I Married A Dead Man (19 page)

               
They stopped in front of the bank. He motioned her out and led her inside with him. He said something to one of the guards in an aside, and he and she sat down to wait for a moment on a bench.

               
For the briefest moment only. Then the guard had come back with a noticeable deference. He led them toward a door marked "Manager, Private." Before they could reach it it had already opened and a pleasant-faced, slightly stout man wearing horn-rimmed spectacles was waiting to greet them.

               
"Come in and meet my old friend Harve Wheelock," Father Hazzard said to her.

               
They seated themselves in comfortable leather chairs in the private office, and the two men shared cigars.

               
"Harve, I've got a new customer for you. This is my boy Hugh's wife. Not that I think your mangy old bank is any good, but--well, you know how it is. Just habit, I reckon."

               
The manager shook appreciatively all over, as if this were some joke between them that had been going on for years. He winked for Patrice's benefit. "I agree with you there. Sell it to you real cheap."

               
"How cheap?"

               
"Quarter of a million." Meanwhile he was penning required entries on a filing-form, as though he had all the information called for at his fingers' tips, didn't need to ask anything about it.

               
Father Hazzard shook his head. "Too cheap. Can't be any good." He offhandedly palmed an oblong of light blue paper onto the desk, left it there face down.

               
"You think it over and let me know," the manager said drily. And to her, reversing his pen, "Sign here, honey."

               
Forger, she thought scathingly. She handed it back, her eyes downcast. The strip of light blue was clipped to it and it was sent out. A midget black book came back in its stead.

               
"Here you are, honey." The manager tendered it to her across his desk.

               
She opened it and looked at it, unnoticed, while the two resumed their friendly bickering hammer and tongs. It was so spotless, so unused yet. At the top it said "Mrs. Hugh Hazzard." And there was just one entry, under today's date. A deposit.

                                               
"5000.00"

36

               
She stood there holding the small round canister, staring frozenly at it as though she couldn't make out what was in it She'd been holding it like that for long moments, without actually seeing it. She tilted it at last and dumped its contents into the washbowl. It had been better than half-full.

               
She went out, and closed the door, and went across the hall and knocked softly.

               
"I'm stepping out for just a moment, Mother. Hughie upset his whole can of talc in the bath just now, and I want to get another before I forget."

               
"All right, dear. The walk'll do you good. Oh--bring me back a bottle of that shampoo while you're in there, dear. I'm on the last of it now."

               
She got that slightly sickened feeling she was beginning to know so well. It was so easy to fool those who loved you. But who were you really fooling--them or yourself?

               
His arm was draped negligently atop the car-door, elbow out. The door fell open. He made way for her by shifting leisurely over on the seat, without offering to rise. His indolent taking of her for granted was more scathingly insulting than any overt rudeness would have been.

               
"I'm sorry I had to call. I thought you'd forgotten about our talk. It's been more than a week now."

               
"Forgotten?" she said drily. "I wish it were that easy."

               
"I see you've become a depositor of the Standard Trust since our last meeting."

               
She shot him an involuntary look of shock, without answering.

               
"Five thousand dollars."

               
She drew a quick breath.

               
"Tellers will chat for a quarter cigar." He smiled. "Well?"

               
"I haven't any money with me. I haven't used the account yet. I'll have to cash a check in the morning and--"

               
"They give a checkbook with each account, don't they? And you have that with you, most likely--"

               
She gave him a look of unfeigned surprise.

               
"I have a fountain pen right here in my pocket. I'll turn on the dashboard-lights a minute. Let's get it over and done with; the quickest way's the best. Now; I'll tell you what to write. To Stephen Georgesson. Not to Cash or Bearer. Five hundred."

               
"Five hundred?"

               
"That's academic."

               
She didn't understand what he meant, and was incautious enough to let him go on past that point without stopping him.

               
"That's all. And then your signature. The date, if you want."

               
She stopped short. "I can't do this."

               
"I'm sorry, you'll have to. I don't want it any other way. I won't accept cash."

               
"But this passes through the bank with both our names on it, mine as payer, yours as payee."

               
"There's such a flood of checks passing through the bank every month, it's not even likely to be noticed. It could be a debt of Hugh's, you know, that you're settling up for him."

               
"Why are you so anxious to have a check?" she asked irresolutely.

               
A crooked smile looped one corner of his mouth. "Why should you object, if I don't? It's to your advantage, isn't it? I'm playing right into your hands. It comes back into your possession after it clears the bank. After that you're holding tangible evidence of this--of blackmail--against me if you should ever care to prosecute. Which is something you haven't got so far. Remember, up to this point, it's just your word against mine, I can deny this whole thing happened. Once this check goes through, you've got living proof."

               
He said, a little more tartly than he'd yet spoken to her, "Shall we get through? You're anxious to get back. And I'm anxious to pull out of here."

               
She handed him the completed check and pen.

               
He was smiling again now. He waited until she'd stepped out and he'd turned on the ignition. He said above the low throb of the motor, "Your thinking isn't very clear, nor very quick, is it? This check is evidence against me , that you're holding, if it clears the bank and returns to you. But if it doesn't--if it's kept out, and never comes up for payment at all--then it's evidence against you , that I'm holding."

               
The car glided off and left her standing behind looking after it in her shattered consternation.

37

               
She all but ran toward the car along the night-shaded street, as if fearful it might suddenly glide into motion and escape her, instead of directing her steps toward it grudgingly as she had the two previous times. She clung to the top of the door with both hands when she'd reached it, as if in quest of support.

               
"I can't stand this! What are you trying to do to me?"

               
He was smugly facetious. His brows went up. "Do? I haven't done anything to you. I haven't been near you. I haven't seen you in the last three weeks."

               
"The check wasn't debited."

               
"Oh, you've had your bank statement. That's right, yesterday was the first of the month. I imagine you've had a bad twenty-four hours. I must have overlooked it--"

               
"No," she said with fierce rancor, "you're not the kind would overlook anything like that, you vicious leech! Haven't you done enough to me? What are you trying to do, drive me completely out of my mind--"

               
His manner changed abruptly, tightened. "Get in," he said crisply. "I want to talk to you. I'll drive you around for a quarter of an hour or so."

               
"I can't ride with you. How can you ask me to do that?"

               
"We can't just stand still in this one place, talking it over. That's far worse. We've done that twice already. We can circle the lake drive once or twice; there's no one on it at this hour and no stops. Turn your collar up across your mouth."

               
"Why are you holding the check? What are you meaning to do?"

               
"Wait until we get there," he said. Then when they had, he answered her, coldly, dispassionately, as though there had been no interruption.

               
"I'm not interested in five hundred dollars."

               
She was beginning to lose her head. Her inability to fathom his motives was kindling her to panic. "Give it back to me, then, and I'll give you more. I'll give you a thousand. Only, give it back to me."

               
"I don't want to be given more. I don't want to be given any amount. Don't you understand? I want the money to belong to me , in my own right."

               
Her face was suddenly stricken white. "I don't understand. What are you trying to say to me?"

               
"I think you're beginning to, by the look on your face." He fumbled in his pocket, took something out. An envelope, already sealed and stamped for mailing. "You asked me where the check was. It's in here. Here, read what it says on it. No, don't take it out of my hand. Just read it from where you are."

                               
"Mr. Donald Hazzard

                               
Hazzard and Loring

                               
Empire Building

                               
Caulfield."

               
"No--" She couldn't articulate, could only shake her head convulsively.

               
"I'm mailing it to him at his office, where you can't intercept it." He returned it to his pocket "The last mail-collection, here in Caulfield, is at nine each night. You may not know that, but I've been making a study of those things recently. There's a mail-box on Pomeroy Street, just a few feet from where I've been parking the last few times I've met you. It's dark and inconspicuous around there, and I'll use that one. It takes the carrier until nine-fifteen to reach it, however; I've timed him several nights in a row and taken the average."

               
He silenced her with his hand, went on: "Now, if you reach there before the carrier does, this envelope stays out of the chute. If you're not there yet when he arrives, I drop it in. You have a day's grace, until nine-fifteen tomorrow night."

               
"But what do you want me to be there for--? You said you didn't want more--"

               
"We're going to take a ride out to Hastings, that's the next town over. I'm taking you to a justice of the peace there, and he's going to make us man and wife."

               
He slowed the car as her head lurched soddenly back over the top of the seat for a moment

               
"I didn't think they swooned any more--" he began. Then as he saw her straighten again with an effort and pass the back of her hand blurredly before her eyes, he added: "Oh, I see they don't; they just get a little dizzy, is that it?"

               
"Why are you doing this to me?" she said smotheredJy.

               
"There are several good reasons I can think of. It's a good deal safer, from my point of view, than the basis we've been going on so far. There's no chance of anything backfiring. A wife, the law-books say, cannot testify against her husband. That means that any lawyer worth his fee can whisk you off the stand before you can so much as open your mouth. And then there are more practical considerations. The old couple aren't going to be around forever, you know. The old lady's life is hanging by a thread. And the old man won't last any time without her. Old Faithful, I know the type. When they go, you and Bill share unequally between you-- Don't look so horrified; that lawyer of theirs hasn't exactly talked, but this is a small town, those things sort of seep around without even benefit of wordof-mouth. I can wait that year, or even two or three if I have to. The law gives a husband one-third of his wife's property. Three-quarters of--I may be underestimating, but roughly I'd say four hundred thousand, that's three hundred thousand. And then a third of that again-- Don't cover your ears like that, Patrice; you look like someone out of a Marie Corelli novel."