What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? (20 page)

“Listen to me,” she whispered with great urgency. “You must listen carefully.…”

In an obvious effort to hear, the girl frowned. She looked back nervously at her companions, then hazarded another step forward and dropped to her knees.

“You must help me,” Blanche said, speaking quickly, her voice coming in a dry, thin rasp. “I am crippled… I can’t walk… and I am in danger. I am ill—and my sister—my sister is keeping me
here.… You must bring someone… the police… so they can take me to the hospital. My name is——”

She stopped, staring in astonished disbelief; the girl, her dark eyes fast upon her face, was shaking her head.

“But you can’t refuse!…” Blanche gasped.

The girl only shook her head all the harder. “Excuse,” she said, her young face troubled. “
Por favor.
I—visit—I—
tourista.
I never—no—understand—English. Excuse. Regret—regret…”

Blanche could only stare with stunned helplessness as the girl scrambled to her feet and fled back to the others. From down near the surf came echoed shouts of laughter, squeals of protest and delight, the steady roar of the falling waves. She closed her eyes, staring in exhausted resignation into the flaming redness behind her lids—the mixed redness of the merciless sun and her own waning blood.

“Dear God,” she breathed, “dear God…”

A breeze wafted suddenly across her face and something touched her cheek. She started and opened her eyes again. The page from the newspaper, carried across the beach by the breeze, had lodged itself against the folded blanket. Reaching her hand to it, she drew it up before her face so that it would provide a shield from the sun.

She had only managed to get the paper satisfactorily into place, however, when she saw the picture of herself and held it back to have a better look. It was one of the old pictures—of the waxen-faced blonde.
MISSING
, said the caption underneath.

There were other pictures, too—one of Jane—and others.… Before she was able to see them all closely, however, a new gust of wind struck against the paper, tore it flutteringly from her enfeebled grasp and sent it hurtling away from her. In her last glimpse of it, the face of the blonde with the sooty eyes was seized with sudden animation, as if caught in a spasm of uncontrollable laughter.

And then she had vanished and was gone.

S
itting with one pajama-clad leg draped loosely over the arm of her chair, Katherine Singer stared in dark fascination at the front page of the paper and shook her head.

“You just simply wonder sometimes,” she said broodingly. “You wonder how people can do such things to each other. Every once in a while there’s something like this.”

Sprawled on the living room floor, Paul Singer looked up reluctantly from the sports secton. “Like what?”

“Where this woman locked up her sister—this old movie star—and kept her a prisoner. You’d have to be crazy, wouldn’t you, to do a thing like that?”

“Of course,” Paul nodded. “Didn’t she kill somebody, too?”

“Well, they say she’s ‘sought on suspicion of murder.’ I guess that’s the same as saying she did it. Some woman who cleaned house for them.” She shook her head. “Remember, we saw her on television just last week—Blanche Hudson. My gosh…”

Paul Singer made a brief grunting noise of assent and returned to his own reading. Kath continued her frowning perusal of the story about the disappearance of the Hudson sisters, giving particular attention to the accompanying photographs. She rather liked the one of the stoutish young man in the hospital bed with his mother close beside him, her cheek pressed close to his. E
DWIN
F
LAGG,
I
NTENDED
V
ICTIM
. There was something in the man’s expression, a kind of numb bewilderment, that made the picture
almost humorous. Below were posed portraits of a Mrs. Pauline Bates and Mrs. Edna Stitt, the poor cleaning woman who had been murdered. According to the story Mrs. Stitt’s purse had been found in a closet of the Hudson house.

“You suppose she really killed her?” Kath mused.

Paul nodded. “I guess.”

“She must have. I mean, it would be easy to find someone—someone who was crippled like that—if they were still around somewhere. They’d be recognized everywhere they went. Poor thing, though—Blanche Hudson—she’s had so much trouble in her life.” Letting the paper drop to the floor, she flung her arms vigorously over her head and stretched.

When are the Martins coming?” she yawned.

“Huh?”

“The Martins, Stan and Glenna. You asked them. When did they say they’d show up?”

“Three, I guess, between three and three-thirty.”

Kath made a face. “Drinks, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess…”

“Well—in that case—you’d better take yourself on a little jaunt down to the store. We’re out of everything—booze, eats, the works.”

“Okay, okay…”

“Well—you’d better do it.”

“Huh?”

“It’s almost two now. If they’re coming at three, you’d better shove off. Anyway, I’ve got to straighten up this ball park.”

“Okay.”

Twenty minutes later, shaved now and wearing sun glasses, Paul Singer made his way from the beach house out to the garage next to the highway only to discover that the gray coupé he had noticed earlier from the kitchen window was parked in such a way that it blocked the garage entrance.

His first reaction was one of annoyance; when people came to
the beach they thought they could get away with anything. You could throw your trash anywhere, you could park your car wherever you found the space… He paused. The two old girls had arrived in the fog; they probably hadn’t even noticed. He looked back toward the beach. The Sunday crowd had assembled now in force; he’d never be able to find them in a mess like that. That meant he’d have to move the darned thing himself. He turned back to the house and called Kath.

It was an old routine, and they knew it by heart; Kath got inside to steer, while he stayed outside and shoved. Taking his place at the rear of the coupé, Paul leaned forward, and then, pausing, looked up toward the driver’s seat. This, too, was a part of the routine.

“Got the brake off?”

Kath looked out hurriedly through the window and then, in chagrin, reached down to the emergency.

As she released the brake, sliding it down into place, her eye caught at the registration slip, attached in its protective cover to the steering post. Moving her hand back from the brake, she touched the cover and turned it.

“Heave ho!” Paul yelled from behind.

The car rolled forward, but Kath, looking down at the name on the slip, uttered a small gasp of recognition and again grabbed for the brake.

“Hey? What’s the big——”

“Paul!” Kath yelled. “Paul, come here!”

As he came up quickly to the window she looked out at him with an expression of numb dismay. And then, her bright young face contorted with a spasm of distaste, she reached for the door, clawing for the handle.

“What’s the matter?” Paul asked. “What——?”

Leaping from the car, she took his arm in a hard, frightened grip.

“On the slip,” she said breathlessly, “the name! Paul—this car—it belongs to Blanche Hudson!”

She had vomited, she remembered that. It was the cold milk that had made her sick; her stomach had reacted to it instantly. There had been the terrible cramps and then the retching. Hands had lifted her up and tried to soothe her. And when the spell had passed these same hands had helped her to lie back again against the folded blanket. Now, able to open her eyes for a moment, she saw Jane staring down at her with a curious expression of troubled bemusement.

She couldn’t help bursting into tears; she no longer had any control of herself at all. She seemed to stand apart from herself with shame and vexation as she pled cravenly with Jane for her life.

“Take me home!” she whimpered. “Oh, Jane, Jane—I can’t stand any more of it! I’m afraid… afraid.…”

The part of her that remained detached shook her head in harsh denial: It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter in the least whether you’re afraid or not. You’ve brought it all on yourself and there’s nothing you can do to stop it now.

But her voice whined on. “Please, Jane, don’t let me die… not here! It’s so terribly hot…”

Jane’s expression became still sadder, as if she, too, listened to some second voice within herself. “I shouldn’t have brought you,” she said. “I—I didn’t want to be alone—when they find me. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone—ever—I didn’t know…” Her voice trailed off into a thin sigh of despair.

“Help me,” Blanche whispered. “You
must
!” She tried to reach out, but her hand refused to move. She had to make Jane understand. She had to, before it was too late. “Jane, listen to me.…”

“I didn’t mean to…” Jane murmured.

“Go and bring help,” Blanche begged. “Jane, please do…” Jane was still looking at her, but in her face was no sign of anything but her own anguish. “Jane, you have to! If it weren’t for you…”

No!
The submerged part of her came forward suddenly, screaming in fury:
No you can’t lie any more! Not now. You must tell the truth. That’s all that matters now. You must!
…

And then it was as if she had come together within herself. She was no longer afraid, and looking up at Jane, she felt only an overwhelming pity and regret.

“Jane—Jane, listen to me,” she said. “You must listen.…”

But Jane’s face seemed, strangely, to be fading from sight. One moment it was there, outlined in the restless red of the blazing sun, and the next it had melted away into a featureless blur. Or had it ever really been there at all? It was possible this was only an hysterical delusion—a part of some final delirium. But it didn’t matter. All that mattered now was that she be given time to speak the truth—even, if need be, in a hallucinatory dream. “I must tell you,” she was saying. “Jane—it wasn’t the way you believed—the night of the accident.”

And then it all came pouring forth, and she couldn’t have stopped it even had she wanted to. “On the way home that night you fell asleep—fell unconscious—at the wheel. I managed to get the car stopped and—I traded places with you. When we came to the gates, I woke you up and made you get out to open them. I was already angry with you and when I saw you standing there in the light fumbling with the gate—I was suddenly so filled with hatred——”

A voice seemed to protest, a small voice, trembling and frightened. “No, Blanche, don’t!…”

“You remembered, didn’t you? The old movies brought it back to you.”

“No. I—yes—I suppose they must have. Lately… there have been times when I seemed to remember. You’ve always hated me—I’ve known that.”

“Yes, I have. When I was a child I had to hear it over and over again, how clever you were, how famous, how I had you to thank for everything, the clothes I wore, the food I ate. And I hated Daddy’s wanting only to be with you—always sending me off somewhere…”

“I—I don’t want to hear!”

“When I signed with the studio I had that clause put in for revenge. Daddy was dead—and you had had all the love and attention he would ever give either of us. I knew what it would do to you, living on my charity; I had lived on yours long enough.…

“But—then—that night—you were in the light, and I was behind the wheel. I don’t really know what went through my mind—I simply put my foot down on the gas——”

“No, no! I—I thought I only dreamed it!”

“The car raced straight ahead. You looked around and—just for a moment—there was an awful look on your face. And then you staggered back—or fell. Anyway, you disappeared into the dark. And then the car hit the gates.…

“When it was over and I knew I had been hurt, I cried out to you, but you had run off—wandered off… Somehow I managed to get out of the car and crawl for help. They told me later—when they found you—that you had gone into shock and didn’t remember. And then, when I found out what everyone thought—I just decided to let them go on thinking it. They told me you needed help—but I said I couldn’t subject you to the shame of a mental analysis.”

“Oh, Blanche!…”

“I threw your life away, Jane. Without the guilt, the false guilt I’ve given you—with the competition between us ended—you could have had a happy life—even a husband perhaps—and children. But it was all finished for me, and I wanted it to be finished for you, too.…”

The rest of it came in a prolonged sigh. “It’s all my fault—Mrs. Stitt—all of it. I’m the guilty one.”

She waited, listening for a reply. But there was none. Then, sensing a movement to her right, she turned in that direction.

“Jane?” She managed to force her eyes open, but all that appeared to her was a flaming blur. “Jane? Did you hear?…”

There were tears on her cheeks, hot, acid tears of remorse. Had she really spoken, or had it been only a delusion? Had she managed at last to unburden herself of the ugly truth?

“Forgive me, Jane.…” Whether she imagined it or not a hand seemed to touch hers, lightly, lightly, and then fall away. She lay back, resting her head on the blanket, letting the sound of the crowd—and the ocean—swell and grow dim around her.…

Holding the receiver to her ear, Jane looked out through the glass wall of the telephone booth, past the teeming crowd on the beach and out to the glinting sea. She must not let herself think, not any more, for when she tried to think she got terribly muddled and it frightened her. It had taken longer than she had anticipated to get from where she had left Blanche down on the beach up here to the Point. Waiting for the connection, she felt herself on the verge of crying with impatience. There was so very little time. Why couldn’t they hurry?

“County Sheriff’s Office,” a gruff voice said suddenly into her ear.

Jane put her hand to her breast as if feeling a twinge of pain. “Hello?” she said, her voice shrill with tension. “This is Jane Hudson. I’m calling to tell you——”

“What was the name again, please? And give me your address, too.”

“No,” Jane said, shaking her head, “no, you don’t understand. I’m Jane Hudson—Blanche Hudson’s sister. Listen—please listen—my sister is very sick—and we’re here at the beach——”

“Wait a minute,” the voice said, its tone now urgent. “You’re Blanche Hudson’s sister?”

“That’s right. And Blanche is terribly sick. You’ve got to bring a doctor right away. And let me tell you where to look for her—because—I—I can’t stay here with her——”

Suddenly aware of the three men just outside the booth—the two uniformed patrol officers and the young man wearing dark glasses—she stopped. She turned fully in their direction and the young man nodded. She sat perfectly still, staring out at them, unmindful of the receiver as it dropped from her hand. The officer nearest the door swung it open, picked up the receiver and replaced it on its hook.

“This look like the woman?” he asked.

Behind him, the young man nodded again. His eyes came down to meet Jane’s for a moment and then, evidently frightened at what they saw, darted away. Trembling now, Jane folded her hands together and put them carefully, almost primly, in her lap.

“Miss Hudson?” The officer’s tone held an odd note of courtliness. “Are you Miss Jane Hudson?”

Jane stared down at her hands, at the veins that coursed crookedly along their backs beneath the slack skin. Without looking up, she nodded.

“Miss Hudson, I’m afraid you’ll have to come along with us. There’s been a call out for you and your sister since early last night.”

His voice was so quiet, so friendly. Jane nodded again and, as he touched her arm, got somehow to her feet. If she could just stop shaking, stop feeling so cold and afraid… And then, with a sense of surprise, she realized she was crying.

“I’m sorry,” the officer said. His hand, holding her arm, guided her out of the booth. “Now, where is your sister, Miss Hudson? Is she here at the beach with you?”

Jane tried hard to concentrate, to understand what he was saying to her. It was important now to understand everything. But her heart kept pounding so thunderously that it made it very difficult. His touch, she thought, felt very hot upon her arm; she
wanted to pull away, but she knew she dared not. What were they going to do to her? she wondered. Would they hurt her? Would they kill her?

“… your sister, Miss Hudson,” the young officer was saying, his tone suddenly quite insistent. “It will save a lot of time and trouble if you’ll tell us where she is right now.”

Jane looked up at him. He was not an ugly man, not mean or hateful-looking. But you couldn’t go by appearances. Some of the nicest-looking people were really very bad. Blanche was always so beautiful.…