John cowered beside Lettice. Chet dawdled at the desk. John couldn’t be exposed like that any longer, a single glance around and Chet would see him and Lettice. John made an incoherent excuse, then sidled over to the newsstand where he hid behind a magazine until Chet had registered and had taken an elevator upstairs.
Anyway, they had escaped, but only barely.
John couldn’t risk cheapening their attachment. He had to do something to make it permanent right away, but at the same time he didn’t want to hurt Mary.
Thousands of people in the United States had gotten up that morning who would be dead before nightfall. Why couldn’t his dear Mary be among them? Why couldn’t she die without having to be murdered?
When John rejoined Lettice and tried to explain his panic, she was composed but concerned and emphatic.
“Darling, this incident only proves what I’ve been insisting. I said you’d have to tell your wife at once. We can’t go on like this. Surely you understand.”
“Yes, dear, you’re quite right. I’ll do something as soon as I can.”
“You must do something immediately, darling.”
Oddly enough, Mary Johnson was in the same predicament as John Johnson. She had had no intention of falling in love. In fact, she thought she was in love with her husband. How naive she’d been before Kenneth came into her shop that morning asking whether she had a bust of Mozart. Of course she had a bust of Mozart; she had several busts of Mozart, not to mention Bach, Beethoven, Victor Hugo, Balzac, Shakespeare, George Washington and Goethe, in assorted sizes.
He had introduced himself. Customers didn’t ordinarily introduce themselves, and she gave him her name in return, and then realized that he was the outstanding interior designer in. town.
“Quite frankly,” he said, “I wouldn’t be caught dead with this bust of Mozart and it will ruin the room, but my client insists on having it. Do you mind if I see what else you have?”
She showed him all over the shop then. Later she tried to recall the exact moment when they had fallen in love. He had spent all that first morning there; toward noon he seemed especially attracted to a small back room cluttered and crowded with chests of drawers. He reached for a drawer pull that came off in his hands, then he reached for her.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she said. “Goodness, suppose some customers come in.”
“Let them browse,” he said.
She couldn’t believe that it had happened, but it had. Afterward, instead of being lonely when John went out of town on occasional business trips, she yearned for the time when he. gave her his antiseptic peck of a kiss and told her he would be gone overnight.
The small back room jammed with the chests of drawers became Mary’s and Kenneth’s discreet rendezvous. They added a chaise longue.
One day a voice reached them there. They had been too engrossed to notice that anyone had approached.
“Mrs. Johnson, where are you? I’d like some service, please.”
Mary stumbled out from the dark to greet the customer. Mary tried to smooth her mussed hair. She knew that her lipstick was smeared.
The customer was Mrs. Bryan, the most accomplished gossip in town. Mrs. Bryan would get word around that Mary Johnson was carrying on scandalously in her shop. John was sure to find out now.
Fortunately, Mrs. Bryan was preoccupied. She was in a Pennsylvania Dutch mood and wanted to see butter molds and dower chests.
It was a lucky escape, as Mary later told Kenneth. Kenneth refused to be reassured.
“I love you deeply,” he said. “And honorably. I’ve reason to know you love me, too. I’m damned tired of sneaking around. I’m not going to put up with it any longer. Do you understand? We’ve got to get married. Tell your husband you want a divorce.”
Kenneth kept talking about a divorce, as if a divorce was nothing at all — no harder to arrange than a dental appointment. How could she divorce a man who had been affectionate and kind and faithful for twenty years? How could she snatch happiness from him?
If only John would die. Why couldn’t he have a heart attack? Every day thousands of men died from heart attacks. Why couldn’t her darling John just drop dead? It would simplify everything.
Even the ringing of the telephone sounded angry, and when Mary answered it Kenneth, at the other end of the line, was in a rage.
“Damn it, Mary, this afternoon was ridiculous. It was insulting. I’m not skulking any more. I’m not hiding behind doors while you grapple around for butter molds to show customers. We’ve got to be married right away.”
“Yes, darling. Do be patient.”
“I’ve already been too patient. I’m not waiting any longer.”
She knew that he meant it. If she lost Kenneth life would end for her. She hadn’t ever felt this way about John.
Dear John. How could she toss him aside? He was in the prime of life; he could live decades longer. All his existence was centered on her. He lived to give her pleasure. They had no friends except other married people. John would have to lead a solitary life if she left him. He’d be odd man out without her; their friends would invite him to their homes because they were sorry for him. Poor, miserable John was what everyone would call him. He’d be better off dead, they’d say. He would neglect himself; he wouldn’t eat regularly; he would have to live alone in some wretched furnished apartment. No, she mustn’t condemn him to an existence like that.
Why had this madness with Kenneth started? Why had that foolish woman insisted on having a bust of Mozart in her music room? Why had Kenneth come to her shop in search of it when busts of Mozart were in every second hand store on Broad Street and at much cheaper prices?
Yet she wouldn’t have changed anything. Seconds with Kenneth were worth lifetimes with John.
Only one end was possible. She would have to think of a nice, quick, efficient, unmessy way to get rid of John.
And soon.
John had never seen Mary look as lovely as she did that night when he got home from his business trip. For one flicker of a second, life with her seemed enough. Then he thought of Lettice, and the thought stunned him into the belief that no act that brought them together could be criminal. He must get on with what he had to do. He must murder Mary in as gentlemanly a way as possible, and he must do it that very night. Meantime he would enjoy the wonderful dinner Mary had prepared for him. Common politeness demanded it, and anyhow he was ravenous.
Yes, he must get on with the murder just as soon as he finished eating. It seemed a little heartless to be contriving a woman’s death even as he ate her cheese cake, but he certainly didn’t mean to be callous.
He didn’t know just how he would murder Mary. Perhaps if he could get her into her shop, there in that corner where all the statuary was, he could manage something.
Mary smiled at him and handed him a cup of coffee.
“I thought you’d need lots of coffee, darling, after such a long drive.”
“Yes, dear, I do. Thank you.”
Just as he began to sip from his cup he glanced across the table at Mary. Her face had a peculiar expression. John was puzzled by it. They had been so close for so many years that she must be reading his mind. She must know what he was planning. Then she smiled; it was the glorious smile she had bestowed on him ever since their honeymoon. Everything was all right.
“Darling, excuse me for a minute,” she said. “I just remembered something in the shop that I must see to. I’ll be right back.”
She walked quickly out of the dining room and across the hall into the shop.
But she didn’t come back right away as she’d promised. If she didn’t return soon John’s coffee would be cold. He took a sip or two, then decided to go to the shop to see what had delayed Mary.