Wives and Lovers (30 page)

“I guess.”

“Why do you guess, June?”

The girl fidgeted on the edge of the chair, and her eyes kept shifting towards the door and then to Miss Clarvoe and back to the door. “I don't know.”

“You said you
guessed,
June.”

“I only meant I—I can't remember ringing 425 tonight.”

“Are you calling me a liar, June?”

“Oh no, Miss Clarvoe, I should say not, Miss Clarvoe. Only—”

“Well?”

“I don't remember, is all.”

They were the final words of the interview. There were no thank-you's or farewells or see-you-soon's. Miss Clarvoe rose and unlocked the door. June darted out into the corridor. And Miss Clarvoe was alone again.

Laughter from the next room vibrated against the wall and voices floated in through the open french door of the balcony:

“Honestly, George, you're a kick, a real kick.”

“Listen to the girl, how cute she talks.”

“Hey, for Pete's sake, who took the opener?”

“What do you think the good Lord gave you teeth for?”

“What the Lord gaveth, the Lord tooketh away.”

“Dolly, where in hell did you put the opener?”

“I don't remember.”

I don't remember, is all.

Miss Clarvoe sat down at the walnut desk and picked up the gold fountain pen her father had given her for her birthday years ago.

She wrote:
Dear Mother: It has been a long time since I've heard from you. I hope that all is hell with you and Douglas.

She stared at what she had written, subconsciously aware that a mistake had been made but not seeing it at first. It looked so right, somehow:
I hope that all is hell with you and Douglas.

I meant to say well, Miss Clarvoe thought. It was a slip of the pen. I hold no resentment against her. It's all this noise—I can't concentrate—those awful people next door—

“Sometimes you behave like an ape, Harry.”

“Send down for some bananas, somebody. Harry's hungry.”

“So what's so funny?”

“Take a joke, can't you. Can't you take a joke?”

Miss Clarvoe closed and locked the French doors.

Perhaps that's what the telephone call was, she thought. Just a joke. Just someone, probably someone who worked in the hotel, trying to frighten her a little because she was wealthy and because she was considered somewhat odd. Miss Clarvoe realized that these qualities made her a natural victim for jokers; she had become adjusted to that fact years ago, and behind-the-hand snickers no longer disturbed her the way they had in school.

It was settled then. The girl with the crystal ball was a joke. Evelyn Merrick didn't exist. And yet the very name was beginning to sound so familiar that Miss Clarvoe was no longer absolutely certain she hadn't heard it before.

She pulled the curtains close across the windows and returned to her letter.

I hope that all is hell with you and Douglas.

She crossed out hell and inserted well.

I hope that all is well with you and Douglas. I don't though. I don't hope anything. I don't care.

She tore the sheet of paper across the middle and placed it carefully in the wastebasket beside her desk. She had nothing really to say to her mother, never had, never would have. The idea of asking her for advice or comfort or help was absurd. Mrs. Clarvoe had none of these things to give, even if Helen had dared to ask.

The party in the next room had reached the stage of song. “Down by the Old Mill Stream”. “Harvest Moon”. “Daisy, Daisy”. Sometimes in close harmony, sometimes far.

A hot gust of anger and resentment swept through Miss Clarvoe's body. They had no right to make so much noise at this time of night. She would have to rap on the wall to warn them, and if that didn't work she would call the manager.

She started to rise but her heel caught in the rung of the chair and she fell forward, her face grazing the sharp edge of the desk. She lay still, tasting the metallic saltiness of blood, listening to the throbbing of the pulse in her temples and the panic beat of her heart.

After a time she pulled herself to her feet and moved slowly and stiffly across the room towards the mirror above the telephone stand. There was a slight scratch on her forehead and one corner of her mouth was bleeding where the underlip had been but by a tooth.

“. . . I have a crystal ball. I see you now. Real bright and clear. You've been in an accident. Your forehead is gashed, your mouth is bleeding. . .”

A cry for help rose inside Miss Clarvoe's throat. Help me, someone! Help me, Mother—Douglas—Mr. Blackshear—

But the cry was never uttered. It stuck in her throat, and presently Miss Clarvoe swallowed it as she had swallowed a great many cries.

I am not really hurt. I must be sensible. Father always boasted to people how sensible I am. Therefore I must not become hysterical. I must think of something very sensible to do.

She went back to her desk and picked up her pen and took out a fresh sheet of notepaper.

 

Dear Mr. Blackshear:

You may recall that, at my father's funeral, you offered to give me advice and help if the occasion should ever arise. I do not know whether you said this because it is the kind of thing one says at funerals, or whether you sincerely meant it. I hope it was the latter, because the occasion, you may have already inferred, has arisen. I believe that I have become the victim of a lunatic....

THE COMPLETE WORKS OF MARGARET MILLAR
 

Available as individual ebooks or in a special seven-volume collector's set

 

Volume I

The Paul Prye Mysteries

The Invisible Worm
(1941)
The Weak-Eyed Bat
(1942)
The Devil Loves Me
(1942)

 

Inspector Sands Mysteries

 

Wall of Eyes
(1943)
The Iron Gates
[
Taste of Fears
] (1945)

 

Volume II

Fire Will Freeze
(1944)
Experiment in Springtime
(1947)
The Cannibal Heart
(1949)
Do Evil in Return
(1950)
Rose's Last Summer
(1952)

 

Volume III

Vanish in an Instant
(1952)
Wives and Lovers
(1954)
Beast in View
(1955)
An Air That Kills
(1957)
The Listening Walls
(1959)

 

Volume IV

A Stranger in My Grave
(1960)
How Like an Angel
(1962)
The Fiend
(1964)
Beyond This Point Are Monsters
(1970)

 

Volume V

Tom Aragon Novels

Ask for Me Tomorrow
(1976)
The Murder of Miranda
(1979)
Mermaid
(1982)

 

Volume VI

Banshee
(1983)
Spider Webs
(1986)
The Couple Next Door: Collected Short Mysteries
(2004)
It's All in the Family
(1948) (semi-autobiographical children's novel)

 

Volume VII

The Birds and the Beasts Were There
(1968) (memoir)

 

For more information visit
www.syndicatebooks.com