An Air That Kills (3 page)

“Naturally.”

“I think you should call the police.”

“Why? It might embarrass poor Ron. He's rather sensitive about being caught by the cops in bed with another man's wife.”

“For Pete's sake, Esther, get off that kick, will you? This might be serious. Ron could be lying in some hospital or even a morgue.”

“He carries all kinds of identification in his wallet. If there'd been an accident I would have been notified.”

“Then you're not worried?”

“Worried? Yes, I'm
worried,
but it's not the kind of worry I want to share with the police department.”

“I'm amazed at your attitude, Esther, genuinely amazed.”

“You go right on being amazed, I can't stop you.”

“But what about Ron?”

“Ron,” she said dryly, “will be home in due course with a perfectly believable story which I may even believe, for a time. You needn't concern yourself about Ron. Wherever he is and whatever he's doing, I assure you he's not concerning himself about you, or me, or Harry, or anyone else.”

“That could mean he's dead.”

“The trouble with you and the fellows is that you all get maudlin when you've been drinking.”

The statement contained such a large element of truth that Turee didn't attempt to refute it. “I must say that's not a very friendly remark.”

“I'm not feeling too friendly at the moment. Now look. You and the fellows went up to the lodge for a weekend of fishing. Or whatever. If Ron shows up here I'll tell him you're worried and ask him to wire you. If he shows up there, you might do the same for me. Right?”

“Right,” Turee agreed, though he didn't feel it was right at all. The whole thing was wrong, Galloway's absence, Esther's attitude, Winslow's wild, drunken sobbing.
What a weekend
this
is shaping up to be
, he thought.
I ought to turn right around and drive home.

The air in the telephone booth had become hot and stale and when Turee opened the door and stepped out into the lobby he was sweating, red-eyed and ill-tempered.

Harry was standing beside the window looking intently out over the bay, as if there were many interesting things to be seen. But the bay was dark, nothing could be seen, and Turee knew that Harry had been listening—listening and perhaps hearing.

“Well, well,” Turee said with an attempt at heartiness. “It seems as though we were getting all discombobulated for nothing.”

“Ron's at home, then?”

“Not exactly. But I assure you Esther's not in the least worried about his well-being.”

“That sounds as if she's worried about something else.”

“Oh, you know Esther. She's hatched the idea that Ron went off on a bat. Who can tell, maybe she's right.”

“Maybe.” Harry turned back to the window, his jaw clenched so tight that his voice seemed to be coming from some other place, like a ventriloquist's. “I thought I heard you say something about me.”

“You? Oh, certainly. I explained about the mix-up in Wes­ton, how you had to keep your business appointment and . . .”

“I don't mean that.”

“All right,” Turee said quietly. “What else did you hear?”

“You told Esther you couldn't talk any more about some­thing because I was only ten feet away.”

“That's right.”

“What were you referring to?”

“Well, it's like this.” Turee was an inexperienced liar, and the circumstances—the wearing off of the drinks he'd had, the lateness of the hour, and the presence of the hotel manager behind the desk, wide-eyed with curiosity—con­tributed to his awkwardness. “The fact is, Esther had a suspi­cion that you and Ron went off on a bat together.”

“Esther should know me better than that. In the old days, well, perhaps, she might have had a point, but I'm a married man now.”

“Yes.”

“Esther
does
know me better than that.”

“What Esther knows and what she feels are often miles apart.”

“Are you telling me the truth?”

“About what?”

“Come off it, Ralph. We're friends.”

“Well, as one friend to another, I suggest we go back to the lodge and get some sleep.” Turee took a couple of tenta­tive steps toward the door, but when he saw that Harry didn't intend to follow, he turned around and came back. “We can't stay here all night, old boy.”

“Can't we?”

“Look, Esther's crazy suspicions shouldn't make the least difference to anyone. Now come on, let's go back to the lodge. There's nothing more we can do here.”

“Yes, there is,” Harry said. “I'm going to phone Thelma.”

“Why?”

“You don't have to have a reason for phoning your own wife. Besides, I want to find out if Ron ever showed up at the house.”

“But it's late, Thelma will be asleep. She may not even hear the phone.”

“It's right beside our bed.”

“Go ahead and call her then. Just don't say I didn't warn you.”

“Warn me?”

“What I mean is, if I phoned my wife at this hour of the morning she'd think I was drunk, and the next time I was invited to come up here with the fellows she'd raise a hell of a smell.”

“Thelma's not like that. She wants me to have a good time. She's a remarkably unselfish woman.”

Turee didn't argue. It was one of Harry's most ingratiating qualities, to attribute to other people the virtues he himself possessed.

As Harry slid into the phone booth and closed the door, Turee watched anxiously, thinking,
God, suppose Esther's right for once and Ron's there with Thelma
. . .
No, that's impossible
.
Thelma's just as crazy about Harry as he is about her.

He began to whistle, almost inaudibly,
I'm just wild about Harry
.

THREE

Thelma was not asleep, as Turee had predicted. She answered the phone on the second ring and her voice sounded alert, as if she'd been expecting the call. Or one like it.

“This is the Bream residence.”

Harry laughed. “I know that, sweetheart.”

“Oh, it's you, Harry.”

“None other. I hope I didn't wake you up.”

“No.”

“Are you glad to hear from me?”

“Of course.”

“Cross your heart and hope to die?”

“Cross my heart,” she said flatly, “and hope to die. How you enjoy playing games, Harry. You're like a child. But isn't it too late for games? Oughtn't children to be in bed? I think so. Tomorrow,” she added, “tomorrow you can play all the games you like.”

In their three years of marriage she had never addressed him in such a wearily patronizing manner. Harry colored, as if his face had been slapped. “Thelma, what's the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“That's not true. I know it's not true. What's happened, Thelma? Tell me. Tell Harry.”

Her only response was a sigh. He could hear it quite plainly; it was long and deep and sad.

“Thelma. Listen to me. If you want me to come home, I will. I'll start out right this minute.”

“No! I
don't
want you to come home!”

“What's the matter, Thelma? Are you feeling all right?”

Again she made no reply. Harry felt smothered by her si­lence. He pulled open the door of the phone booth a few inches and breathed in the new air deeply and rhythmically. With the door open Turee could overhear, but Harry didn't care. He was not timid or embarrassed about sharing his troubles with his friends since he had so frequently shared theirs.

“I'm ill,” Thelma said finally. “I've been ill all evening.”

“Get a doctor. Get a doctor right away.”

“I don't need a doctor. I know what's the matter.”

“What is it, sweetheart?”

“I can't tell you. This isn't—the time or place.”

“Look, Thel, take it easy. Lie down and relax. I'm coming home right away.”

“If you do, I won't be here.”

“For God's sake . . .”

“I mean it, Harry. I'll run away. I've got to be alone for a while to think. Don't come home, Harry. Promise me.”

“But I . . .”

“Promise me.”

“All right, I promise. I won't come home, not tonight, any­way.”

She seemed relieved by his promise and when she spoke again her tone was quite friendly. “Where are you calling from?”

“A hotel in Wiarton.”

“Haven't you been to the lodge yet?”

“Yes, but Turee and I drove back to find a phone so we could call Ron's house.”

“Why on earth should you call Ron's house at this hour?”

“To find out why he hasn't arrived here.”

“He hasn't arrived,” she repeated dully. “Is that what you said? Ron's not there?”

“Not yet.”

“But he left here hours ago. He came before eight and I gave him your message and we had a drink together. And then . . .”

She stopped, and Harry had to urge her to continue. “And then what, Thelma?”

“I—I asked him—I begged him not to go up to the lodge.”

“Why?”

“Because I had this feeling when he came in—it was so strong I nearly fainted—I had this
feeling.”
She began to weep and the rest of her words were distorted by great chok­ing sobs. “Oh, my God—warned—my fault—Ron's dead—­Ron—Ron . . .”

“What are you saying, Thelma?”

“Ron . . .” She repeated the name half a dozen times while Harry listened, his heart on fire, his face like stone.

Turee came over to the phone booth and opened the door. “Is anything the matter?”

“Yes. But I don't know what.”

“Perhaps I can help.”

“I don't think so.”

“Let me try, anyway. Go and sit down, Harry, you look terrible.”

The two men exchanged places at the telephone and Turee spoke briskly into the mouthpiece: “Hello, Thelma. This is Ralph.”

“Go away.”

“Listen, Thelma, I don't know what the situation is, but calm down for a minute, will you?”

“I can't.”

“Why don't you have a drink? I'll hang on for a minute while you go and pour yourself . . .”

“I don't want a drink.”

“All right, all right. just a suggestion.”

“It wouldn't stay down anyway. I'm ill. I've been vomit­ing.”

“Maybe you have a touch of flu.”

“I haven't got the flu.” She hesitated for a moment. “Is Harry standing anywhere near you?”

“No, he went outside.”

“You're sure?”

“I can see him walking up and down on the veranda.”

“I'm pregnant.”

“‘What? What did you say?”

“I'm going to have a baby.”

“Well, for—well, I'll be double-damned. That's great, Thelma, that's wonderful!”

“Is it?
”

“Have you told Harry?”

“Not yet.”

“God, he'll be thrilled to pieces when he finds out.”

“Maybe he will. At first.”

“What do you mean, at first?”

“When he starts thinking about it he won't be so thrilled.”

“I don't get the point.”

“Harry and I haven't taken any chances along that line for over a year,” she said slowly. “Harry didn't want me to have a baby, he was afraid complications might develop because I'm nearly thirty-five.”

“No method is foolproof. You could have had an accident.”

“It wasn't an accident. It was quite deliberate, on my part anyway. I wanted a baby. I'm getting old, pretty soon it would have been too late. I talked to Harry, I told him how I felt, many times. But he was terrified that something might happen to me. That's what he said, anyway. Maybe his real reasons were deeper, subtler, I don't know. Maybe he was jealous at the idea of my dividing my affections. But what­ever Harry's reasons were, at least now you know mine. I want this child. I love him already.”

“Him?”

“I have a feeling it's a boy. I call him Ron.”

“For the love of God,” Turee said. “Ron. Ron
Galloway?”

“Yes.”

“You're sure?”

“Now that's rather insulting, isn't it? It sounds as though I've been promiscuous.”

“I only meant, in a thing like this you've got to be ab­solutely positive.”

“I am.”

“For the love of God,” Turee repeated. “What a mess this is going to be. Think of Harry. And Esther.”

“I can't afford to. I have my child to think about. Esther never loved Ron anyway. She married him for his money, he told me so. As for Harry, I feel sorry for him, of course. He's a good man, I hate to hurt him, but . . .”

“But you will?”

“I will. I must. I have my child to consider.”

“That's just it, Thelma. Think a minute. For the child's sake, wouldn't it be better to keep this whole business a secret? Harry would make a wonderful father, and the child could be brought up without any fuss or scandal.”

“That's impossible. I don't want to keep this whole busi­ness, as you call it, a secret.”

“I strongly urge you to think about it.”

“I've thought of nothing else for three weeks, ever since I found out I was pregnant. And one thing I'm sure of—I can't go on living with Harry. He doesn't even seem
real
to me anymore. How can I explain it? The only thing that's real to me is this baby inside me. Ron's baby. They are my life now, Ron and his baby.”

The simple statement, spoken with such conviction, ap­palled Turee more than the actual circumstances behind it. For a moment he could hardly speak, and when he did, his voice was cold with disapproval. “I don't imagine Ron will feel quite so single-minded about it. After all, he's sired one child by his first wife and two by his second, so this is hardly a unique occasion for him.”

“If you're trying to make me jealous or angry, don't bother. Ron's had other women, other children, yes, but this is special. The baby's special. I'm special.”

There was no answer to this. Turee could only sit and stare silently and helplessly into the mouthpiece of the tele­phone, wishing with all his heart that he had stayed home and painted the garage, as his wife wanted him to.

“Ralph? Are you there?”

“Yes?”

“Ralph, I don't want you to get the idea that I'm—that I thought this all out ahead of time, that I planned it. I really didn't. It just happened, but once it happened, I realized how right it was for me.”

“Right
. Are you out of your mind, woman? What you're doing, what you've done, is completely and unjustifiably im­moral.”

“Don't preach at me. Words aren't going to change any­thing.”

“Well, for God's sake, consider Harry. This will kill him.”

“I don't think so. Oh, he'll be upset for a while, but even­tually he'll meet some nice clinging-vine sort of woman who'll let him fuss over her and pour pills down her throat.”

Turee was shocked. “You sound as if you actually hate him.”

“No. Just the pills. He was making an invalid out of me. I'm really quite strong. The doctor says I should have a fine, healthy baby. It's what I've wanted all my life. I was an only child living with a maiden aunt, and terribly lonely. I used to dream of growing up and getting married and having a dozen children so I'd never be lonely again.”

“You may,” he said heavily, “be lonelier than ever. People around here take a dim view of . . .”

“Oh, people. I don't care about them. All I need is Ron and the baby.”

“You're pretty sure of yourself, Thelma.”

“Yes.”

“Are you equally sure of Ron?”

“Yes. I told him about the baby tonight when he came over to pick up Harry. It seemed the right time to tell him.”

Turee wasn't certain he agreed with her. “How did he take the news?”

She said defensively, “Naturally I didn't expect him to be deliriously happy about it right at first. He needs time to think, to adjust to the situation. Any man would.”

“I'm glad you realize that,” Turee said dryly.

“He loves me, that's the important factor.”

“Is
it?”

“Don't worry, everything will work out fine. I have a feel­ing.”

Thelma's was a contradictory nature. This new feeling, that everything would work out fine, immediately eclipsed the old feeling that something had happened to Ron. Thelma could, in fact, superimpose one feeling on another feeling, like bricks, and it was always the latest, the top one, that was valid.

She added, “Oh, I know it's going to be messy in some ways, the divorce, for instance.”

“Ron can't get a divorce from Esther. He has no grounds.”

“I meant, Ron will pay her off and she can get the divorce.”

“Suppose she refuses?”

“Oh nonsense. Esther loves money. Besides, why should she refuse?”

“Some women,” Turee said with heavy irony, “aren't exactly thrilled at the prospect of breaking up their home and family.”

“Don't sentimentalize Esther. I haven't done anything more to her than she did to Ron's first wife. Except that my motives are cleaner.”

“How does Ron like the idea of going through the courts and the newspapers again as an adulterer?”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, can't you say something
cheerful?”

“I can't think of anything cheerful,” Turee said truthfully. “This isn't the type of situation that appeals to my sense of humor. Maybe Harry will be able to think of something cheerful. He's still outside on the veranda. Shall I call him?”

“No!”

“How are you going to tell him, Thelma?”

“I don't know. I've tried, I've led up to it, but—oh, it's
all so difficult.”

“You should have thought of that when you and Ron were hopping into bed together.”

“What a terribly coarse remark!”