A Kiss Before Dying (10 page)

They sped up the darkwood stairs, Mrs Arquette in the fore muttering indignantly. Ellen followed her through a door adjacent to the head of the stairway.

The room was bright with flowered wallpaper. There was a green-covered bed, a dresser, easy chair, table … Mrs Arquette, having snatched a book from the top of the dresser, stood by the window ruffling the pages. Ellen moved to the dresser and scanned the titles of the books ranked across its top. A diary maybe. Any kind of notebook.
Prize Stories of 1950
,
An Outline of History
,
Radio Announcer’s Handbook of Pronunciation
,
The Brave Bulls
,
A History of American Jazz
,
Swann’s Way
,
Elements of Psychology
,
Three Famous Murder Novels
, and
A Sub-Treasury of American Humour.

‘Oh, shoot,’ said Mrs Arquette. She stood with her forefinger pressed to the open dictionary. ‘Fane,’ she read, ‘a temple; hence a church.’ She slammed the book shut. ‘Where does he get words like that?’

Ellen eased over to the table, where three envelopes were fanned out. Mrs Arquette, putting the dictionary on the dresser, glanced at her. ‘The one without a return address is yours, I guess.’

‘Yes, it is,’ Ellen said. The two letters with return addresses were from
Newsweek
and the National Broadcasting Company.

Mrs Arquette was at the door. ‘Coming?’

‘Yes,’ Ellen said.

They trudged down the stairs and walked slowly into the kitchen, where Mr Fishback was waiting. As soon as he observed Mrs Arquette’s dejection he burst into gleeful cackling. She gave him a dirty look. ‘It means a church,’ she said, slumping into her chair. He laughed some more. ‘Oh, shut up and get on with the game,’ Mrs Arquette grumbled. Mr Fishback turned over two letters.

Ellen took her purse from the coat-draped chair in which she had sat. ‘I guess I’ll be going now,’ she said dispiritedly.

‘Going?’ Mrs Arquette looked up, the thin eyebrows arching.

Ellen nodded.

‘Well for goodness’ sake, aren’t you going to wait for Gordon?’ Ellen went cold. Mrs Arquette looked at the clock on the refrigerator next to the door. ‘It’s ten after two,’ she said. ‘His last class ended at two o’clock. He should be here any minute.’

She couldn’t speak. The image of Mrs Arquette’s upturned face swayed sickeningly. ‘You – you told me he would be gone all day—’ she strained out finally.

Mrs Arquette looked injured. ‘Why, I never told you no such thing! Why on earth you been sitting here if not waiting for him?’

‘The telephone—’

The landlady’s jaw dropped. ‘Was that you? Around one o’clock?’

Ellen nodded helplessly.

‘Well why didn’t you tell me it was you? I thought it was one of those fool girls. Whenever someone calls and won’t give a name I tell them he’s gone for the day. Even if he’s here. He told me to. He—’ The expression of earnestness drained from Mrs Arquette’s face. The dull eye, the thin-lipped mouth became grim, suspicious. ‘If you thought he was out for the day,’ she demanded slowly, ‘then why did you come here at all?’

‘I – I wanted to meet you. Gordon wrote so much—’

‘Why were you asking all those questions?’ Mrs Arquette stood up.

Ellen reached for her coat. Suddenly Mrs Arquette was holding Ellen’s arms, the long bony fingers clutching painfully. ‘Let go of me. Please—’

‘Why were you snooping in his room?’ The horse-like face pressed close to Ellen’s, the eyes swelling with anger, the rough skin red. ‘What did you want in there? You take something while my back was turned?’

Behind Ellen, Mr Fishback’s chair scraped and his voice piped frightenedly, ‘Why’d she want to steal anything from her own cousin?’

‘Who says she’s his cousin?’ Mrs Arquette snapped.

Ellen worked futilely in her grasp, ‘Please, you’re hurting me—’

The pale eyes narrowed. ‘And I don’t think she’s one of those damn girls looking for a souvenir or something either. Why was she asking all those questions?’

‘I’m his cousin! I am!’ Ellen tried to steady her voice. ‘I want to go now. You can’t keep me here. I’ll see him later.’

‘You’ll see him now,’ Mrs Arquette said. ‘You’re staying here until Gordon comes.’ She glanced over Ellen’s shoulder. ‘Mr Fishback, get over by the back door.’ She waited, her eyes following Mr Fishback’s slow passage, and then she released Ellen. Moving quickly to the front doorway, she blocked it, her arms folded across her chest. ‘We’ll find out what this is all about,’ she said.

Ellen rubbed her arms where Mrs Arquette’s fingers had clamped them. She looked at the man and woman blocking the doors at either end of the kitchen; Mr Fishback with his glass-magnified eyes blinking nervously; Mrs Arquette standing grim, monolithic. ‘You can’t do this.’ She retrieved her purse from the floor. She took her coat from the chair and put it over her arm. ‘Let me out of here,’ she said firmly.

Neither of them moved.

They heard the front door slam and footsteps on the stairs. ‘Gordon!’ Mrs Arquette shouted, ‘Gordon!’ The footsteps stopped. ‘What is it, Mrs Arquette?’ The landlady turned and ran down the hallway.

Ellen faced Mr Fishback, ‘Please,’ she implored. ‘Let me out of here. I didn’t mean any harm.’

He shook his head slowly.

She stood motionless, hearing the excited rasping of Mrs Arquette’s voice far behind her. Footsteps approached and the voice grew louder. ‘She kept asking all kinds of questions about what girls you were going out with last year, and she even tricked me into taking her to your room. She was looking at your books and the letters on your table.’ Mrs Arquette’s voice suddenly flooded the kitchen. ‘There she is!’

Ellen turned. Mrs Arquette stood to the left of the table, one arm lifted, pointing accusation. Gant was in the doorway leaning against the jamb, tall and spare in a pale-blue topcoat, books in one hand. He looked at her for a moment, then his lips curved a smile over his long jaw and one eyebrow lifted slightly.

He detached himself from the jamb and stepped into the room, putting his books on the refrigerator without taking his eyes from her. ‘Why, Cousin Hester,’ he marvelled softly, his eye flicking down then up again in considered appraisal. ‘You’ve passed through adolescence magnificently.’ He ambled around the table, placed his hands on Ellen’s shoulders, and kissed her fondly on the cheek.

‘You – mean she really
is
your cousin?’ Mrs Arquette gasped.

‘Arquette, my love,’ said Gant, moving to Ellen’s left, ‘ours was a communal teething ring.’ He patted Ellen’s shoulder. ‘Wasn’t it, Hester?’

She eyed him crazily, her face flushed, her mouth slack. Her gaze moved to Mrs Arquette at the left of the table, to the hallway beyond it, to the coat and purse in her hands … She darted to the right, sped around the table and through the door and down the hallway hearing Arquette’s ‘Running away!’ and Gant’s pursuing shout: ‘She’s from the psychotic side of the family!’ Wrenching open the heavy front door, she fled from the house, her toes biting the concrete path. At the sidewalk she turned to the right and reined to swift bitter strides, wrestling into her tangled coat. Oh God, everything messed up! She clenched her teeth, feeling the hot pressure of tears behind her eyes. Gant caught up with her and matched her strides with long easy legs. She flung a fiery glance at the grinning face and then glared straight ahead, her whole being compressed with unreasoned fury at herself and him.

‘Isn’t there a secret word?’ he asked. ‘Aren’t you supposed to press a message into my hand and whisper “Southern Comfort” or something? Or is this the one where the heavy in the dark suit has been following you all day and you sought refuge in the nearest doorway? I like them equally well, so whichever it is—’ She strode along in acid silence. ‘You ever read the Saint stories? I used to. Old Simon Templar was
always
running into beautiful women with strange behaviour patterns. Once one of them swam on to his yacht in the middle of the night. Said she was a channel swimmer gone astray, I believe. Turned out to be an insurance investigator.’ He caught her arm. ‘Cousin Hester, I have the most insatiable curiosity—’

She pulled her arm free. They had reached an intersecting avenue along the other side of which a taxi cruised. She waved and the cab began a U-turn. ‘It was a joke,’ she said tightly. ‘I’m sorry. I did it on a bet.’

‘That’s what the girl on the yacht told the Saint.’ His face went serious. ‘Fun is fun, but why all the questions about my sordid past?’

The cab pulled up. She tried to open the door but he braced his hand against it. ‘Look here, cousin, don’t be fooled by my disc jockey dialogue. I’m not kidding …’

‘Please,’ she moaned exhaustedly, tugging at the door handle. The cabbie appeared at the front window, looking up at them and appraising the situation. ‘Hey mister,’ he said. His voice was a menacing rumble.

With a sigh, Gant released the door. Ellen opened it, ducked in, and slammed it closed. She sank into soft worn leather. Outside Gant was leaning over, his hands on the door, staring in at her through the glass as though trying to memorize the details of her face. She looked away.

She waited until the cab had left the kerb before telling the driver her destination.

* * *

It took ten minutes to reach the New Washington House, where Ellen had registered before calling on the Dean – ten minutes of lip-biting and quick-handed smoking and bitter self-denunciation, the release of the tension which had been built up before Gant’s arrival and which had been left hanging, unspent, by his anti-climactic asinine banter. Cousin Hester! Oh, she had really messed things up! She had bet half her chips and got nothing in return. Still in the dark as to whether or not he was
the
man, she had made further questioning of him or his landlady completely impossible. If investigation of Powell should show he wasn’t the man, proving that Gant was, she might as well give up and go back to Caldwell because if – always the second, the big ‘if’ – if Gant had killed Dorothy, he would be on guard, knowing Ellen’s face and knowing what she was after by the questions she had asked Mrs Arquette. A killer on guard, ready perhaps to kill again. She wouldn’t risk tangling with that – not when he had seen her face. Better to live in doubt than to die in certainty. Her only other course would be to go to the police, and she would still have nothing more to offer them than ‘something old, something new’, so they would nod solemnly and usher her politely from the station.

Oh, she had made a fine start!

The hotel room had beige walls and clumsy brown furniture and the same clean, impersonal, transient air as the miniature paper-wrapped cake of soap in the adjoining bathroom. The only mark of its occupancy was the suitcase with the Caldwell stickers on the rack at the foot of the double bed.

After hanging her coat in the closet, Ellen seated herself at the writing table by the window. She took her fountain pen and the letter to Bud from her purse. Staring down at the addressed but still unsealed envelope, she debated whether or not to mention, in addition to an outline of the interview with Dean Welch, the story of the Gant fiasco. No – if Dwight Powell turned out to be the one then the Gant business meant nothing. It
must
be Powell. Not Gant, she told herself – not with that light-hearted chatter. But what had he said? – Don’t be fooled by my disc jockey dialogue. I’m not kidding …

There was a knock at the door. She jumped to her feet ‘Who is it?’

‘Towels’ a high feminine voice answered.

Ellen crossed the room and grasped the doorknob. ‘I – I’m not dressed. Could you leave them outside please?’

‘All right,’ the voice said.

She stood there for two minutes, hearing occasional passing footsteps and the muffled sound of the elevator down the hall, while the knob grew damp in her hand. Finally she smiled at her nervousness, visualizing herself peering under the bed old-maid fashion before going to sleep. She opened the door.

Gant lounged with one elbow against the jamb, the hand propping up his blond head. ‘Hi, Cousin Hester,’ he said. ‘I believe I mentioned ny insatiable curiosity.’ She tried to close the door, but his foot was in the way, immovable. He smiled. ‘Much fun. Follow that cab!’ His right hand described a zigzag course. ‘Shades of the Warner Brothers. The driver got such a kick out of it he almost refused the tip. I told him you were running away from my bed and board.’

‘Get away!’ she whispered fiercely. ‘I’ll call the manager!’

‘Look, Hester,’ the smile dropped, ‘I think I could have you arrested for illegal entry or impersonating a cousin or something like that, so why don’t you invite me in for a small confab? If you’re worried about what the bellhops will think, you can leave the door open.’ He pushed gently on the door, forcing Ellen to retreat a step. ‘That’s a good girl,’ he said as he eased through the opening. He eyed her dress with exaggerated disappointment. “‘I’m not dressed,” she says. I should have known you were a habitual liar.’ He strolled to the bed and sat down on the edge of it. ‘Well for pity’s sake, coz, stop shaking! I’m not going to eat you.’

‘What – what do you want?’

‘An explanation.’

She swung the door all the way open and remained standing in the doorway, as though it were his room and she the visitor. ‘It’s – very simple. I listen to your programme all the time—’

He glanced at the suitcase. ‘In Wisconsin?’

‘It’s only a hundred miles away. We get
KBRI.
We really do.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘I listen to you all the time, and I like your programme very much. I’m in Blue River, so I thought I’d try to meet you.’

‘And when you meet me you run away.’

‘Well what would you have done? I didn’t plan it
that
way. I pretended to be your cousin because I – I wanted to get information about you – what kind of girls you like—’

Rubbing his jaw doubtfully, he stood up. ‘How did you get my phone number?’

‘From the Student Directory.’

He moved to the foot of the bed and touched the suitcase. ‘If you go to Caldwell, how did you get a Stoddard directory?’

‘From one of the girls here.’

‘Who?’

‘Annabelle Koch. She’s a friend of mine.’

‘Annabelle—’ He had recognized the name. He squinted at Ellen incredulously. ‘Hey, is this really on the level?’

‘Yes.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘I know it was a crazy thing to do, but I like your programme so much.’ When she looked up again he was by the window.

He said, ‘Of all the stupid, idiotic—’ and suddenly he was staring at the hallway beyond her, his eyes baffled. She turned. There was nothing out of the ordinary to be seen. She looked back at Gant and he was facing the window, his back to her. ‘Well, Hester,’ he said, ‘that was a flattering explanation’ – he turned, taking his hand from inside his jacket – ‘and one I shall long remember.’ He glanced at the partially open bathroom door. ‘Do you mind if I utilize your facilities?’ he asked, and before she could say anything he had ducked into the bathroom and closed the door. The lock clicked.

Ellen gazed blankly at the door, wondering whether or not Gant had believed her. Her knees quivered. Drawing a deep steady breath, she crossed the room to the writing table and took a cigarette from her purse. She broke two matches before she got it lighted, and then she stood looking out the window, nervously rolling her fountain pen back and forth over the surface of the table which was bare except for her purse. Bare – the letter. The letter to Bud! Gant had been standing near the table and he had tricked her into turning towards the hallway and then he had been facing the window and he turned, taking his hand from inside his jacket!

Frantically she hammered on the bathroom door. ‘Give me that letter! Give it to me!’

Several seconds passed before Gant’s deep-toned voice said, ‘My curiosity is especially insatiable when it comes to phoney cousins with flimsy stories.’

She stood in the doorway with one hand on the jamb and her coat in the other, looking from the still-closed bathroom door to the hallway and smiling inanely at the occasional passers-by. A bellhop asked if there were anything he could do for her. She shook her head.

Gant finally came out. He was folding the letter carefully into its envelope. He put it on the writing table. ‘Well,’ he said. He viewed her ready-to-flee figure. ‘Well.’ He smiled somewhat uncomfortably. ‘As my grandmother said when the man on the phone asked for Lana Turner, “Boy, have you got the wrong number!”’

Ellen did not move.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘I didn’t even know her. I said hello to her once or twice. There were other blond guys in that class. I didn’t even know her name until her picture was in the papers. The teacher had taken attendance by seat numbers, never called the roll. I didn’t even know her name.’

Ellen didn’t move.

‘Well, for God’s sake, if you want to break a speed record that coat’s only going to be in the way.’

She didn’t move.

In two swift strides he was at the bedside table, snatching up the Gideon Bible. He raised his right hand. ‘I swear on this Bible that I never went out with your sister, or said more than two words to her – or anything—’ He put the Bible down. ‘Well?’

‘If Dorothy was killed,’ Ellen said, ‘the man who did it would swear on a dozen Bibles. And if she thought he loved her, then he was a good actor too.’

Gant rolled his eyes heavenward and extended his wrists for the handcuffs. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ll go quietly.’

‘I’m glad you think this is something to joke about.’

He lowered his hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said sincerely. ‘But how the hell am I supposed to convince you that—’

‘You can’t,’ Ellen said. ‘You might as well go.’

‘There were other blond guys in the class,’ he insisted. He snapped his fingers. ‘There was one she used to come in with all the time! Cary Grant chin, tall—’

‘Dwight Powell?’

‘That’s right!’ He stopped short. ‘Is he on your list?’

She hesitated a moment, and then nodded.

‘He’s the one!’

Ellen looked at him suspiciously.

He threw up his hands. ‘Okay. I give up. You’ll see, it was Powell.’ He moved towards the door; Ellen backed into the hallway. ‘I would just like to leave, as you suggested,’ Gant said loftily.

He came into the hallway. ‘Unless you want me to go on calling you Hester, you ought to tell me what your name really is.’

‘Ellen.’

Gant seemed reluctant to go. ‘What are you going to do now?’

After a moment she said, ‘I don’t know.’

‘If you barge into Powell’s place, don’t pull a fluff like you did this afternoon. He may be no one to fool around with.’ Ellen nodded.

Gant looked her up and down. ‘A girl on a mission,’ he mused. ‘Never thought I’d live to see the day.’ He started to go and then turned back. ‘You wouldn’t be in the market for a Watson, would you?’

‘No, thanks,’ she said in the doorway. ‘I’m sorry but—’

He shrugged and smiled. ‘I figured my credentials wouldn’t be in order. Well, good luck.’ He turned and walked down the hallway.

Ellen backed into her room and slowly closed the door.   

At eight o’clock she paused in her undressing and dropped a quarter into the coin-operated bedside radio. She pushed the button marked
KBRI.
There was a low humming and then, smooth and sonorous, Gant’s voice swelled into the room: ‘… another session with the Discus Thrower or, as our engineer puts it, “Puff and Pant with Gordon Gant”, which shows the limitations of a purely scientific education. On to the agenda. The first disc of the evening is an oldie, and it’s dedicated to Miss Hester Holmes of Wisconsin—’