This Sweet Sickness (16 page)

There was another gamut at Mrs. McCartney's. Mrs. McCartney had a special dinner for him, turkey with accessories, shared by the entire dining room, and even preceded by port wine in thick, stemmed glasses. Everyone asked him about his new job. He explained how cores were taken from the earth and the ocean bottom and marveled to himself that there could be a room of twelve or more living, breathing people of whom only one or two had ever heard of taking sample cores. When he went out of the dining room with Mr. Muldaven, Effie Brennan was sitting in the straight chair in the hall.

She got up and greeted him with a smile. “Finally caught you, Dave.”

“Hello, there. Why didn't you come in the dining room?”

“Oh, I knew it was a special dinner for you. I don't belong here any more. I was hoping you might come by my place for a last talk, Dave,” she said, turning her pleading eyes up to him.

David realized he owed her a great deal, but at that moment the prospect of going with her to her apartment was the last thing he wanted to do. “I was going to see Mrs. Beecham for a while,” he said. “She's expecting me.”

“All right. I can wait,” Effie said with a smile. The tip of her slightly upturned nose was pink and shiny from the cold. “She'll be going to bed soon, won't she? You'd better hurry.”

“Effie, I've still got some things to do. In the way of packing, you know.”

“But this is important, Dave, honestly.” She came closer to him, suddenly earnest and straining. “I want to talk to you.”

It would have been easier to get rid of a bulldog with its teeth sunk in his wrist. “All right. Let me go tell Mrs. Beecham.”

He had no appointment with Mrs. Beecham, and he was grateful that Effie walked toward the front door, from which she could not see the top of the first flight of stairs. David went into his own room, spent a few minutes puttering around, got his coat, and went down again.

21

B
ack through the door under the sign of Dr. Needle, painless dentist. It was the second time David had been to Effie's apartment, and it seemed smaller and more cluttered. A round, orangey-pink cake stood on the coffee table with a big
D
on it in black chocolate.

“That's for you,” Effie said, hanging up her coat in the foyer closet. “I made it—and Wes may come over tonight. In fact it's practically certain. Maybe in half an hour.” She was so tense her voice sounded hysterically shrill.

Her nervousness made him nervous. He opened his arms stupidly and said, “Well, that's very nice. We'll all have coffee and cake.”

“I'll bet old Wes won't have any coffee
or
cake. I've got scotch for him. You—I've got a bottle of sauterne for you.”

Good God, David thought, then reproached himself for his ingratitude. “I'm honored,” he said, smiling.

“Sit down, Dave.”

He waited until she had sat down in an armchair, then he sat down on the sofa.

“Dave, before Wes comes,” she said, “I wanted to tell you Annabelle called me today.”

“Why?”

“Well, why not? Just to be friendly.”

“But why did she call you?” It was Annabelle's calling her and not him that galled him.

“Dave, I happen to think it's nice—even remarkable—if a woman can be friendly enough even though I happened to send her husband to the house where he was killed.”

“All right.” David looked away from her face.

“What I wanted to tell you is the police, the Beck's Brook police, aren't going to stop looking for Newmester.”

“Oh? What're they doing about it now?”

“Annabelle said they're looking up everybody by that name, but they can't find any journalist nor anybody by that name who's around thirty and answers that description they've got.”

David had to smile. “There must be a William Neumeister somewhere who answers that description.”

“You're awfully casual, Dave.”

“All right, Effie. Thank you for telling me. But I wish you'd stop trying to alarm me, because I'm not afraid of anything.” He stood up.

“I think you are. I think you'd lose Annabelle if she knew. She wouldn't care to see you any more. I know that.”

Here was the blackmail again. “I'm not so sure of that.”

“I think you are. Meanwhile you expect me to protect you. You just take it for granted I will.” Her voice had begun to shake with hysterical, incredible tears. “And I have—with the police and with Wes, too.”

David glanced at her uneasily. “I've told you what happened at that house was an accident. And if I wanted to buy a house under another name, what is it to anybody?”

“I'm even trying to persuade Annabelle to drop this business of finding Newmester,” she interrupted him. “But I can't help it if the police are interested now. Annabelle thinks Newmester tried to kill her husband in that fight. Maybe out of self-defense, but that he tried to and did and that's why he's hiding out now and maybe going under another name.”

David laughed.

“You're lucky, Dave,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

“I think Neumeister's lucky. But Neumeister's finished now. He's disappeared and forever.”

“Annabelle told me they're checking the references you gave when you bought the Ballard house. They won't stand up, will they?”

David shrugged. “Not if they look hard.”

“Have you thought of getting yourself a real alibi? A real house or a person you could say you were with on those weekends?”

“You?” David asked, smiling.

She got up and stood by the dark window, looking out. It was so silent he could hear a clock ticking in the bedroom. He felt a nervous amusement, something quite uncontrollable, at least for the moment. He thought of a funny remark, and set his teeth together to keep from saying it. “I'm sorry, Effie,” he said.

“Oh—let's open the Sauterne.”

He got up to help her with it in the kitchen. Great play of hands over the corkscrew. David chose to think it funny. There was no other way to take it.

“You must be looking forward to your new job. I've never seen you in such a good mood.”

“I think I'll be this way from now on,” David said. He noticed some gray in Effie's hair, just two or three gray hairs, in the bright light of the kitchen. They were somehow comforting.

She had a glass of wine, but she insisted the whole bottle was for him. It touched him that the Sauterne was bona fide French and quite good.

“You've found a house, Wes told me,” she said. “Where is it?”

“I wouldn't know how to say. Near Dickson-Rand, which is near Troy.”

“But what's your address? Where can I write to you?”

“Dickson-Rand, Troy, New York.”

“Oh, Dave, I'll miss you,” she said in a sentimental tone, and started toward the cake as if to cut it, but there wasn't a knife, and she went off to the kitchen, came back with one, awkwardly laid it on the cake plate, and sat down again.

“This is one of those silly cake knives you get by sending off four box tops and fifty cents,” she said. “Someday I'll really have to start collecting silver.”

Her eyes gave him a sensation of being slowly drained, and realizing this, the situation seemed vaguely comical again. She put a record on the phonograph, assuring him she would play it very low, asking him if he minded French records. David happened to have the record himself, though he didn't tell her so. He remembered going into a music shop to buy something else and hearing part of the French record, liking the piano in it and thinking Annabelle might like it. Effie sat down again and took another cigarette.

“Will you be seeing Annabelle very much when you're in Troy? That's not so far away from Hartford as Froudsburg, is it?”

“About the same. Yes, I certainly expect to be seeing her,” David said. “Anyway, I think she'll be moving from Hartford soon.”

“Oh? To where?”

“Well, I'm not quite sure yet.”

“You're still—very much in love with her?”

“Of course,” David said, and then Effie's wistful, almost tragic smile made his own confident smile leave his face and he looked away from her out of pity. He poured his glass half full again. Effie still had most of her glass.

“When will you know, Dave?”

“Know what?”

“Whether she's going to marry you or not?”

“I know now. She is. I don't say next month, but—”

“That's why I asked you when you'll know.”

“I don't see that it matters much when,” he said quickly, and at the same time the doorbell rang.

Effie pressed the button in the kitchen, then with her old nervousness back—such an unpleasant contrast to Annabelle's calm—she said she'd fix Wes's drink right away and began to clatter the ice tray.

Wes came grinning broadly, chucked Effie under the chin, and accepted the scotch and soda as soon as he had removed his overcoat.

“I didn't really think you'd make it tonight, Dave,” Wes said for the second time. “Good for you, Eff.”

“Why, it was easy,” said Effie. “He came along like a lamb.”

He hadn't, David thought. Effie had tricked him into coming by telling him she had something of the greatest importance to tell him. That Neumeister story—she hadn't told him anything that he had not known or could not have predicted for himself.

David sensed a falseness in Wes's good humor, and he suddenly realized that it had been many weeks since Wes had come to see him in his room at Mrs. McCartney's. David also found himself recalling the incident at the factory today, the incident at Michael's Tavern, and he felt self-conscious and ashamed. He was sorry he had sent Wes sprawling on the floor, and sorry he was going to leave before he had attempted to patch things up. Wes and Effie had a second drink, and because they pressed him and David wanted to be agreeable, he accepted a scotch and water. He had drunk more than half the Sauterne. David watched Wes's face as a spate of silly words came out of his mouth, accompanied by Effie's giggles at regular intervals. He fingered the wristwatch under his cuff, and when Wes ended a story with a clap of laughter, David stood up and said, “Take my watch, Wes.” He handed it to Wes.

Wes looked at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“I'd like you to have it. You like it, don't you?” He knew Wes liked it, because Wes had often told him he thought it was a handsome watch.

Wes took it uncertainly. “That's an expensive watch, pal.”

“David,” Effie said reproachfully, “that's a lovely watch.”

“That's why I want him to have it,” David replied, opening his arms and letting them drop at his sides. “What's so funny about that? I'll get myself a new watch.”

“A Vacheron Constantin? On your new salary?” Wes asked. “The liquor's gone to his head, Eff.”

“I want you to have it,” David said. “I'm tired of it, in fact, and you like it and it keeps wonderful time and the big second hand's very useful.”

“No, Dave.”

“Take it! I can't understand what all the fuss is about!” David shouted, and then smiled at Effie's startled expression.

There was silence then, and finally Wes said very seriously, “Well, thank you, David. If you ever want it back—”

“I don't ever want to see that watch again. I'm going to buy a new watch.” David was amused by their startled faces, by the puzzled glances they exchanged. “Put it on, put it on,” he said to Wes.

“Two wristwatches,” Wes said, fastening the alligator strap. “I've always wanted to be rich enough to wear two wristwatches.”

David gave a sad, disappointed laugh, and sat down.

Wes cleared his throat and drank, deeply. “If this is an evening for farewell presents, why don't you take the sketch Effie made of you, Dave? She got it framed for you.”

Effie looked suddenly panicky. David watched her with curiosity. “I destroyed that sketch—I'm sorry to say.”

“Really?” Wes frowned. “Destroyed it, Eff?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why?” Wes asked.

And Effie got up and went into the kitchen without answering.

Rather grateful that she had destroyed the sketch, so that he would not feel obliged to hang it, David followed her into the kitchen. He had meant to ask if he could help her, but she wasn't doing anything. “Would you mind if I had another drink?” he asked, expecting the pleased surprise he usually saw on people's faces when he accepted or asked for a drink, but Effie's face grew more troubled.

“Maybe you shouldn't have any more, Dave,” she said.

“What? I bet I could drink that whole bottle and never show it. Never feel it and never show it.”

Wes had come in and heard him. “Famous last words.”

“Do you want to bet?” David asked.

“No, no, I don't want to bet,” Wes said, glancing at Effie as if they had a secret of some kind.

“In that case, I'll have just one, if nobody minds,” David said, looking at Effie. He reached for the bottle and poured a generous amount, but not foolishly much, he thought. Three fingers or so. He set the bottle down and gave it a push toward Wes, whose glass was empty, dropped two ice cubes into his glass and added a little water from the sink tap. Wes and Effie stared at him as if they had never seen anybody fix a drink before.

Then Wes solemnly half filled his own glass, plopping his ice in, adding the token inch or so of soda. David smiled at him, but Wes did not return it. Wes went into the living room.

“Dave,” Effie whispered, coming toward him, “I'm sorry I said that—about the sketch. It's not destroyed and you can have it if you want it. I thought of destroying it, that's all.”

Her muddled sentiments were of no interest to him at all. “I see,” he said politely.

“I thought if those police from Beck's Brook ever came here and saw it—That's why I haven't got it hanging. It's in the bottom of a drawer. They'd recognize it as Newmester—wouldn't they, Dave?”

“As him?” David said with an incredulous smile. “Yes. But so what? That's all in the past. Why be so dramatic about it?”

But she still looked dramatic, and shocked. “All right, Dave, I hope it's in the past.” And after a couple of her famous nods, she went out of the kitchen into the living room.

David lifted his glass, shut his eyes, and took three big swallows. Neumeister. He hadn't thought of him in days until tonight, and there was little Effie, keeping his precious secret. Neumeister had served his purpose, sailing serenely, victoriously, over tumultuous waters, up and down riding the waves, a strong ship in full sail. Neumeister had never lost. It was too bad Annabelle had never known Neumeister—even though Neumeister had in a way lived with her. Well, he had been over all that, he remembered. He had come to the cold and terrifying conclusion that if he ever told Annabelle that he was William Neumeister, she'd never get over it, never believe that Gerald's death had been an accident. Very well, Neumeister was gone now, and might as well be dead and buried himself. David swayed a little as he rounded a kitchen cabinet, and he was careful to walk straight as he entered the living room.

Wes and Effie stopped their murmuring when they saw him. Effie put some new records on and she and Wes started to dance, but Wes said it was too slow. Wes was showing his drinks now, and, when he went to get a refill, tried to take David's empty glass with him to the kitchen. David held onto it, saying he didn't want any more.

“Don't if he doesn't want it, Wes,” Effie said.

“He was boasting he could drink the whole bottle!” Wes's good-natured smile was back.

David let him take his glass.

The next hour or so was unclear to David, and he thought it strange that so little alcohol could affect him so much, though the effect seemed to be only in his vision. Wes, on the other hand, was going to pieces, dancing clumsily with Effie, occasionally making a wild gesture or a wild statement: “I'm
glad
you destroyed that sketch of Dave, I'm really glad, Eff. Shows progress. No more will the little maiden pure sit home and wait while her beloved chases after a—a myth!”