Once a Widow (18 page)

She left the booth and walked to Mr. Grange’s office, unaware of the persons passing and of the curious glances of several members of the staff. She reached the proper door, knocked timidly, heard the administrator’s sharp muffled voice. “Come in.” Coral opened the door and stepped inside, her fingers fumbling at her purse.

“Well, Miss Thatcher,” Grange said curtly, looking up impatiently from papers on his desk, “what is it?”

Coral clutched her purse and stood rigidly, her gaze riveted to the view of the front lawn and street through the window behind Mr. Grange’s desk, and spoke in an oddly shrill voice. “I lied to you, Mr. Grange. I want to tell…”

When she had finished she still stood rigidly and continued to stare out the window. It seemed that Mr. Grange’s voice came to her as from a great distance, from far out in a pink slowly swirling fog where shadowy figures moved aimlessly. A few of the figures beckoned to her, but they seemed indifferent now, and Coral became alarmed. Didn’t they want her to join them any more? Because she had betrayed Arthur? She barely heard Mr. Grange’s cold precise voice, dripping with venom.

“… fully aware of the regulations of this institution and you deliberately violated them. It is obvious from what you have told me that because of your infraction a murder has resulted. I can only assume that under the circumstances you had an ulterior motive for lying to me. Did you know this man?”

“Of course I know him,” Coral said. “It’s Arth—” She clapped a hand to her mouth in terror. What was she saying? What was the matter with her?

Mr. Grange was out of his chair, glaring at her.
“Who?”

“I—I don’t know,” Coral gasped. “Really, I never saw him before.” She turned and fled to the door.

“Miss Thatcher!” Mr. Grange’s voice was so cruelly sharp that she flinched. She stopped and waited, her back to Mr. Grange, her face turned away.

“Your actions are very peculiar indeed, Miss Thatcher. I have no alternative but to dismiss you as an employee of this hospital. Your final pay check will be mailed to you tomorrow. Goodbye, Miss Thatcher.”

“Goodbye,” Coral said with relief as she opened the door and closed it quietly behind her. She stood in the corridor a moment, thinking vaguely of her possessions in the desk in the cashier’s office, her handkerchiefs, aspirin, fountain pen, hairpins, her African violet, two automatic pencils, a new
TV Guide
which she’d purchased the day before and had forgotten to take home to her mother, a bottle of Listerine, the useless plain-wrapped box of Kleenex, a paperback edition of
Life Begins at Forty.
She would not need any of those things any more, she thought. The cashier, whoever she might be, was welcome to them. Coral laughed softly to herself as she moved slowly down the corridor and out into the late afternoon sunlight.

As she entered the front door of the house her mother’s shrill whining voice came to her over the blare of the television. “Did you bring that
TV Guide?”

“No, Mom, I forgot. I’m sorry.” Coral placed her purse on the small table in the front hall and moved to the stairway. The house was filled with the acrid smell of burning fat. Her mother always fried the pork chops too fast.

She appeared now in the kitchen doorway, a short, heavy woman in a soiled house dress, and pointed a fork at Coral accusingly. “You forgot yesterday, too, and you know how I count on it. Television is the only pleasure I have. You should have more consideration for your old mother. Really, Coral, you’re getting more forgetful every day. Don’t you ever think of anyone but yourself?”

“I said I was sorry, Mom,” Coral said, and added, “I don’t want any supper.”

“But it’s all ready, Miss Snippy. I’m ready to eat.”

“Go ahead and eat,” Coral said distinctly. “Gorge yourself on burned pork chops. I’m going to lie down for a while and talk to the people in the pink fog. Maybe I’ll have some tea and toast after a while.”

“What?” Her mother asked suspiciously. “What did you say, Coral? Are you having one of your spells?”

Coral lifted her head and laughed gaily, a trilling sound. “Don’t mind me, Mom. I guess I’m just a little tired tonight.” She started up the stairs.

Her mother turned back into the kitchen, grumbling and waving her short, fat arms hopelessly. Coral went up the stairs lightly, her lips curving in a secret smile. She was glad that she had not gone to see Dr. Shannon the evening before. There was no longer any need. She felt fine.

Chief of Police Chad Beckwith cradled the phone on his desk, left his office and moved down a short hall to a large room with benches along the walls. At the far end was the main desk on a raised platform backed by short-wave radio equipment and a lighted map of the city. A young policeman was behind the desk speaking softly into a microphone. Beckwith went up to the desk, chewing on the cold stub of a cigar. The young policeman stopped murmuring into the mike, clicked a switch and smiled brightly at his superior. “Yes, Chief?”

“This is to all cars,” Beckwith said. “Take it down.”

“Yes, sir.” The policeman poised a pencil over a shorthand pad.

Beckwith took the cigar from between his teeth, coughed, and said, “Be on the look-out for a young man, black hair, curly, wearing a gray tweed coat and a dark blue shirt, no necktie. Got that?”

“Yes sir.”

Beckwith coughed again and added, “He’s also polite and—uh—dashing.”

The young policeman’s expression did not change and his pencil moved swiftly. “I’ve got it. Anything else, sir?”

“He’s wanted in connection with the murder of Lew Sprang.”

“Sprang? I thought that fellow, Yundt—?”

“I know,” Beckwith said gruffly. “This is a new lead. A man answering the description I gave you entered Lew Sprang’s room at the hospital late last night. Yundt is a blond and it may clear him of the murder charge, but we’re still holding him for embezzlement. Get it on the air right away.”

“Yes, Chief.”

Beckwith returned to his office, sat behind his desk, relit his cigar, picked up the phone and dialed Dr. Clinton Shannon’s number. Lucille Sanchez answered, told him that the doctor was not in, that he had gone to Erie Cliffs to see a patient, that he had other house calls to make and that he would probably not return to the office until seven o’clock or later.

“I’ll try his home after a while,” Beckwith said. “Thanks.” He replaced the phone, leaned back in his chair and scowled at the opposite wall. He was tempted to go back to George Yundt’s cell and tell him that Coral Thatcher’s information might clear him of the murder charge, but decided against it. He would wait until he was certain, because Coral had always been kind of a queer character, a woman who had never married and who did not seem to want friends. But that was her business; she hadn’t had an easy life, not with her father’s long illness and not with the care of that mother of hers, who was a complaining shrew if he’d ever seen one. He felt a little sorry for Coral, but she really should have told him about that stranger going to Lew’s room Sunday night. Afraid of losing her job, she said, but apparently she’d mustered some courage and decided to confess. That cold-blooded Grange would probably fire her now, Beckwith thought, and he was sorry about that. Maybe he could get her a job in the municipal building as a clerk or something. He also thought that with a woman like Coral Thatcher, neurotic and maybe a little flighty, you couldn’t tell how much she imagined and how much was the truth. On the phone she had sounded, well, kind of queer. Anyhow, he had a description to go on, and if a man answering it was picked up, Coral was a witness. But Chief Beckwith had little hope. If Lew Sprang’s murderer was smart, he’d be long gone by now.

He decided not to say anything to George Yundt for the present. All he had was Coral’s word, which might or might not be true. An embezzlement rap was a hell of a lot better than murder, but he didn’t want to raise the boy’s hopes. He’d let George stew a while, until he had more to go on.

Beckwith decided he’d go home to supper.

Richard Barry, standing beside the screen door leading to the terrace of the house at Erie Cliffs, slowly moved the gun until its muzzle was almost touching the wire, until the sight bore squarely on Karen’s chest. She was standing clear of the doctor now, talking, talking, spilling her guts—not that it mattered now. Karen first, and then the doctor, bam, bam. His finger tightened on the trigger, beginning the squeeze. And in that instant Karen turned away and stood close to the doctor, with her back to the house. Richard cursed softly, eased up on the trigger. He could shoot her in the back, he thought, and the slug would go right on through and hit the doctor. But the doctor was standing at an angle and with Karen in the way Richard could not be certain of the target area, and it had to be neat. So he waited.

He saw the doctor take something from a pocket of Karen’s slacks, and his eyes narrowed. A gun, by God. She’d come back here gunning for him, with that dinky little automatic which had belonged to one of her damned husbands. Richard laughed silently and jeeringly. Did she think that plinker would scare him? She was leaning against the doctor now, and he was holding her, a very touching sight. The edges of Richard’s teeth showed behind his lips. This was taking too long, he thought. He’d have to shoot now, while he was keyed to it, whether it was neat or not. He couldn’t wait any longer. And then he saw the doctor raise his head and gaze directly at the screen door. Had he seen him? Richard held the gun very steady, began the squeeze and whispered softly,
Now, now.

“Dick!”

He whirled, swinging the gun toward the person who had spoken softly but insistently behind him, aiming the gun at Rose Ann Deegan, who stood at the end of the short hall leading into the living room, her face suddenly white, her eyes wide at the sight of the gun and the look on Richard’s face. She swallowed. “I—I got tired of waiting, and came looking for you, and from the front door I could see you in here…” She began to back away, clutching the pink linen purse with both hands. “What’re you—?”

Richard sprang for her silently, and before she could speak or move again grasped her roughly, clamped his left hand over her mouth. She struggled in terror and made gurgling sounds in her throat as he dragged her across the living room and into the bedroom and across it to the closet, pushed her inside and, holding her tightly, slid the half-open door completely shut. She squirmed silently and he twisted her around until her back was to the door and he was standing against the hanging garments. Then, still gagging her with his left hand, he dropped the gun into his right jacket pocket and with his freed right hand he grasped her throat, clamped his fingers brutally. “Be quiet,” he whispered hoarsely. “Just be quiet. I won’t hurt you.” As he spoke, his mind worked wildly, trying to form a plan. Christ, what a mess! It was really screwed up now.

Rose Ann struggled violently and it was difficult for him to hold her. His fingers dug deeper into her throat, and he heard her gasping. Maybe if she’d pass out, be quiet, not cause any trouble for a little while, everything would be all right. Maybe the doctor and Karen would leave. If they did not, maybe he and Rose Ann could sneak out and get away without being seen—if he could keep Rose Ann from making a fuss. “Please, please,” he whispered. “It’s all right. Please be quiet.”

She twisted against him, kicked at the door, making a loud thumping sound. Rage filled Richard then. Damn it, why couldn’t she cooperate a little? He increased the pressure of his fingers. Her breath became a hoarse rasping and he could feel her tongue protruding against the palm of his left hand. Just a little more, he thought, not too much, just enough to put her out. When she lets go I’ll stop, right then, and she’ll be fine. Just so she’s quiet for a little while. “Please, darling,” he whispered, “please be quiet, trust me.” And his fingers dug viciously.

Rose Ann fought like an animal. It seemed that bright orange lights were bursting all around her. She tried to bite Richard’s hand, but her tongue was in the way; she bit her tongue and tasted blood and strangled. She reached up and clawed at his face, catching him across one cheek, and she felt a warm wetness on her nails and fingers. He was going to kill her, she thought numbly, strangle her to death here in this dark closet. She was dying now. Why was he killing her? She tried again to scream, but the sound was drowned by blood and her thickened tongue and his hand, his hand smelling of cigarette smoke and aftershave lotion, his smell, a smell she loved. But he means to kill me, she thought in renewed terror, and with a sudden flash of sly cunning, born of the jungle will to live, she let her body sag, grow limp, and she fumbled secretly at the purse which she still clutched, opened the clasp, and took out the thin-bladed letter opener, his gift to her,
Souvenir of the Erie Islands.
Holding the wooden handle firmly, she leaned against him, a dead weight. His fingers left her throat then and she heard his heavy breathing, felt his hands on her arms, holding her upright against him. She whirled suddenly, jerking free of his grasp, and struck out blindly with the letter opener with all her strength, heard a kind of soft thud, hardly a sound at all. The sound he made was much louder, a sharp grunt, followed by a long deep sigh, almost a whistling sound in the darkness, and he fell against her, crushing her against the closet door. Her fingers were still clasped around the handle of the letter opener and she tugged at it. but it wouldn’t budge, although she tried frantically. And then he fell away from her, into the hanging garments all around them; she heard the tinkle of the metal hangers and the swish of clothing as he fell and the heavy sound of his body striking the floor.

Panting and gasping, Rose Ann turned and clawed at the closet door, slid it back and staggered out into the bedroom. Her mouth was bloody and already ugly blue bruises were on her throat. She fell to her knees, gulping mouthfuls of air, and then staggered to her feet and ran out of the bedroom, across the living room to the front door. Outside on the stoop she stood uncertainly, staring wildly at the cars in the drive, the station wagon, the green sedan and the big white sedan in the garage. Cars mean people, she thought. But where were they? Do I want to see people? Did I kill Dick? Why was he aiming that gun when I came in? Why did he do what he did to me?