An Air That Kills (6 page)

“Neither have I, really. But it's not the kind of thing that needs much. I mean, the way he horses around with our two boys, you can tell he loves children. I think a baby would do them both a world of good.”

A baby, yes, Turee thought. But not this baby. He remem­bered what Harry had said while they were driving back to the lodge from Wiarton:
“I haven't told Thelma yet, I want it to be a surprise, but I've visited two adoption agencies this week, making inquiries.”

“Well, don't you agree, Ralph? That's what they need, a
baby?”

“Yes. For heaven's sake,
yes.
”

Esther looked at him in surprise. “What's gotten into you all of a sudden? Did I say something wrong?”

“No. I just consider it a subject that's none of my business.”

“And none of mine either, is that what you're implying?”

Her face had hardened. “Very well, let's drop it. I don't like Thelma much anyway, if you want the truth.”

“I've gathered that.”

“Am I so obvious?”

“Obvious enough.”

“Well, do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Like Thelma.”

“I don't like anybody this morning,” Turee said with an attempt at lightness. “Not even myself.”

Esther smiled without humor. “We're in the same boat, then . . . Listen, do you hear a car?”

“No.”

“I'm
sure I heard a car.” She hurried to the front door, pulling her plaid coat around her in anticipation of the cold air. “Maybe it's Ron. I'm
sure
it's Ron.”

In spite of all the things she'd said about him she sounded excited and eager at the prospect of seeing him. Turee followed her outside. He could hear the car now quite plainly, and a moment later it came into sight, winding up the drive­way between the spruce trees, leaving parallel black tracks in the frost.

It was a black and white car bearing the insignia of the Ontario Provincial Police on the front door. Esther turned, without a word, and went back into the lodge.

Turee waited while two uniformed policemen climbed ponderously out of the car and began walking toward him.
Well, this is it. Ron's been hurt. Or killed. They've come to tell us. This is it.

The two policemen moved slowly, looking around at the property with the careful scrutiny of a pair of assessors. The older man was heavy-set and red-faced with a scar along the crease of his right cheek that gave him a false one-sided smile.

He spoke first. “Hello there. Is this where Mr. Ronald Galloway lives?”

“Yes,” Turee said. The single word came out with difficulty. His contact with policemen had been limited to minor traffic tickets and he felt tongue-tied and uneasy, as if they
had come to accuse him of a crime he had committed unawares.

“You're not Mr. Galloway, by any chance?”

“No. A guest.”

“Mr. Galloway is here, then?”

“No. We—the other guests and myself—have been waiting for him since last night. I thought—that is, when I first saw you, I presumed you had some news of him.”

“A missing report, if that's news. I'm Lieutenant Cavell and this is my colleague, Sergeant Newbridge. May I ask your name, sir?”

“Ralph Turee. I'm an associate professor at the University of Toronto.” The words and the tone sounded snobbish and pretentious, as if he were deliberately attempting to lay a cloak of respectability over himself, like a child covering himself with a blanket and thinking he was well hidden. Yet the image irritated him. It seemed unfair to himself. He had committed no crime, he had nothing to hide, no reason to feel guilt.

Lieutenant Cavell's eyes narrowed, and the scar along his cheek deepened into a smile, as if he was quietly amused by such boyish antics as hiding under blankets. “Is that a fact, sir. Now suppose we go inside and talk a little about Mr. Galloway. Newbridge, you can look around out here.”

“Yes sir,” Newbridge said, but he appeared puzzled, as if he hadn't any idea what to look for or what to do if he found it.

Turee and Cavell went into the lodge. Esther had taken her place in front of the fire and was sitting with her legs crossed and her hands in her lap, looking poised and casual. Too casual. Turee suspected that she'd been hiding behind the door listening to the conversation.

She acknowledged the introduction to Cavell politely enough, but she didn't rise or offer her hand or even appear anxious to hear what he had to say.

It turned out to be very little. “I have only the barest facts. Less than an hour ago I received a radio message from the Toronto division that Mr. Galloway had been reported miss­ing by his wife. I have the time and place he was last seen, the make, model of his car, and that's about it. I am not in charge of the case or anything like that. I was merely asked to check up at this end, see if he had arrived or any­thing had been heard from him.”

“Nothing,” Esther said brusquely, “Not a word.”

“Well now it seems to me that if he's still on the road it will be an easy matter to spot him. Late model Cadillac convertibles aren't common in this neck of the woods, and if he had the top down in this weather, as I've been informed, he should stick out like a fire engine. If, on the other hand, he got tired and pulled into some motel for the night, we shouldn't have too much trouble there either. Motels aren't common in this area.”

“Suppose he isn't in the area.”

“Why should we suppose that, Mrs. Galloway? He intended to come up here, didn't he?”

“Intentions can change.”

“Is he the unpredictable kind who might take a notion to go off on a trip somewhere?”

Esther shook her head. “No. At least, not in the past.”

“Is
he a heavy drinker?”

“He gets drunks sometimes, but it's a quiet thing with Ron. He simply goes to sleep.”

“I hesitate to ask this, Mrs. Galloway, but it's my duty. Have you any reason to believe he was interested in another woman?”

Esther glanced briefly at Turee before she answered. “Ab­solutely none.”

Her tone was so positive that it seemed to fluster Cavell. As if to cover his confusion with some activity, he removed from an inner pocket of his jacket a small brown notebook. “According to my information, Mr. Galloway was last seen by a Mrs. Bream who lives in Weston. Is she a friend of yours, Mrs. Galloway?”

“Her husband and mine have been friends since Upper Canada College. Ron went to Weston to pick up Harry, that's Mr. Bream, and bring him along to the lodge. Only Harry had an emergency call to make first, so he came on alone. He's upstairs now, still asleep. I can wake him up, if you like.”

Turee made a grimace of protest, but if Esther noticed it she paid no attention.

“I don't think Harry can tell you any more than you already know,” Turee said. “I suggest we let him sleep. He had a rough night.”

Cavell raised his eyebrows. “Rough in what sense, Mr. Turee?”

I've got to learn to curb my tongue,
Turee thought,
and not to volunteer any information
.
Eventually they'll find out everything, about Thelma and the baby and Ron, but it's not my business to
bring it out.
He said cautiously, “We were up nearly all night attempting to track Ron down.”

“We?”

“Harry Bream and I, and the other two guests, Bill Winslow and Joe Hepburn.”

“And just what form did these attempts take?”

“Harry and I drove back to Wiarton and called Esther­—Mrs. Galloway—on the chance that Ron hadn't left the house for some reason or other. She told us he had left so then we called Harry's wife. She said that Ron had turned up on schedule, stayed long enough for a drink and then set out again.”

“Is that all?”

“Well, Thelma—Mrs. Bream—said Ron had complained of feeling ill. There's a possibility there, don't you think?”

“Such as?”

“Well, Ron takes his symptoms pretty seriously. He may have stopped off to see a doctor, he may even be in a hospital somewhere.”

“He's as healthy as a horse,” Esther said.

“Yes, but
he
doesn't think so.”

“Besides, he's scared to death of hospitals. He had to be practically dragged to come and see me when the boys were born.”

Cavell stared at her thoughtfully. “It seems to me you're not very willing to accept any theory, Mrs. Galloway.”

“Willing, yes. Able, no. I know my husband quite thoroughly and none of the possibilities suggested so far has seemed plausible.”

“Have you any theory of your own, Mrs. Galloway?”

“I might have.”

“If you had,” Cavell said dryly, “what would it be?”

“I think Ron may be trying to avoid me, for some reason.”

It was so close to what Turee himself was thinking that he made a little sound of surprise, like a man who's just had his mind read.

Cavell said, “Why should your husband be trying to avoid you, Mrs. Galloway?”

“I don't—know.” She flashed another sharp look at Turee as if she half suspected that he could supply the answer if he chose to.

Turee thought,
she's too damned bright for her own good. And too honest to hide it. No wonder she and Ron have some bad times.

“You might,” Esther added, to Cavell, “talk to Harry Bream.”

“Why?”

“He and my husband are what you might call buddies.” She put a sneer in the word. “If Ron has any secrets, Harry is his most likely confidant.”

Turee made one more attempt to spare Harry the ordeal. “No more likely than I, surely, Esther?”

“Much more and you know it.”

“All right then. I'll go and wake him up.”

SIX

Harry was still asleep, lying on his stomach and without a pillow, like a baby; and, as a baby will suck at things for comfort and security, so Harry had seized a corner of the blanket and had it pressed tightly against his mouth.

The night table beside the bed held an unlabeled bottle of red capsules and a nearly empty water glass.

“Harry? Hey. Harry.”

He did not respond either to his name or the touch of Turee's hand on his shoulder. Turee leaned down and with great effort rolled him over on his back. Then he put his hand firmly under Harry's chin and moved his head from side to side several times until Harry's eyes opened.

“Don't do that,” Harry said.

“Come on, wake up.”

“It's cold.”

“It's warmer downstairs. Get your shoes on. We have a visitor.”

“Don't care.” He closed his eyes again. “Don't care a damn.”

“How many of those red capsules did you take?”

“Don't remember. Doesn't matter.”

“It matters now.” Turee put his hands under Harry's shoul­ders and forced him to a sitting position. Harry's head lolled back and forth as if his neck was broken.

“Why?” Harry said. “Why it matters?”

“There's a policeman downstairs, he wants to talk to you.”

“Why?”

“About Ron. They're still trying to find Ron. Esther reported his absence to the police and then she drove on up here.”

“Esther? Here?” He shook off Turee's hand and sat up by himself. His tone was more alert and his eyes had begun to focus properly. “Esther shouldn't have come here.”

“Why not?”

“The place is a mess.”

“So?”

“We'll have to clean it up a bit. Esther hates a mess.”

Like the other fellows, Harry stood in considerable awe of Esther. It was not that she was unpleasant to them, but she had a subtle way of always being right that reduced them to a state of self-doubt and confusion. She could, without saying a word, walk through a room and indicate, merely by her posture and a faintly lifted eyebrow, that there were cobwebs on the rafters and dust under the rugs. And sure enough, if anyone took the trouble to look, the cobwebs would be there, and so would the dust.

Harry peered down at his wrist watch. “It's not even nine o'clock.”

“I know.”

“Esther—she must have stayed up all night.”

“Practically.”

“Why did she decide to come here?”

“To check up on Ron for herself.”

“She doesn't trust us, I guess.”

“Not very much.”

“What does she think we're doing, covering up for him?”

“Maybe.”

“Covering up what, I'd like to know. Does she think we bring
women
up here or something?”

“Could be.”

“My God, that's a laugh.”

“Not to her, it isn't.”

“Esther's a funny girl. When I compare her with Thelma, for instance—why that's the last thing in the world Thelma would suspect. Thelma
likes
me to go away and have a good time. There isn't a selfish bone in her body.”

Turee felt like gagging but he managed to say quite calmly, “Hurry up and get ready.”

“All right.” Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed and began putting on his shoes. “A policeman, eh?”

“Yes.

“What kind?”

“One of the Provincial Police on duty in this area. He got the report from Toronto by radio and was asked to check up.”

“And you say Esther reported it?”

“Yes.”

“Funny, when you talked to her last night she wasn't worried at all, wouldn't hear of bringing in the police.”

Turee, too, had noticed the discrepancy but had ascribed it merely to the unpredictability of women.

Harry stood up, ran a comb through his hair, and buttoned the collar of his flannel shirt. “I ought to shave, Esther being here and all that.”

“There isn't time.”

“Thelma wouldn't like it if she . . .”

“Thelma's not here.”

“Well, all right.”

“And Harry, listen, this inspector, he seems pretty cagey. Watch yourself.”

“How do you mean?” Harry asked.

“Don't talk too much.”

“About what?”

“About anything you and I discussed last night.”

“We discussed a lot of things last night.”

“You know what I'm referring to.”

“But I don't. So help me, I don't.”

“About Thelma—Ron's having a crush on her, I mean. Don't mention it.”

Harry blinked. “Why should I? It's not true. I told you that last night. Thelma likes to daydream, to pretend things. I told you that last . . .”

“I know you told me.”

“Well, don't you believe it?”

“Certainly, certainly,” Turee said, trying to keep the irrita­tion out of his voice. “But the Inspector might not. He doesn't know Thelma the way we do. So keep quiet about it, eh?”

“You never give me any damn credit for any damn sense. You'd think I was a moron.”

“Everybody's a moron about something.”

“Meaning?”

“No meaning, no meaning at all,” Turee said and walked out of the room with Harry following along behind, taking short angry little steps.

Downstairs, Esther and the Inspector had apparently reached the end of their conversation. Cavell, an unlit pipe in his hand, was studying the rows of books in the bookshelves, while Esther stood with her back to the fire, watching him with silent intensity. She was smoking a cigarette, rapidly and furiously, as if she had a great many things that she wanted to say and couldn't, and was using the cigarette as a cork to bottle them up.

Turee introduced Harry and Cavell, and then he turned and said pointedly to Esther, “You and I can wait in the game room. The Inspector might want to talk to Harry alone.”

Esther gave him a sharp look, but she made no verbal objection as he put his hand on her elbow and guided her out into the hall.

The game room, which was across the hall from the kitchen, contained ample proof that the fellows were not as enthu­siastic about fishing as they were about certain other sports: a well-used poker table with ivory chips, a pinball machine, an elaborately carved billiard table with a dozen cues racked up on the knotty pine wall.

Esther perched on the side of the billiard table, her right leg swinging aggressively as if it wanted to kick at something or someone.

She said, “All right, let's have it.”

“Have what?”

“The reason you spirited me away from Harry and the Inspector.”

Turee smiled. “My dear Esther, no one spirited you away. You're too big a girl to be spirited away, for one thing.”

“Don't go off on verbal maneuvers. Why were you so anxious to get rid of me?”

“I wasn't anxious. I simply thought it would be polite if you and I let the Inspector talk to Harry in private.”

“Politeness. That was one reason?”

“Certainly.”

“Now what are some others?”

“Others?”

“You always have an ulterior motive, Ralph, sometimes several of them. You remind me of a set of boxes the boys used to play with when they were younger—when you open the largest one, you find a smaller one, and inside that, still a smaller one, and so on.”

“I'm not sure I follow you.”

“Every time you give me a motive for doing something, I know there's another reason inside it, and yet another inside that one. Inside every box there's a motive.”

“It can't go on ad infinitum. What's in the smallest box?”

“Your fat little ego.”

Turee's laugh had a brittle note. “You make me sound extremely complicated.”

“Or devious.”

“I'll make you a promise, Esther. If I ever open that last box, I'll invite you over. Will you come?”

“With bells on,” Esther said primly. “I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

“Of course, I don't guarantee there'll be much of a surprise inside. Just one fat little ego.” Turee could see that she was enjoying the game; he was even beginning to enjoy it him­self. “What do you suppose it'll look like?”

“A kewpie doll. One of those tiny celluloid kewpie dolls you can buy in the dime store.”

“That's not very flattering.”

“Oh it is, really. Compared to what I think mine would look like. Or Ron's.”

“What about Ron's?”

“Ron would never get to the last box. Or if he did, he'd never invite me over to see it, or anyone else. It would be strictly a private showing.”

“I wish you could think more kindly of Ron.”

“I wish I could, too,” Esther said slowly. “I happen to love him.”

MacGregor had laid a fire in the fireplace and the room by this time was so warm that the windows had steamed up. Turee had a childish impulse to go over and write his name in the steam, or print a message or draw a picture—a heart with an arrow piercing it, and underneath, ESTHER LOVES RON.

“I'm not very sensible,” Esther said, in a detached manner. “I appear to be sometimes—very sensible and efficient and practical. Actually it's all a front. I'm a fool, and the worst kind, too, the kind that knows it, that sees ahead of time all the wrong things to do and does them anyway. I fell in love with Ron the first time I met him. I knew he had a wife and child. I knew he was spoiled by too much money and a terribly foolish set of parents, I knew our backgrounds and our tastes were completely different. I went after him anyway, tooth and nail. It was easy. Ron was a perfect setup. He still is.”

“How do you mean that?”

“If I could do it, any woman could. Or can.”

“Now, Esther, don't go . . .”

“Ron is a patsy. The perfect patsy.”

“Your circumstances aren't quite the same as Dorothy's.”

“Oh, they're different, all right. But are they any better?”

It was, perhaps, the opportune time to tell her everything he knew about Thelma and Ron, but Turee had neither the courage nor the desire, nor even all the facts. It seemed to him a fateful piece of irony that Esther should now find herself in the same position into which she had forced another woman a long time ago. Somebody would have to tell her. Who, he wondered, had told Dorothy?

Turee had not seen Ron's first wife, Dorothy, for a number of years. Dorothy was a wispy blonde, the daughter of a furniture manufacturer, and as badly spoiled in her own way as Ron was in his. A confirmed hypochondriac before she was out of her teens, by the time she married, at twenty-one, she had become the prey of every quack in the city. Her in­frequent outings with her husband, to concerts or plays or dinner parties, were always interrupted between acts, during intermission or before dessert, by sharp and mysterious pains that sent her home, usually alone. Her one pregnancy, spent largely in bed, had resulted, to everyone's surprise, especially Dorothy's, in a perfectly normal girl child. The girl was raised from the beginning by a governess, so that Dorothy was left free to concentrate on her multitude of symptoms. If Ron had been, as Esther claimed, the perfect setup, it was, without doubt, largely due to Dorothy.

The last news Turee had had of Dorothy was from Harry, who went to see her once or twice a year for old times' sake. Harry reported that she was living in her mother's town house on the north side, with two special nurses in atten­dance, a recluse before she was forty. She had confided to Harry, whom she had always liked, perhaps because of his interest in drugs and medicines, that she was suffering from an obscure malady of the bloodstream and would not last the year. She invited Harry to attend her funeral and Harry, ever one to oblige, had accepted the invitation.

Dorothy and Esther—they were poles apart, and Turee wondered how Ron could have married them both. Perhaps Dorothy's frailty had made him feel more masculine, but after a liberal dose of that, he married Esther as an antidote, someone he could lean on.

Esther said suddenly, “Would you like to play a game of billiards?”

“Not much.”

“Nor I, really. I just thought it would help pass the time. I guess I shouldn't have come up here. There's nothing I can do, is there?”

“Now that the police are in charge we'd better let them handle everything. A bunch of amateurs milling around won't help.”

“Ah, yes, the jolly old police.”