The So Blue Marble (18 page)

    She waved her head.

    He opened the closet door, kicked out his bag, rummaged for a toothbrush, shaving tackle. He left the bag a cuckoo’s nest. He always had. He went into the bathroom. She sat on the outside of the bed, her hands folded.

    When he came back he said, “You’ll have to spend the night with me. Those country cops think we’re married. They needed a respectable touch what with movie stars and international soc boys.”

    He put out the light. His cigarette was a tiny rose madder circle. She wriggled to the far side of the bed. His side creaked when he swung in.

    “We’re all washed up.” The circlet was cerise, then rose again. “But if you don’t keep to your own quarters, I might forget you’re you.”

    Her voice was so tiny he might not have heard it. “I wouldn’t mind.”

    

    

    

    The car was whirlwind. Con on the wheel, Tobin by him; Griselda and Jasper held tight to the back tassels. You couldn’t hear what the two in front were saying.

    Jasper wasn’t saying anything. Griselda was choked with words but silent. The coroner’s verdict, “Death at hands of person or persons unknown.” Unofficially, “Probably a tramp.” Oppy chrome green from his air trip with bulbous tears wetting bis face. David and Danny and Missy, their precise answers, polite, amazed, their helplessness, and their unshakable alibis. They said they were returning to New York, first to the lake and then New York. Tobin and Con decided to drive, not fly. Tobin was afraid of something. Con was afraid too. He wasn’t afraid for her. They were all washed up. He’d said so. She didn’t want ever to leave him again. She adored him, the back of his head, with the hat shoved there. Her fingers bit into her hands. Maybe he’d keep her on awhile. A little would be better than nothing. If she didn’t tell him where the blue marble was, he wouldn’t let her go. She didn’t have to tell him. She was the only one who knew.

    New York again. Trees, then no trees. Streets of buildings. A slow pace. East Fifty-fifth Street

    Con drew up double, “I’ll take Griselda up, although we should be the first here.”

    He had the keys. She wasn’t afraid of the elevator with Con, not of the dark hallway, not of the apartment “I’ll be back about six.” It was four. “We’ll go to dinner. For God’s sake, don’t let anyone in.”

    Her eyebrows pointed. “No one? No one?”

    “The Montefierrows.”

    She shivered without knowing it. She chained the doors, leaned out the front window to watch. The mounted patrolman was by the car talking to Tobin. On the desk were a list of calls in Bette’s mis-spells, Ann, Jigg, Gigg, Anna, Artur, Ann.

    She luxuriated in bath salts, scrubbed with a sponge of eau de cologne. She groomed herself like a prima ballerina, nails, eyes, hair. It wasn’t for Con. He didn’t care. He didn’t even look at her. It was only to be clean again, clean of the smell of death, of terror. Complete, she didn’t dress; zipped herself into coppery lace, copper sandals on her feet

    She called Ann. Ann was so unchanged.

    “Where have you been? I’ve tried and tried to reach you, all day yesterday.”

    Didn’t Ann read the papers? It was black face all over the last night’s, this morning’s.

    Ann went on, “How horrible about Nesta Fahney, wasn’t it? And you and Jasper discovering it. But that’s where you were, of course. Why did you ever go up there? When are the twins coming back? How awful for them!” She didn’t wait for answers. “I want to hear all about it. Can’t you come up?”

    Griselda breathed, “I’m exhausted. We’ve just returned. And I’m out to dinner.”

    “I might come down.”

    She didn’t believe it. Ann never stirred herself.

    “I believe I will. Are you busy?”

    She sighed. “No. I’m resting. Don’t come, Ann. I can’t talk about it.”

    “I’ll get a cab and be down right away.”

    Griselda kicked her heels into the bed. Damn Ann anyway. She’d be there when Con came. She’d spoil everything. Con and Ann filed each other raspingly. She looked over the papers. Pictures of Jasper from the movie files, of Nesta, none of her. The evening papers would have the inquest ones, lights blinding your eyes while you repeated that senseless story.

    The doorbell. She opened it on the chain. It was Ann. She closed, reopened, chained it. Ann was unflurried, black with white gloves, white ruff on her heavy satin dress.

    “Come in the bedroom. I must rest.” She lay on the bed.

    Ann sat on the edge of it “Isn’t it ghastly? That lovely creature. Tell me.”

    She repeated again. It began to sound silly, like Peter Rabbit, lippety, lippety. She left out the bad touches. Ann supplied them; she’d read Olga’s tabloids.

    Griselda told her, “It still makes me rather sick.”

    “I’m sorry.” She asked for a cigarette. “What was Con doing there? Is he back?”

    Griselda said yes.

    “What are you going to do? Return to the West?”

    “I don’t know. He may not be staying. He and Tobin drove down with us; they brought me here.” Maybe he’d be late and Ann would be gone. She tossed her hair. “I won’t move out until he lets me know. I may get some rest yet.” She eyed Ann casually. “Anything new on the bank?”

    “It’s very stupid. Arthur thinks they know but they won’t tell anything. Arthur is still working slavishly, checking everything. The police keep asking about a blue marble. What is the blue marble?”

    Griselda put her head back on her arms. Heaven knows! But everyone in New York seems hipped on it. I never heard about it on the coast.”

    The doorbell again. Her watch said six-fifteen. Ann was on her feet “Shall I answer?”

    “I’ll go.” She went quickly, opened the door, forgetting the chain. Those heavy links snapped under a sliver of steel. “Oh!” She put her fist to her mouth, backed away. David and Danny were coming in. David was replacing his stick under his arm. They were as when she first met them, that night. But they weren’t smiling now; their eyes were blind. She kept backing and then she caught her breath, said loudly, “Ann’s here.”

    Ann came to the doorway. Griselda didn’t dare look away from the twins but her sister’s face must have mirrored the pleasure in her voice.”David! And Danny!”

    They smiled then, stopped staring at Griselda.

    “Ann, how charming!” They kissed her hands, one on each side. “We didn’t expect this surprise!”

    Ann’s laugh was quicksilver. “Griselda didn’t tell me she was dining with you!”

    The back of a chair printed Griselda’s hand.

    Danny laughed. “Are we early, Griselda?”

    David took out his cigarette case. “Maybe we could have a drink while Griselda dresses.”

    She was like a lump of putty.

    Ann took David’s hand. “I’ll help you.” She started him to the kitchen.

    Then Griselda moved. Her words were shrill. “Yes, do. Fix drinks. I’ll dress.” She scurried on mice feet, closed the bedroom door behind her, leaned on it. Their voices were light, laughing. She moved, silent as cotton, unleashed the back door, neutralized the bolt, closed it silently behind her. The backstairs weren’t frightening now. She fled up to the half floor above, knocked, pounded on the door, her head half-peering below. The door was miraculously opened.

    The woman was in black and her mouth had grief blackening it. “What is it? What do you want?”

    She didn’t let the woman bar her out. She pushed by into that warm, lighted kitchen. She knew that this was Mrs. Grain.

    Suspicion poked the words, “Who are you? What do you want?”

    Griselda smiled shakily. “May I use your phone?” She couldn’t hold the smile. Her voice rattled. “It’s terribly important.”

    Suspicion was there but Mrs. Grain sensed something, something in need. “Well, I guess so. Come along.” She led to the ugly living room, stiff with golden oak, garish with framed lithographs and embroidery. “There it is.” Decently, she went away.

    A telephone. She didn’t know whom to call. Where would Con be? She tried headquarters; they gave her Tobin’s home number but there was no answer. She tried the broadcasting company, Jasper’s rooms, the
Trib.
No one had seen Con; no one had seen Tobin. She couldn’t call all the bars in New York.

    She put down the phone. Mrs. Grain stood in the door. “Do you want anything else, Miss?”

    “No.” Hopelessness ravaged her face. “No. That’s all. Thank you.” She went back through the kitchen, said, “Thank you,” again. She was noiseless on the steps. One more chance. She turned to the back apartment, began knocking softly. If only Gig were at home and heard. No answer. She pounded harder and then her fists flattened against that door. She turned trembling.

    Danny was there. His lips smiled. He came towards her.

    She screamed, pushing against the unyielding door. “Don’t touch me!”

    He stood a paper breadth away from her. He didn’t stop smiling. “Why not?”

    Her breath was like wind. “I don’t want to die like Nesta Fahney!”

    He put his cigarette to his lips, then stepped back. “She was becoming a bore anyway.” He beckoned with his head. “Come, get dressed.” She followed him like an animal.

    

    

    He shot the bolts, put on the chain, sat down. “Get dressed.”

    She stood in the middle of the floor. “I won’t run again.”

    The smile had never gone from his lips. “Get dressed.”

    Red would warm her, hearth-fire red. Clouds of red tulle, red satin for her feet, red roses to circle her hair. Something to warm her, she who would never be warm again. She dressed slowly, preciously, as if for wedding or death. And Danny sat in the chair, smoking, the smile on his mouth, blankness over his eyes. Completion, readjustment of the wreath on her hair, lemon perfume, redder lips. And she heard Con’s voice, loud, merry, “Hello, there, having a party!”

    So were the condemned reprieved. But she didn’t run. She finished her lips, gathered the balloon of black velvet cape over her arm, took velvet gloves and bag. She didn’t want to pass Danny’s chair. She didn’t know what he might do. She forced the red satin slippers to find the connecting door. He stood, followed her.

    “Con.” Her throat was steady.

    He didn’t like Danny coming out of her room. A flash in his eyes. She ignored it

    “You’re late, darling.” She was trivial, touched his arm. To the others, “You’ll excuse us rushing you off. We’ve a dinner engagement.”

    Ann was puzzled. The twins were civilized. Ann began, “I thought…”

    David put his smile on. “Thanks for the drinks, Griselda.” Their hats tilted, white scarfs knotted. “Coming with us, Ann?”

    She looked at Con, at Griselda. “Yes. I hadn’t realized how late it is.”

    Tricklings but they were gone at last and Griselda stood, her fingers pressing her cheeks, as if to force away memory.

    Con looked her over. “What the hell?”

    She began picking up glasses, emptying ash trays.

    He repeated the question.

    “You are taking me to dinner, aren’t you? You said you were.” Her voice shook.

    He eyed her with curiosity. “Sure I am. But why the get-up? You know how I love a stiff collar.”

    She fingered the tulle. “You don’t even have to shave, or change your shirt.” And then she began to cry without sound or meaning.

    He was sharp. “Cut it, babe. What’s up?”

    She couldn’t say anything. He didn’t touch her. “I’ll shave.” He went into the bedroom. She tagged after, sat quietly in the chair where Danny had been. She was afraid to be alone.

    He pulled out his dinner clothes.

    She cried out, “You needn’t!”

    “I’m not a heel. Think I take a pretty girl out looking like one?” He whistled while he dressed. “Besides I’m not so bad looking myself when I get dolled up.” He was whistling an old song; they’d sung it five years ago. “’Every star above…’ Maybe not as fancy as your twinnies but not bad.” He transferred keys, books, pencils, polished his shoes with a towel, hung his hat on his head. “Come on, hon.” He billowed the cape around her. “Thought I told you to look out for Montefierrows.”

    They were at the door. She touched the broken chain. “They came in.” She remembered their eyes, their advance. She began to tremble again, forced rigidity. Her laugh wasn’t real. “Lucky Ann was here.”

    There was a small restaurant down below on Fifty-sixth. It smelled of the sea and French sauces. They sat in the corner on padded leather, their backs to the wall.

    He passed cigarettes, asked, “You haven’t smoked any of the twins’ brand?”

    “No. They’ve never offered them.”

    “Don’t. Tobin had stubs tested. There are two varieties, one to stimulate the nerves, one to still the nerves.”

    She’d been suspicious.

    He asked the inevitable question. “Where is the blue marble?”

    She was silent. He repeated.

    She said, “I won’t tell you that.”

    He shoved the salt shaker away. “Why not? Suppose something happens to you. Does anyone know?”

    She said that no one did.

    “Well then?”

    “If anything happens to me, you’ll get it.”

    “Why not tell me now?”

    She raised her eyes to him. “It’s better you don’t know.”

    “Mm?”

    “You’re safer not knowing.”

    He put his head back, chuckled, “You’re protecting me?”

    She nodded, solemn eyes on him.

    He cocked his head suddenly. “I do believe you’ve still got a heart for me.”