What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? (11 page)

He stared at the first of the photographs with a look of faint incredulity. From a faded print brown with age, a little girl of seven or eight with dark curls and huge wide-set eyes grinned up
at him with a guile that might have done credit to a coquette of twenty. Dressed fussily in the manner of fifty or sixty years ago, she had been posed in a curtsy, one finger pointed with stilted daintiness at the rounded point of her chin. Frowning, Edwin turned the page.

The same child appeared on the second page. This time her preposterous Bo-Peep curls jutted out like so many steel springs from beneath a minature bowler. She wore a jacket and trousers and stood against a painted backdrop representing a forest glade. One chubby leg extended as if in a spirited strut, she carried in her right hand a small
shillelah
and in her left an enormous cardboard shamrock.

Edwin flipped through the pages. The child appeared again and again, in an endless parade of costumes and poses, looking, it seemed to him, just a bit more cloyingly cute in each succeeding portrait. Coming to a yellowed newspaper clipping, Edwin stopped. At the top of the item was the picture of the child wearing the bowler. Above, in the florid script of the period, was the legend,
BABY JANE HUDSON
. And above that was a fraction of the newspaper heading, bearing the date July 23, 1906.

Edwin closed the album and shoved it aside with a feeling of acute confusion. The old fool hadn’t set foot on a stage for over fifty years! Why, she was out of her mind. If she actually believed… at her age… He turned away, aghast.

Noticing that there was sheet music on the rack, he reached out to it. Again he was confronted by a picture of the repellent child, posed this time with her nose delicately inclined to a large, fraudulent rose.
The Secret of the Rose.

He sorted hastily through the others.
The Birdie in the Snow. The Night Daddy Left for Heaven. Tom-Tom Tomboy. An Angel Told Me. Come On Out and Play.
Under the published music were some handwritten scores, meticulously transcribed, titled informally to indicate their use.
Background for “Gettysburg Address.” Background for “I’m Just a Hooligan.” Background for “Stammering.”

Edwin put the music back. Then this was her act, this—junk. He looked down at the piano bench. Doubtless it was crammed to the brim with more of the same. He lifted the lid.

He was not disappointed; there were pictures and folios of music in abundance. He started to sort through them, then stopped, looking down at a photograph—if, indeed, that was what it was—that he had glimpsed between two of the packets of music. Hesitantly, he drew it fully into view.

He stared in bewilderment at the pale face that peered up fragmentarily from between the vicious slashes of red crayon. It was the picture of a woman, that was evident, and from what he could tell she had been very blonde and pretty. But whoever had marked it had done so, evidently, in a mood of savage hatred. The blunt point of the crayon had gouged deeply into the photograph, leaving heavy crimson gashes across the mouth and nose. Over the entire area of the face were lighter, quickly darting marks, as if the vandal, not content with having mutilated it, had wanted to obliterate it entirely.

Edwin felt a shudder of horror go through him as his mind suddenly leaped back to the empty silver frame in the living room. As if it had suddenly stirred beneath his touch, he dropped the picture back into the bench and closed the lid. At the same time he heard the door open behind him.

“Edwin?”

He turned to find her coming unsteadily toward him. He lifted his brows in silent enquiry.

“You saw the pictures?” she asked.

Turned as he was, Edwin caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrors. It seemed to him that he was noticeably pale. But then, with a faint feeling of astonishment, he saw himself smile.

“Yes,” he heard himself saying, “they’re wonderful.”

W
ith a certain wariness, Mrs. Stitt turned from closing the gate and started up the walk toward the service porch. As she entered the yard, she caught a glimpse of the dim, bunched figure lurking in the open doorway of the kitchen and guessed that Jane Hudson was waiting in there for her. There
would
have to be trouble today, she thought impatiently, just when she was working a short day. No doubt the drinking had started by now. Poor Miss Blanche… Mrs. Stitt stopped short as, at her approach, Jane emerged suddenly through the porch and came out onto the steps.

Jane was all dressed up to go out, Mrs. Stitt observed sourly, all done up in a little short fur jacket with old-fashioned square shoulders and that silly red tam of hers that made her look like some kind of old streetwalker or something. It was sickening to see a woman that age running around in public in a getup like that.

And then Mrs. Stitt saw the thing in Jane’s hand, the piece of cloth, the garment, and realized, looking at it more closely, that it was her own cleaning apron. Stung with surprise, she lifted her gaze from the apron to Jane’s face. She was right, all right; from the look in Jane’s eyes you could see that the drinking was well under way.

“Well,” she said with guarded joviality, “all set to go out, eh, bright and early?”

In reply, Jane simply stared, her eyes bright and feverish in their sagging pouches of flesh. Her head turned slightly, jerked really, as with a nervous spasm, and from between her dyed curls there came a titter of cold brightness from a pair of gaudy pendant earrings. Her mouth, itself all but lost beneath two wide splashes of red, worked against a silent tremor. The fur jacket, Mrs. Stitt realized, now that she gave it a second look, was one that belonged to Blanche, one she still wore on the rare occasions when she went out.

“Is Miss Blanche up, too?” she asked.

For an answer Jane’s hand shot forward, holding the apron out to her. “Here.” Her voice was small with strain but determined. “You don’t have to stay. We don’t need you here any more.”

Mrs. Stitt was too stunned for a moment even to speak. Her mouth lifted toward a smile, as if in an effort to confirm the impression that it was surely all a joke, and then fell slack again.

“But I don’t——”

“I would have called you, but I didn’t have your number.”

As the surprise wore off, Mrs. Stitt experienced the first quick stirrings of anger. “Miss Blanche has my number,” she said firmly. “She could have called me if——”

Jane’s staring eyes widened slightly with alarm. “You’re fired,” she said abruptly. “You—you can just go—right now.”

“Now, wait just a minute, Miss Hudson——”

“You’ll be paid for today, don’t worry. We’ll send you a check. Here—take your apron. And you better give me your key to the house.”

Mrs. Stitt took the apron and thrust it composedly under her arm. “I don’t have the key,” she said blandly. “I just realized as I was coming up the hill just now—I left it behind today.”

Jane regarded her uncertainly, blinking. “All right, then,” she said finally, “you can put it in the mail when you get home.” Stubbornly she stood her ground, waiting for Mrs. Stitt to turn away.

Mrs. Stitt, however, was not yet satisfied. “As long as I came all
this way,” she said, making her gaze level and hard, “I’d better see Miss Blanche before I go. If I’m fired, I’d like to have it straight from her. She’s the one who hired me. She’s the one who paid me. Then she’s the one to fire me.”

Jane’s mouth drew down into a straight hard line. “You can’t see her,” she said. “She’s—she’s still asleep.”

“Then, I’ll wait. I don’t mind a bit.”

“But I’m just leaving. I have to be down at the bank when it opens.”

“You don’t have to worry,” Mrs. Stitt said thinly. “You can trust me here alone. I won’t run off with anything.”

A look of uncertainty, almost of fear, came into Jane’s face. “I can’t stay here arguing,” she said desperately.

“There’s nothing to argue about. As long as you’re paying me for the day anyway, I can make myself useful until Miss Blanche wakes up.”

Jane stepped back quickly into the porch, slammed the screen door and latched it. “You’re fired, that’s all I know. So you can go on away!”

Mrs. Stitt, for all of her righteous indignation, knew when she was defeated. With a broad shrug, she turned and started back down the walk.

She should have quit, she told herself, all but aflame now with anger; she should have quit flat a long time ago. Anyone else would have, the tricks that one pulled. One minute she was the great grand lady, giving out commands and threatening to have your head chopped off practically, and the next she was the little bitty pouting baby, thinking she was so cute and cunning she could charm you out of all sensibility. Cute! She was disgusting. And a loony, too. Mrs. Stitt had seen a thing or two around that house, things she doubted that poor Miss Blanche even knew about.…

Poor Miss Blanche. The poor soul probably didn’t know a thing about any of this. Jane had probably gotten up early just so she could manage the whole thing behind Miss Blanche’s back.
Jane had always had some grudge against her, Mrs. Stitt knew that; no doubt she had been trying for a long time to think of some way to get rid of her.

And what kind of story was she planning to tell on her for not being at work today? Something good no doubt, something, sure as sin, that wouldn’t do her any credit in Miss Blanche’s eyes. Hugging her purse fiercely to her bosom, Mrs. Stitt made her way rapidly down the incline of the street, around the curve at the end of the block and turned in the direction of the boulevard bus stop.

She had just managed to get herself settled on the bench at the curb when she saw the gray coupé pull up at the corner. She looked just long enough to see that Jane was alone in the car, then turned stiffly away, pretending not to have noticed. The old fool, all decked out like some queen in a comic opera. How people must laugh at her behind her back, Mrs. Stitt thought with satisfaction, when they saw her walking along the street.

Well, she thought, smugly patting her purse, at least she had got the best of Jane Hudson on one thing anyway; she still had the key. Even if it was just silly and meaningless, it made her feel better to know that Jane hadn’t had her way about everything. And what was more, she wasn’t going to send the key back, either. Let her royal highness go out and have a new one made.

Mrs. Stitt turned back the sleeve of her coat and looked at her watch. Nine thirty, almost. By the time she got home again it would be after ten thirty. Practically the whole morning gone. And then she’d just have to turn right around and start downtown to talk to the jury-duty people. With a new wave of anger it came to her that she would now have to start looking for another job to fill in her Fridays.

She’d find a new job a lot faster than the Hudson sisters would find a new cleaning woman. Mrs. Stitt was certain of that. They’d see, once they asked someone else to come all the way up that hill without transportation. Not to mention putting up with that old woman’s silliness and drinking and all. No one would put up with
that sort of thing. No one but her. And the only reason she ever did was only for Miss Blanche’s sake.

She sure pitied Miss Blanche, with that silly-headed Jane getting worse and worse all the time. Something awful was going to happen in that house someday; she could just feel it in her bones. Mrs. Stitt issued a deep, tremulous sigh. Well, she had tried to help the only way she knew how, but it was funny sometimes how people just couldn’t see a thing when it was right there in front of them. There were times, for a fact, when she couldn’t help wondering; Miss Blanche wasn’t a stupid woman, but the way she kept on putting up with things… Catching sight of the bus approaching from up the street she got to her feet and straightened her coat. Forget it, she told herself, just forget it; there’s nothing can be done about it now.

Opening her bag to take out her fare, her eyes fell on the disputed key to the Hudson house. There it lay, just beside her notebook, its identification disc attached with a loop of bright red string. In the street, the bus eased in to the curb and snorted its doors open to let her inside. Mrs. Stitt looked up, then quickly down again at the key. Now that Jane Hudson was gone, she realized with sudden surprise, there was nothing to prevent her going back to the house if she wanted to. And it would serve the old biddy right if she went back and told Miss Blanche just exactly what had happened. Inside the bus the driver leaned forward to peer out at her. “You getting on, lady?”

Mrs. Stitt glanced up and then, after another moment’s hesitation, shook her head. “I’m sorry…”

“Well, for petesake!”

The door snorted shut again, and the bus roared off, bullying its way back into traffic. In a pensive mood now, Mrs. Stitt turned and started back up the hill.

She let herself into the kitchen with almost furtive care, then paused to listen for any sound from up above. At the same time she made a wry face at the sight of the nearly empty bottle of whisky
on the drain. The place was a mess. With renewed indignation, she abandoned her previous air of stealth and made her way boldly from the kitchen through the hallway and out to the stairs.

When she reached the gallery, she paused and glanced ahead into the hall. Miss Blanche’s door was closed. She was still asleep then: Jane hadn’t lied about that. She turned and looked down into the disordered living room below. As long as she was there, she’d stick to her word and make herself useful. And she could fix Miss Blanche’s breakfast and take it up to her. It was way past time for Miss Blanche to be up anyway, so it wouldn’t hurt anything to wake her. Oh, there’d be a proper scene all right when Miss-Queen-of-Sheba got back from the bank and found out what had happened. But Mrs. Stitt was prepared to accept that.

First she tidied up the kitchen, taking great pleasure in pouring out the last of the whisky and disposing of the bottle in the trash. By the time she had finished this and had Miss Blanche’s breakfast tray made up it was nearly a quarter past ten. Feeling quite cheerful now, unaccountably so, really, all things considered, she picked up the tray and marched out into the hallway.

At Miss Blanche’s door she paused to listen, hopeful of hearing some sound from inside to indicate that Miss Blanche was already awake. Hearing nothing, she frowned. It was getting on now, and it wasn’t at all like Miss Blanche to sleep so late. Balancing the tray against the wall, Miss Stitt reached out and very gently knocked.

“Miss Blanche?” she called. “It’s me, Miss Blanche, it’s Edna. You awake yet?”

She waited, but there was no answer. Mrs. Stitt straightened. Miss Blanche, as was common with invalids, was a very light sleeper; usually the least sound brought her around instantly. Mrs. Stitt knocked again, a bit louder this time.

“Miss Blanche?”

Again she waited, but there was still no answer, no sound of any kind at all. A faint feeling of chill touched the back of Mrs. Stitt’s neck; there was something wrong here, something quite
definitely not as it should be. No longer hesitant, she reached out to the doorknob and shoved. The dishes and silver on the tray clattered as her forward movement was abruptly checked by the unyielding panel. The door was locked.

Mrs. Stitt stared in open-mouthed disbelief. No one—not even Jane Hudson—would go off and leave a helpless invalid locked up in a room like that! There had to be some sort of mistake. Putting the breakfast tray down on the floor she tried again, but the door still refused to budge; it was most emphatically, most securely locked.

For a moment longer she was held immobile by her own dismay. But then a surge of anger brought her quickly back to life again. Turning stiffly, she looked down the hallway in the direction of Jane’s room. The door stood open letting a bright, slanting shaft of sunlight into the end of the hall. Mrs. Stitt started determinedly forward; if the key to Blanche’s room was anywhere in the house it would be in there.

Inside the doorway she stopped. Her eyes, glinting brightly, raked the rumpled, unmade bed, the ridiculous collection of stuffed animals heaped high on the pink satin chair, the endless photographic display of Baby Jane Hudson on the walls. Her gaze fell finally to the dressing table beneath the windows and she crossed over to it.

She pulled out the drawers swiftly, angrily, one after the other, exposing the separate caches of cheap junk jewelry, artificial flowers, bright handkerchiefs and dime-store cosmetics. Finding nothing that even resembled a key, she shoved them closed again and turned her attention to the writing desk against the adjacent wall.

Having rifled quickly and fruitlessly through the random litter on top of the desk, the magazines and circulars, she opened the center drawer. There was a disordered assortment of note papers and envelopes of different colors, pink, lavender, pale blue, white bordered with bright yellow roses. Raking this impatiently aside Mrs. Stitt uncovered at the bottom an address book with a white
plastic cover. Looking inside she saw that it had never been used; not even one name had been written in it anywhere. She ran her hand toward the back of the drawer, found something there with her fingers and pulled it forward. It was an ordinary writing tablet with a brown cover. She was just about to thrust it back into the drawer in a gesture of disgust when something, scraps of paper, fell from between the pages and fluttered to the floor. Quickly she stooped down and picked them up.

She stood there for a moment, holding them in her hand, feeling a quick stab of apprehension that she didn’t quite understand. They were checks, canceled checks; some of the ones that were always kept in the little accounts ledger in Miss Blanche’s room.

Then Jane had taken them, appropriated them for herself. But why? Mrs. Stitt’s gaze shifted to the tablet which she was holding open in readiness to receive the checks back again between its pages. Quickly she brought it closer to the light. Line after line was filled with Miss Blanche’s name.
Blanche Hudson… Blanche Hudson… Blanche Hudson…
The name had been repeated over and over again the full length of the page.