The Man Who Loved His Wife (25 page)

“How would I know that? I always heard they wouldn't pay a nickel if a person committed suicide. Was it so terribly wrong?”

“Not only wrong, criminal. It could get you into a hell of a lot of trouble.”

“Oh, no!”

“It's a crime to conceal evidence. You could go to jail for it.”

The sickness returned. Cindy raced to the edge of the pavilion and vomited into a bed of marigolds. Don came after her. “Take it easy,” he said and led her to the long chair. She was as chilled and damp as if she had been fished out of the pool, as tremulous as if she had been rescued from death by drowning. Don offered to her a drink of water, some brandy or hot tea, but she refuted everything except a cigarette, which she reached for with such agitation that she grabbed at the air.

“Do we have to tell them?”

“It'd certainly change the case. I don't think Sergeant Knight would welcome the information.”

“Why not?” Cindy breathed more easily.

“It's big opportunity for him. He can get a lot of publicity out of a murder case, make himself a big man. How do you think he's going to take it if his murder turns out to be an ordinary suicide?”

“You see!” cried Cindy, who saw this reasoning as vindication.

“On the other hand, what does it prove? Only that there was a plastic bag and that it caused death by suffocation. He might well have done it himself.”

“Why do you keep saying that? Do you know anything special?” She dropped her burning cigarette onto dry wood.

Don did not notice. He had become the defense attorney, finding arguments to protect the client. “You might have saved your father's life by pulling off that bag. You'd had no experience with death. How did you know when you came into the room that he wasn't alive?”

“You're right. That's what I thought,” she cried eagerly. “That's why I did it. Honestly, Don.”

As defense attorney he felt it his duty to be objective considering the case from all angles. “It was a bit late for that.”

“How did I know? You just said, Don, that I didn't have any experience with death. You make me feel that I did something terrible.”

“You did something foolish. If you'd confessed to the detectives right away, your action wouldn't be questioned.” It was
necessary for the attorney to let the bewildered client know both the hazards and the hopeful aspects of the case. “The bag might be significant as evidence if it could be produced without incriminating you.”

“Can't you do something to fix it up? You're a lawyer.”

“Where is the bag? What did you do with it?”

“It's in my closet. Over my beige organza.” She dared a small chuckle. “At first I hid it on the floor behind our bags, but when those detectives started snooping around, I hung it over my dress. What could be more natural? A light dress like that ought to be kept covered. One of those men,” she said almost gaily, “looked straight at it. He opened my closet door and there it was, over my dress.”

“They came into our room?”

“Just for a couple minutes. Looked around without much interest. Of course there was nothing to suspect us of.”

“Of course not.”

“There was the bag right over my dress. I don't have to tell them about it, do I?”

“You're not to mention it to anyone. Let me think about it.”

“I had to tell you. I couldn't hold it in any longer.”

“If I thought it'd help, I'd advise you to let Knight know right away. But,” The pause was calculated, “Speaking as your lawyer, I want to give you this advice. Don't breathe this to anyone unless I advise it.”

“Suppose they find it?”

“It's just as you said dear, a plastic bag over a party dress is the most usual thing in the world.” A second and more ponderous pause was aimed at intimidation. “Is there anything else you think you ought to tell me?”

“Why . . . why should there be?”

“I'm asking.”

They went into the house. In their bedroom the sudden glare of electric light caused embarrassment, strangely, for they had lived together for almost a year. Cindy became as modest as if the sight of her body would expose something she wished to hide. Don went into the bathroom to take off his bathing trunks.
He came out in pajamas. Cindy had put on a long, opaque nightgown. They faced each other warily.

“You know what I think, Donnie?”

Don was far off, in the courtroom, hearing the monotonous voice of the clerk reading from Fletcher Strode's diary. When a man has written, not once but many times, that he suspects his wife of planning murder and murder is done, a jury cannot have much doubt.

“I spoke to you, Donnie.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Whoever put that bag over Daddy wanted it to look like suicide.”

“Obviously.”

“You don't have to bite my head off. I was just figuring things out. Why are you so snappy about it?”

“Sorry,” he answered curtly. “I was thinking about something else.”

“You know what you sound like? Like you're scared.”

“I have nothing to be afraid of,” Don said loftily. “Only for you, my sweet.”

“Oh, now! They wouldn't put me in jail for hiding the bag. I don't believe it.”

“You've got to be mighty careful. People get strange ideas. You know of course, that a person convicted of murder can't inherit the victim's property. That's the law in most states.”

“Why should that bother me?” She gave him her most wide-eyed stare.

Like a cautious attorney giving advice across the width of a desk, he lowered his voice. “I don't think for a minute that you've got anything of that sort to worry about, dear, but we do have to be careful about what we say since we . . . that is, you . . . are next in line for the inheritance of the property.”

“You're the only one who knows.”

“Weren't you a bit indiscreet this afternoon? It may have impressed Nan, but it might look to outsiders as if you wished to cast suspicion on someone else.”

Watching the blond girl in the mirror, Cindy rearranged a
stray lock. “Don't you trust me, darling?” And she enjoyed the reflection of a subtle smile.

“Naturally, darling. But it's only that sometimes you're,” he could not tell her she was crude and, instead, chose, “impulsive.”

“I can keep things to myself. You'd be surprised,” she told him with hauteur. “I may be thinking of something terrible right at this moment. And I won't tell you.”

“By all means, keep your thoughts to yourself. It's the safest way.”

In the mirror their eyes met. Cindy stared into his face with fixed zeal. Don wheeled around and looked at her directly. She moved toward him. In their eyes were understanding and promise. Cindy felt subtle. Don nodded delicately. Never in the wildest moments of love had they been closer in spirit. “Oh, Donnie, oh, darling.” It was like the final sigh upon a pillow.

THE NEXT MORNING, while Cindy was in the shower, Don took the party dress from its hanger. The almost inaudible rustle of the plastic stuff brought to mind the moment when he had kissed Elaine over a bundle of plastic-covered suits at the door of Fletcher's closet. WARNING: TO AVOID DANGER OF SUFFOCATION KEEP AWAY FROM BABIES AND CHILDREN. DO NOT USE IN CRIBS, CARRIAGES, BEDS, OR PLAYPENS. THIS BAG IS NOT A TOY. A shadow passed the window. Instinct commanded Don to jump back and slam the closet door. Second thought told him that such precipitate action might arouse the curiosity of anyone looking through the windows. In a leisurely way he selected a linen jacket and dark slacks, moving as carelessly as a man whose mind is on nothing more than the selection of an outfit for the day.

He found Elaine in the garden. When he laid his hand upon her arm she jumped like a cat. “It's only me, beauty. Nothing to get nervous about, is there?”

“This heat again. It tightens me up. And Sergeant Knight yesterday.” A delicate tremor possessed her. “I hardly slept at all. And even here, in bright daylight, I hear footsteps behind me. People jump out of bushes. I'm a mess.”

“You've handled yourself wonderfully. Few women would have such courage.”

She shook away from the light contact of his hand. “Ralph says I ought to have a lawyer.” Lest his pride be hurt by this, she hurried to say, “A local lawyer, someone who practices in California. What do you think?”

“Let's wait and see how things shape up. Leave it to me, I'll find you the best man in the state.” Don took her arm again, masterfully. When he had first heard about Fletcher's wife from Cindy and her mother, he had been charmed by their vindictive descriptions of the siren who had stolen the doting father and husband, and had thought of his father-in-law's young wife as one of the those lovely, unattainable New York girls who enter exclusive restaurants on the arms of wealthy older men or rich young playboys. Once Cindy had shown him a photograph in an old copy of a fashion magazine, Elaine wrapped in furs, stepping haughtily into a limousine. The lovely dream had become human, attainable, dependent upon Don Hustings. He wished the circumstances were different.

“Is it terribly serious, Don? Am I just being hysterical or do you think they really believe—”

There was a sudden flash of light. Someone jumped out from behind the row of oleander bushes. “Thank you, Mrs. Strode.” It was a thin girl with a leather case strapped over her shoulder and a camera in her hand. She scurried around the house to the driveway.

“There
was
someone in the bushes.” A trace of hysteria colored her laughter. “What were you saying, Don?”

He held more firmly to Elaine's arm. “What a pity,” he sighed, “that innocence can't be proved.”

FROM A BOOTH that smelled of old sweat and cigarettes, Don spoke to Sergeant Knight, “May I come and talk to you, sir? I've come across some information that might interest you.”

“Good. I'll be out there this afternoon.”

“I'm not home. As a matter of fact, I happen to be downtown,
right in your neighborhood. You don't mind my leaving the house, do you?”

“You weren't stopped,” Knight said. “But I'm afraid I can't see you this morning. I'm just leaving for Lowell Hanley's office.” He pronounced the name of the District Attorney with reverence. “Can you call me back in an hour?”

The meeting in the District Attorney's office was a long one. When Don called back, he was told that Knight was tied up. Don was restless. It was impossible for him to sit among the bums at a morning movie and among well-dressed idlers before the board in the broker's office. He wandered into a couple of shops, but found nothing to interest him in the way of Parisian ties, English macintoshes, Italian shoes. In hot sunlight he tramped without direction along ugly streets, among tawdry buildings, moldy movie theaters, appalling souvenir shops, cutrate drugstores, employment agencies, and cafés that poisoned the air with fumes of cooking fat too often heated. From time to time he paused, purposelessly, and found himself studying displays of secondhand furniture, Chinese vegetables, tropical fish, trusses, and artificial legs. Dispirited people shuffled past, ashamed to be walking in a city where self-respect is determined by the possession of a car, where the major pursuit is the car just ahead, and a pedestrian is looked down upon as a pauper.

The people who moved listlessly in the hot noon glare were poor and disenchanted, with shapeless clothes over coarsened bodies, dirty hair, and eyes that looked at nothing.

Sweating in a glass phone booth that caught and held the insufferable glare, Don began to doubt the wisdom of his latest move. He was certain that Knight would be grateful for his assistance and appreciate his honesty, but there was the possibility that the facts might be unpleasantly interpreted. While he wavered, Knight's voice came through. The meeting was over and he was ready, in fact anxious, to hear the important revelation. How soon could Don get to his office?

On impulse, Don suggested that Knight meet him for lunch, named an expensive restaurant with a cuisine that would sooth
the spirit of a curmudgeon, and give pleasure to a dyspeptic. Knight's enthusiasm was disarming.

They had no sooner met and been led, like the blind, through dark caverns to their table when Knight said, “Well, what's the earthshaking information?”

“Let's order our drinks first. You'll want to relax after that long conference.”

Although Knight was somewhat tense after an argument that had lasted more than two hours, he would take nothing stronger than a double tomato juice without Worcestershire sauce or Tabasco. Nor would he, although Don set a generous example by ordering the most expensive steak on the bill of fare, eat anything more extravagant than a vegetable plate with two poached eggs. Knight was no gourmet; he relished the restaurant's extravagance for snobbish rather than epicurean reasons. At some time he would let drop, “Now at Ticino's they really know how to poach an egg.”

“In dietetic habits I'm a Spartan. At home we eat only organically grown foods. My only weakness is coffee. A bad habit, but I need the stimulation in my work. But I limit my cigarettes. Most of the time I smoke to put other people at ease. They tend toward nervousness during an interrogation. Even the innocent wince when a member of the department asks a question. A cigarette gives them something to do with their hands. Let's get down to business. What's on your mind?”