A Kiss Before Dying (21 page)

In writing to his mother, Bud had made only the most vague allusions to Kingship’s money. Once or twice he had mentioned Kingship Copper, but never with any clarifying phrases, and he was certain that she, whose poverty-formed conception of wealth was as hazy and inexact as a pubert’s visions of orgies, had not the slightest real comprehension of the luxuriance of living into which the presidency of such a corporation could be translated. He had looked forward eagerly, therefore, to the moment when he could introduce her to Marion and her father, and to the surrounding magnificence of Kingship’s duplex apartment, knowing that in light of the coming marriage her awe-widened eyes would regard each inlaid table and glittering chandelier as evidence, not of Kingship’s capabilities, but of his own.

The evening, however, was a disappointment.

Not that his mother’s reaction was anything less than he had anticipated; with mouth partially opened and teeth lightly touching her lower lip, she drew in her breath with soft sibilance, as though seeing not one but a series of miracles; the formally attired servant – a butler! – the velvety depth of the carpets, the wallpaper that wasn’t paper at all but intricately textured cloth, the leather-bound books, the golden clock, the silver tray from which the butler served champagne – champagne! – in crystal goblets. Vocally, she restrained her admiration to a gently-smiling, ‘Lovely, lovely,’ accompanied by a slight nodding of the stiff newly-waved grey hair, giving the impression that such surroundings were by no means completely alien to her – but when her eyes met Bud’s as the toast was drunk, the bursting pride she felt leaped out to him like a thrown kiss, while one work-roughened hand surreptitiously marvelled at the cloth of the couch on which she sat.

No, his mother’s reaction was warming and wonderful. What made the evening a disappointment was the fact that Marion and Leo had apparently had an argument; Marion spoke to her father only when appearances made it inescapable. And furthermore, the argument must have been about him, since Leo addressed him with hesitant unfocused eyes, while Marion was determinedly, defiantly effusive, clinging to him and calling him ‘dear’ and ‘darling’, which she had never done before when others were present. The first faint worry began to sting him like a pebble in his shoe.

Dinner, then, was dismal. With Leo and Marion at the ends of the table and his mother and he at the sides, conversation passed only around the edges; father and daughter would not talk; mother and son could not talk, for anything they had to say would be personal and exclusive-sounding before these people who were still in a sense outsiders. So Marion called him ‘darling’ and told his mother about the Sutton Terrace apartment, and his mother spoke to Leo about ‘the children’, and Leo asked him to pass the bread please, not quite looking at him.

And he was silent, lifting each fork and spoon slowly as he selected it, so that his mother could see and do likewise; an affectionate conspiracy fallen into without words or signal, dramatizing the bond between them and forming the one enjoyable aspect of the meal – that and the smiles that passed across the table when Marion and Leo were looking down at their food, smiles prideful and loving and all the more pleasing to him because of the unsuspecting heads whose path they slipped across.

At the end of the meal, although there was a silver lighter on the table, he lit Marion’s and his own cigarette with his matches, afterwards tapping the folder absentmindedly on the cloth until his mother had noticed the white cover on which
Bud Corliss
was stamped in copper leaf.

But all along there was the pebble in his shoe.

Later, it being Christmas Eve, they went to church and after church Bud expected to take his mother back to her hotel while Marion returned home with Leo. But Marion, to his annoyance, assumed an unfamiliar coquetry and insisted on accompanying them to the hotel, so Leo went off by himself as Bud squired the two women into a taxi. He sat between them, reciting to his mother the names of what landmarks they passed. The cab, at his direction, departed from its course so that Mrs Corliss, who had never been to New York before, might see Times Square at night.

He left her in the lobby of her hotel, outside the elevator. ‘Are you very tired?’ he asked, and when she said she was, he seemed disappointed. ‘Don’t go to sleep right away,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you later.’ They kissed goodnight and, still holding Bud’s hand, Mrs Corliss kissed Marion happily on the cheek.

During the taxi ride back to Leo’s, Marion was silent.

‘What’s the matter, darling?’

‘Nothing,’ she said, smiling unconvincingly. ‘Why?’

He shrugged.

He had intended to leave her at the door of the apartment, but the pebble of worry was assuming the proportions of a sharp stone; he went in with her. Kingship had already retired. They went into the living room where Bud lit cigarettes while Marion turned on the radio. They sat on the couch.

She told him that she liked his mother very much. He said he was glad, and he could tell that his mother liked her too. They began to speak of the future, and he sensed from the stiff casualness of her voice that she was working up to something. He leaned back with his eyes half closed, one arm around her shoulders, listening as he had never listened before, weighing every pause and inflexion, fearful all the while of what it was leading up to. It couldn’t be anything important! It couldn’t be! He had slighted her somehow, forgotten something he’d promised to do, that was all. What could it be? He paused before each reply, examining his words before he spoke them, trying to determine what response they would bring, like a chess player touching pieces before making his move.

She worked the conversation around to children. ‘Two,’ she said.

His left hand, on his knee, pinched the crease of his trousers. He smiled. ‘Or three,’ he said. ‘Or four.’

‘Two,’ she said. ‘Then one can go to Columbia and one to Caldwell.’

Caldwell. Something about Caldwell. Ellen? ‘They’ll probably both wind up at Michigan or some place,’ he said.

‘Or if we only have one,’ Marion went on, ‘he can go to Columbia and then transfer to Caldwell, or vice versa.’ She leaned forward, smiling, and pressed her cigarette into an ash-tray. Much more carefully than she usually put out her cigarettes, he observed. Transfer to Caldwell. Transfer to Caldwell … He waited in silence. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I really wouldn’t want him to do that’ – followed up her statement with a tenacity she never would have applied to mere idle chatter – ‘because he would lose credits. Transferring must be very involved.’

They sat side by side, silently for a moment.

‘No, it isn’t,’ he said.

‘Isn’t it?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I didn’t lose any credits.’

‘You didn’t transfer, did you?’ She sounded surprised.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I told you.’

‘No you didn’t. You never said—’

‘I did, honey. I’m sure I told you. I went to Stoddard University, and then to Caldwell.’

‘Why, that’s where my sister Dorothy went, Stoddard!’

‘I know. Ellen told me.’

‘Don’t tell me you
knew
her.’

‘No. Ellen showed me her picture though, and I think I remember seeing her around. I’m sure I told you, that first day, in the museum.’

‘No, you didn’t. I’m positive.’

‘Well sure, I was at Stoddard two years. And you mean to say you didn’t—’ Marion’s lips stopped the rest of the sentence, kissing him fervidly, atoning for doubt.

A few minutes later he looked at his watch. ‘I’d better be leaving,’ he said. ‘I want to get as much sleep as I can this week, because I have an idea I won’t be getting much sleep at all next week.’

It only meant that Leo had somehow learned he’d been at Stoddard. There was no real danger. There wasn’t! Trouble maybe; the wedding plans might be blown up – oh Jesus! – but there was no
danger
, no police danger. There’s no law against going after a rich girl is there?

But why so late? If Leo wanted to check on him, why hadn’t he done it sooner? Why today? The announcement in the
Times –
of course! Someone had seen it, someone who’d been at Stoddard. The son of one of Leo’s friends or someone like that. ‘My son and your future son-in-law were at Stoddard together.’ So Leo puts two and two together; Dorothy, Ellen, Marion – gold-digger. He tells Marion, and that was their argument.

God damn, if only it had been possible to mention Stoddard at the beginning! That would have been crazy though; Leo would have suspected right off, and Marion would have listened to him then. But why did it have to come up now!

Still, what could Leo do, with only suspicions? They must be only suspicions; the old man couldn’t know for sure that he’d known Dorothy, or else Marion wouldn’t have been so happy when he himself told her he hadn’t known her. Or could Leo have withheld part of his information from Marion? No, he would have tried to convince her, given her all the evidence he had. So Leo wasn’t certain. Could he
make
certain? How? The kids at Stoddard, mostly seniors now, would they remember who Dorothy had gone with? They might. But it’s Christmas! Vacation. They’re scattered all over the country. Only four days to the wedding. Leo could never talk Marion into postponing.

All he had to do was sit tight and keep his fingers crossed. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday –
Saturday.
If worst came to worst, so he was after the money; that was all Leo could ever prove. He couldn’t prove that Dorothy didn’t commit suicide. He couldn’t drag the Mississippi for a gun that was probably buried under twenty feet of mud.

And if best came to best, the wedding would go off as per schedule. Then what could Leo do even if the kids at Stoddard did remember? Divorce? Annulment? Not nearly enough grounds for either, even if Marion could be persuaded to seek one, which she probably couldn’t. What then? Maybe Leo would try to buy him off …

Now
there
was a thought. How much would Leo be willing to pay to free his daughter from the big bad gold-digger? Quite a lot, probably.

But not nearly as much as Marion would have some day.

Bread now or cake later?

When he got back to his rooming house, he telephoned his mother.

‘I hope I didn’t wake you. I walked back from Marion’s.’

‘That’s all right, darling. Oh, Bud, she’s a lovely girl! Lovely! So sweet – I’m so happy for you!’

‘Thanks, Mom.’

‘And Mr Kingship, such a fine man! Did you notice his hands?’

‘What about them?’

‘So clean!’ He laughed. ‘Bud,’ her voice lowered, ‘they must be rich, very rich—’

‘I guess they are, Mom.’

‘That apartment – like a movie! My goodness—!’ He told her about the Sutton Terrace apartment – ‘Wait till you see it, Mom!’ – and about the visit to the smelter – ‘He’s taking me there Thursday. He wants me to be familiar with the whole set-up!’ – and towards the end of the conversation, she said:

‘Bud, whatever happened to that idea of yours?’

‘What idea?’

‘The one why you didn’t go back to school.’

‘Oh, that,’ he said. ‘It didn’t pan out.’

‘Oh—’ She was disappointed.

‘You know that shaving cream?’ he said. ‘Where you press the button and it comes out of the can like whipped cream?’

‘Yes?’

‘Well that was it. Only they beat me to it.’ She breathed a drawn-out ‘Oh’ of commiseration. ‘If that isn’t a shame … You didn’t talk to anyone about it, did you?’

‘No. They just beat me to it.’

‘Well,’ she said with a sigh, ‘things like that happen. It certainly is a shame though. An idea like that—’

When he had finished talking to her, he went into his room and stretched out on the bed, feeling good all over. Leo and his suspicions, nuts to him! Everything was going to be perfect. Jesus, that was one thing he was going to do – see that she got some of the money.

The train, having passed through Stamford, Bridgeport, New Haven, and New London, continued grinding eastward along the southern border of Connecticut, passing between flat snow on the left and flat water on the right; a segmented serpent from whose body trapped people vapidly gazed. Inside, aisles and vestibules were clogged with the Christmas Day overflow.

In one of the vestibules, facing a dirt-stained window, Gordon Gant occupied himself by counting codfish-cake bill-boards. It was, he reflected, a hell of a way to spend Christmas Day.

Shortly after six o’clock the train reached Providence.

In the station, Gant addressed several questions to the bored oracle of the information booth. Then, regarding his watch, he left the building. It was already dark outside. Crossing a wide and slushy thoroughfare, he entered an establishment which called itself a ‘spa’, where he made quick work of a steak sandwich, mincemeat pie, and coffee. Christmas dinner. He left the spa and went to a drugstore two doors away, where he purchased an inch-wide roll of Scotch Tape. He returned to the station. He sat on an uncomfortable bench and read a Boston tabloid. At ten minutes to seven he left the station again, proceeding to a nearby place where three buses stood waiting. He boarded a blue and yellow one marked
Menasset – Somerset – Fall River.

At twenty minutes past seven the bus paused midway down Menasset’s four-block Main Street, discharging several passengers, Gant among them. After a brief acclimatizing glance, he entered a 1910-looking pharmacy where he consulted a thin directory, from which he copied an address and a telephone number. He tried the number in the phone booth and, when the phone on the other end of the line had rung ten times without answer, hung up.

The house was a shabby grey box, one storey, the sills of its darkened windows furred with snow. Gant looked at it closely as he passed. It was set back only a few yards from the sidewalk; the snow between door and sidewalk was undisturbed.

He walked to the end of the deserted block, turned and came back, passing the grey house again, this time paying more attention to the houses on either side of it. In one, framed in the window’s home-made Christmas wreath, a Spanish-looking family was dining in an atmosphere of magazine-cover warmth. In the house on the other side of the grey one, a solitary man was holding a globe of the world in his lap, spinning it in its frame and then stopping it with his finger and looking to see which country his finger had chosen. Gant passed, walked to the other end of the block, turned, and came back. This time, as he passed the grey house, he turned sharply, cutting between it and the Spanish-family house. He went around to the back.

There was a small porch. Facing it, across a little yard laced with stiff clothes-lines, was a high board fence. Gant went up on the porch. There were a door and a window, a garbage can and a basket of clothes-pins. He tried the door; it was locked. The window was locked also. Propped on the sill within was an ice company sign, a square placard with 5, 10, 25, and X printed around the four sides. The X side was uppermost. Gant took the roll of Scotch tape from his pocket. Tearing off a ten-inch length, he pressed it across one of the window’s dozen panes, the one below the central latch. He fitted the ends of the tape over the pane’s moulding and tore off another ten-inch strip.

In a few minutes he had cross-hatched the rectangular pane with cellophane strips. He struck it with his gloved fist. There was a cracking sound; the broken glass sagged, held in place by the tape. Gant began to pull the tape ends from the moulding. When that was done he drew the rectangle of cellophane and broken glass from the window and lowered it noiselessly to the bottom of the garbage can. Reaching through the window, he unfastened the latch and raised the lower section. The ice placard fell back into the darkness.

He took a pencil flashlight from his pocket and leaned through the open window. There was a chair piled with folded newspapers before it. He pushed the chair aside and climbed in, closing the window after him.

The flashlight’s disc of pallid light glided swiftly over a cramped and shabby kitchen. Gant moved forward, treading softly on worn-through linoleum.

He came to a living room. The chairs were fat and velvet, rubbed bald at the arms. Cream-coloured shades were drawn down over the windows, flanked by floral-patterned paper drapes. There were pictures of Bud all over; Bud as a child in short pants, Bud at high school graduation, Bud in a private’s uniform, Bud in a dark suit, smiling. Snapshots were tucked in the frames of the portraits, surrounding the large smiling faces with smaller faces also smiling.

Gant went through the living room to a hallway. The first room off the hallway was a bedroom; a bottle of lotion on the dresser, an empty dress box and tissue paper on the bed, a wedding picture, and a picture of Bud on the night table. The second room was the bathroom; the flashlight caught decals of swans on moisture-faded walls.

The third room was Bud’s. It might have been a room in a second-class hotel; apart from the high-school diploma over the bed, it was barren of anything suggesting the occupant’s individuality. Gant went in.

He inspected the titles of some books on a shelf; they were mainly college texts and a few classic novels. No diaries, no engagement books. He sat behind the desk and went through the drawers one at a time. There were stationery and blank scratch pads, back issues of
Life
and the
New Yorker
, term papers from college, road maps of New England. No letters, no calendars with appointments written in, no address books with names crossed out. He rose from the desk and went to the dresser. Half the drawers were empty. The other contained summer shirts and swimming trunks, a couple of pairs of argyle socks, underwear, tarnished cufflinks, celluloid collar stays, bow ties with broken clips. No papers lost in corners, no forgotten pictures.

Perfunctorily he opened the closet. On the floor in the corner there was a small grey strongbox.

He took it out and put it on the desk. It was locked. He lifted and shook it. Its contents shifted, sounding like packets of paper. He put the box down again and picked at its lock with the blade of a small knife he carried on his key-chain. Then he took it into the kitchen. He found a screwdriver in one of the drawers and tried that. Finally he wrapped the box in newspaper, hoping that it didn’t contain Mrs Corliss’s life’s savings.

He opened the window, took the ice placard from the floor, and climbed out on to the porch. When he had closed and locked the window, he tore the placard to size and fitted it in the open pane, blank side out. With the strongbox under his arm, he moved quietly between the houses to the sidewalk.