1965 - The Way the Cookie Crumbles (8 page)

BOOK: 1965 - The Way the Cookie Crumbles
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‘It must be close on fifteen years since we parted,’ he said finally. ‘We married when we were kids. I was nineteen at the time. It lasted scarcely two years. Suicide? I’m sorry to hear that. You - you’re sure it is Muriel?’

‘There is a daughter, Norena,’ Terrell said.

‘That’s right. Have you news of her?’

‘She’s arriving in Seacombe some time this morning.’

‘I see. This will be a shock to her.’ Devon looked up.

‘Would you know if she was fond of her mother?’

‘I believe she was,’ Terrell said, hesitated, then went on, ‘The case is a painful one, Mr. Devon. I take it you know nothing about what has been happening to your wife after she left you?’

Looking suddenly apprehensive, Devon shook his head.

Briefly, but omitting no important details, Terrell told him all he had learned of Muriel Marsh Devon. He concluded with the murder of Johnnie Williams and Muriel’s suicide at La Coquille restaurant.

Motionless, a frozen expression on his face, Devon listened.

Having said his say, Terrell got to his feet and walked to the big window and stared down at the busy yachts in the basin. Some moments later, Devon said quietly, ‘Thank you, Captain. It’s not a pretty story, is it? You’re sure Norena knows nothing about her mother’s way of life?’

Terrell returned to his chair and sat down.

‘Edris says not. I can imagine what you are thinking, Mr. Devon, but you mustn’t worry. If handled right, this story can be smothered. I have already talked to Brewer who is, I understand, a friend of yours. I’m pretty sure he will agree to keep both you and your daughter out of this. Besides, Browning is determined to have it hushed up and he has a lot of influence with the press.’

Devon appeared to relax a little.

‘But is it possible to hush it up? This man Edris is a bit of a character, isn’t he? He has often waited on me at the restaurant. There’s something about him I don’t exactly like. Is he to be trusted?’

‘He seems genuinely fond of your daughter. He said he would do whatever he could to keep her name out of this mess. I’m pretty sure you can rely on him.’

‘Do you know anything about him, Captain? I’m sure you realize that if we do manage to hush this up, I could be a perfect target for blackmail. If the story breaks, I would have to resign from the bank. I couldn’t continue to hold my present position here even though I haven’t associated with Muriel for seventeen years. The story is just too sordid.’

‘You don’t have to worry about that,’ Terrell said. ‘We have nothing against Edris. In fact, from what we learn, he has an excellent character.’

‘Then I’ll leave it all to you, Captain, most gratefully. You say Norena is coming back this morning?’

‘So Edris says. He thought you would want to see her as soon as possible.’

‘Of course.’ Devon turned and stared out of the window. ‘It’s hard to believe I now have a seventeen-year old daughter. I always wanted Norena. Taking her from me as Muriel did was the unkindest thing she ever did to me. It’s something I have never been able to forgive her for. I did everything I could to find Norena, but I had no luck. The search went on for over five years, then I gave up. I put her out of my mind.’ He frowned down at his hands. ‘It would have been fun watching her grow up. Now, it seems I have a grown-up daughter with her own ideas, her own way of life about which I know nothing.’ He looked up at Terrell who was now standing. ‘You don’t know anything about her, do you, Captain?’

‘Only what I’ve told you,’ Terrell said and took from his wallet the photograph of Ira Marsh that Edris had planted in Muriel’s bedroom. He put the photograph on the desk in front of Devon. ‘That’s your daughter. My congratulations. I’d say she’s worth the long wait.’

Devon stared at the photograph.

‘Yes. how like her mother she is! What’s Edris’ address?’

Terrell told him and gave him Edris’ telephone number.

‘Maybe you’d better telephone Edris first, Mr. Devon and let him know what you plan to do.’

Devon stared at the photograph again.

‘What I plan to do? It’s obvious, isn’t it? I want Norena to come home.’

 

* * *

 

Algir recognized her at once from the photograph Edris had shown him. She was sitting on a wooden bench at the Seacombe bus terminal, her hands between her knees. She was motionless, staring at a patch of oil left by a departing bus.

Although he was badly behind schedule, he stopped the car some yards from her and sitting back, he examined her. He knew from the photograph that she was attractive, but he hadn’t expected her to be so sensually exciting. As he continued to study her he saw by the hard set of her mouth and by the way she slouched on the bench that this was a teenager far in advance of her years who would look on a man his age as old and square whose good looks, charm and experience were as nothing compared with the brash vital energy of some young slob her own age.

Algir was afraid of youth. He was jealous of their vitality and dismayed by their arrogance. His shield that covered his shallowness was his looks and his charm and these, he knew, cut no ice with the young. With an impatient shrug, he got out of the car and walked over to where the girl was sitting.

‘Hello, Ira,’ he said, pausing before her. ‘Have you been waiting long?’

She stood up, her eyes travelling slowly from his shoes to his face, taking in every detail of his dress with a jeering contempt that angered him.

‘Too long. You’re late,’ she said, looking away from him.

Any kind of criticism invariably sent Algir into a rage. His face flushing, he resisted the urge to slap her. Instead, he grunted, turned and walked to where the Buick was parked. He slid under the steering wheel. When she was seated beside him, he started the engine and drove away from the bus terminal, heading for Edris’ apartment block.

She lit a cigarette, let smoke drift down her nostrils as she said, ‘I thought we were on a tight schedule. What happened to you then? Overslept?’

‘Relax with the mouth,’ Algir snapped. ‘When you’re with me, I do the talking, you listen. Right?’

She cocked her head on one side and studied him.

‘I wouldn’t have thought you had much worth saying. Still, if it’ll oil your ego, I’ll give it a try.’

The muscles in his face tightened.

‘Shut up! I don’t take that kind of talk from a brat like you!’

‘Is that right? Then who do you take it from?’

‘I said shut up, you bitch, unless you want me to shut you up!’

‘I thought that corny dialogue went out with Paul Muni. You go to the movies often?’

His face dark with rage, he called her an obscene name. He had hoped to shock her into silence, but instead, she laughed with genuine amusement.

‘Oh, that’s fab!’ she said. ‘You’re right out of a museum!’

Slightly increasing speed, he drove on, ignoring her and seething with rage. She studied his flushed face and the viciousness of his mouth and shrugged indifferently. She had never been afraid of men. She knew how to look after herself. She had often thought about fear, and after some heart searching, she had finally decided the only two things that could really frighten her were poverty and old age. To remain poor and become old were concrete three dimensional nightmares that truly frightened her. Nothing else, certainly not this big, flash looking dummy at her side.

Finally, when they reached Edris’ apartment block, Algir said, without looking at her, ‘Take the bag on the back seat and get out.’

She got out of the car, lifted the bag from the back seat and then paused to look at him.

‘You watch yourself, Jack,’ she said. ‘At your time of life it’s bad for your arteries to boil over the way you do, not that I care.’

With her ducktail walk, she moved into the lobby of the apartment block, her head held high, arrogant and very sure of herself.

Ticky Edris had been waiting her coming with feverish anxiety. As she rang on the front doorbell, he had been watching the clock on the overmantel with increasing impatience. It was 11.15 hours. Algir had telephoned at 10.30 hours. He had sounded nervy and that was understandable, but, at least, he had assured Ticky that so far, all had gone without a hitch.

‘You remembered to bring her clothes?’ Edris had demanded.

‘Yes. I tell you there’s nothing to worry about. I’m picking up Ira right now.’

‘Nothing to worry about?’ Edris’ voice was shrill. ‘That’s what you think! You’re more than half an hour late! I had to telephone Terrell. I was scared he would call the school. What made you so late?’

‘Never mind,’ Algir said curtly. ‘I’ll have her with you in half an hour.’

Now here she was, ringing on the front door bell. Edris bounced across the room, into the lobby and snatched open the front door.

‘Come in, come in,’ he urged. ‘Where’s Phil?’

‘We didn’t seem to like each other,’ the girl said, moving into the room. She looked around. ‘He went off as if he had swallowed a bee.’

‘You got her clothes?’

‘Her clothes?’ Ira stared at him.

‘Phil collected her things from the school.’

‘Maybe they are in here,’ she waved to the bag.

‘Open it and see!’

She put the bag on the settee and snapped back the locks. She lifted the lid.

‘Yes: they’re here.’

‘There’s the bedroom. Take them in there and change. Hurry!’

‘What’s all the excitement about?’

‘Devon’s on his way over,’ Edris said, hopping from one foot to the other. ‘And listen, remember, he’s your father. You’re hostile. He wasn’t good to your mother. You were fond of your mother. Play it cool and watch your mouth. You remember all the things I told you?’

‘All right, all right,’ the girl said. ‘I can handle it. Just relax. You’re paying for a performance, and you’ll get it.’

Picking up the bag, she walked briskly into the bedroom and closed the door.

 

CHAPTER FOUR

 

J
oy Ansley, back from a three-week vacation spent with her father in the Bahamas, was unpacking. As she moved about her spacious bedroom, she thought a little sadly that the vacation hadn’t been much of a success. A woman as hopelessly in love as she was, she thought, as she picked up the last suitcase and put it on the bed, just shouldn’t spend three weeks in a romantic place like the Bahamas with an eighty-year old father, spry and alert as he might be. She had missed Mel Devon too much to enjoy herself.

Joy Ansley was thirty-one years of age. She was tall and dark. Her features were good, her dark eyes beautiful. She had poise and a serenity of character that distinguished her immediately in a room full of people. She had met Mel Devon five years ago and had been in love with him ever since. She knew he was married and she quickly discovered he had no intention of getting married again.

She was forced to accept this situation, and she was grateful that he chose her to be his hostess when he entertained, his partner at tennis, his companion for the occasional movie and his confidante. They saw a lot of each other. People talked as people always will talk. Mel was oblivious, and Joy didn’t care. Her father, Judge Ansley, watched all this sadly, but wisely said nothing.

This was something these two had to work out for themselves, he decided. He only hoped Mel, whom he liked and admired, wouldn’t take too long working it out. Suddenly bored with her unpacking, Joy crossed to the open window and looked out. Her father, a tall, lean old man with wispy white hair, was walking along one of the grass paths, examining the rose bushes for any sign of Aphis.

She smiled at the sight of him and glanced at her watch. It was nearly 16.00 hours: time for his cup of tea. She left the room and ran down the stairs.

As she crossed the hall, the telephone bell rang. It was Mel Devon. The sound of his voice always made her a little breathless. This was the first time since she had got back that they had spoken together.

‘Why, Mel,’ she said. ‘How nice. I was going to call you tonight.’

‘How are you, Joy? Did you have a nice vacation?’

‘It was fine. I . . .’

‘Is the Judge all right?’

‘He’s wonderful. We were wondering . . .’

‘Joy can we meet around six? I want to talk to you.’

The serious note in his voice startled her.

‘Yes, of course. Where shall we meet?’

‘Would you mind coming to the bank?’

‘No, of course not, but it’s such a lovely afternoon. Wouldn’t you like to come down to the beach hut?’

‘No. Please come to the bank, Joy. I’ll explain when we meet. Then I’ll see you at six?’

‘Yes.’

‘Come right up. I’ll tell Miss Ashley I’m expecting you. Well, then goodbye, my dear for now,’ and he hung up.

More slowly, Joy replaced the receiver. She stood thinking, vaguely uneasy, vaguely excited. I want to talk to you. Was this at last about themselves? She walked across the room and into the sunshine to where the Judge was waiting patiently for his tea.

And now, a few minutes after 18.00 hours, she was sitting in Mel’s comfortable office, her fingers clutching her handbag, her heart beating unevenly as she listened to what he was telling her with growing tension and alarm.

Mel, looking tired and strained, had prefaced his talk after greeting her, with an attempt to cushion the shock.

‘Joy we’ve been damn good friends for longer than I can remember. I’ve often brought my troubles to you and you’ve always been helpful and understanding. Something pretty rotten happened while you’ve been away. I want you to know about it. So far only a very few know and I think I can trust them not to talk, but if it does get out, I’ll be in a mess. I want you to hear it all from me, rather than later from someone else.’

That hadn’t cushioned the shock, but Joy was sufficiently controlled and poised not to let Mel see her sudden apprehension. The idea of anything unpleasant threatening this man’s way of life, to her was much worse than if it threatened herself.

‘Tell me, Mel,’ she said, forcing herself to relax back in the big armchair. ‘What is it?’

Mel sat at his desk, his elbows resting on its polished surface, his hands cupping his chin. He told her bluntly about Muriel Marsh Devon and Johnny Williams and about Norena.

BOOK: 1965 - The Way the Cookie Crumbles
10.45Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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