a better sort of life.”

“You’re breaking my heart,” Waldo said.

Laura took a cigarette. Her hands were unsteady. “I’m not so different. I came to New York, too, a poor kid without friends or money. People were kind to me—” she pointed with a cigarette at Waldo “—and I felt almost an obligation toward kids like Diane. I was the only friend she had. And Shelby.”

It sounded simple and human as she stood there, so close that I could smell her perfume. I backed away.

She said, “You believe me, don’t you, Mark?”

“What was this lunch on Friday? An armistice?” I asked her.

She smiled. “Yes, yes, an armistice. I went around from Wednesday evening until Friday morning feeling like a hell. And I knew if I didn’t see Diane and say I was sorry my whole vacation would be ruined. Do you think I’m very silly?”

“A soft-hearted slob,” said Waldo.

Shelby picked up the poker, but it was only to stoke the fire. My nerves were on edge and I saw violence every time a cigarette was lighted. That was because I craved violence. My hands itched for a fat neck.

I took two steps forward and was close to Laura again. “Then it was at lunch that you smoked . . .”

I stopped right there. She was whiter than the white dress that Diane had been buried in.

“Smoked,” she whispered the word.

“Smoked the pipe of peace,” I said, “and offered her your apartment.”

“Yes, the pipe of peace,” Laura said. She had come to life again. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed with color. Her thin, strong fingers lay on my coat sleeve. “You must believe me, Mark, you must believe that everything was all right when I offered her the apartment. Please, please believe me.”

Shelby didn’t say a word. But I think he was smiling. Waldo laughed aloud and said, “Careful, Laura, he’s a detective.”

Her hand slipped off my coat sleeve.