Talmadge Powell
Death in Dirty Dishes
It began very simply with an unmade bed and a few dirty dishes.
At six minutes after five o’clock Bill Aiken returned from Washington to his apartment house. He knew it was six minutes after five because he consulted his watch, thinking that it would be forty-five minutes before Mary got home from work and he could see her again. They had been married only two months, and she insisted on keeping her job with Jacob Shuler, a lawyer with offices in the exclusive Standard Building. This was Bill’s first trip away, a three-day trip that had seemed like a lifetime.
In an expansive mood he handed the cab driver a couple of bucks, said airily, “Keep the change, old man.”
Humming softly, he went up the front steps, into the apartment house, and rode the self-service elevator to the third floor. He hummed Smoke Gets In Your Eyes, Mary’s favorite tune, as he turned the key in his apartment door.
He went inside, crossing the cozy living room, toward the bedroom, where he’d deposit his bag. After that, he was thinking, he’d pour himself a short one, sprawl in a living room chair, and when Mary came in, he’d give her the small, gold locket that nestled in his coat pocket. She had wanted a locket like that for a long time. A locket with a photograph of Bill’s grinning mug on the inside of it.
Then he opened the bedroom door, and the hum died softly in his throat. Everything suddenly changed. Not actually; for it was still the same familiar scene, maple suite, soft carpet, the dressing table a little cluttered with Mary’s knick-knacks. But something, some tiny detail, was different. A little warning buzzer came to life in Bill’s brain.
Lips pursed, he stood looking at the bedroom; then he laughed self-consciously, feeling foolish. He saw the detail consciously — the bed wasn’t made, the covers rumpled toward the foot. Mary was a stickler about making the bed first thing every morning. Its unmade condition at five in the afternoon only meant she had almost been late to work this morning without Bill to shake her awake. For a moment he’d reacted like an old maid.
He set his tan bag on the carpet beside the bed, regarded the rumpled covers with a cocked eyebrow, and started toward the kitchen.
At the kitchen door, he paused again, the alarm buzzer sounding off full blast.
The first thing he noticed was the odor, the smell of old food. Then he saw gnats hovering over the dinette table.
A frown creasing his forehead, he walked slowly into the kitchen. The table was littered with dirty dishes, a half-empty cup of coffee, the cream gathered to the top like scum, the remnants of an old breakfast — forlorn and uninviting on the plates. And there were too many dishes for Mary to have used alone...
A half-eaten piece of toast had absorbed butter and orange marmalade. Something hard began hammering inside Bill as he stretched out his hand, picked up the limp toast, touched it with the tip of his tongue. He went suddenly shaky, weak inside. It was orange marmalade, and Mary hated the stuff, crinkling her nose when Bill ate it
He knew then it was himself Mary had had breakfast with. That was why there were so many dishes; he had been her breakfast companion — but he hadn’t been in the apartment for almost four days. He knew, too, that she hadn’t been here, either. Mary wouldn’t have left those dirty dishes.
But if she hadn’t been here, where was she?
He was lighting down panic as he went back to the living room. He sat down, picked up the phone, and dialed Jacob Shuler’s number. There was no answer, and Bill replaced the phone slowly, trying to smother his rising panic.
Again he picked up the phone, and holding the phone book opened at the classified section, he went down the list of hospitals. He called them all with no results. The needles of fear began to bite deeper into his spine.
He called police headquarters, and after a long moments was connected with a deep-voiced Lieutenant of Detectives named Tim Hagan, who listened, with occasional short grunts.
“An unmade bed and dirty dishes, huh?” Hagan said, finally, wheezing a little. “Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about it. She...”
“The heck you wouldn’t! Look, I know my wife, and I know there must be a strong reason for her being gone. If she’d been called away, she would have wired me.”
“Well, you bring a photograph down. We’ll look into it.”
Look into it, Bill thought, slamming the phone down. Hagan would do more than look into it. He rose, shaken now with the added fear that he’d have a tough time prodding officialdom to action. He’d be cursed if he would let them make a missing persons report on Mary and file it back...
He had cooled off a little, knowing his anger had been inspired by the fear within him, when he was ushered into Hagan’s office.
Hagan, behind his desk, was a short, fat man with a round face, triple chins, and a polished briar pipe between his thick lips. But his eyes, like mirrors of his inner self, revealed dormant power and shrewdness.
He fished into his pocket, drew out a photograph of a slim woman with a soft, oval face and a cloud of chestnut hair. She was smiling, looking very gay and lovely. It caused Bill to flinch.
He handed the photograph to Hagan. “This is my wife.”
Hagan studied the photograph for a moment, not speaking; then he rose and said. “Excuse me. Be back in a moment.”
Bill sat down as the door closed behind the cop. He noticed he was crushing his hat brim and he stopped himself abruptly. He kept seeing the way Mary’s body flowed along as she walked, the way she smiled like a kid having a pleasant dream in her sleep.
Then Hagan was standing in the doorway, a plump, elfin figure, and the hot, pitying light in his eyes scared Bill.
“What... what is it, Hagan?”
Hagan came into the office, put his hand on Bill’s shoulder. “Easy, now, Aiken. I just called the morgue.”
The room whirled about Bill. He found himself thinking, “You’re dreaming, you fool! These things happen to other people, not to ordinary guys like you! Wake up!”
He said, “I want to see her, Hagan.” As he got up, he felt the weight of the locket case in his pocket...
It was a huge room, and Bill shuddered with the chill in it; the lighting was harsh, as if trying to dispell a special darkness. The smells, the formaldahyde, made him feel sick.
Then he looked at the body on the marble slab, his hands clenching until the knuckles cracked. He hadn’t dreamed it would be so horrible. He couldn’t even recognize her; it looked as if some sort of acid had been splashed in her face...
His breath knotted in his throat, he looked at the tweed, tailored suit that clung wetly to her. They’d found her on the river bank where the water had washed her up, the morgue attendant said, and had just brought her in. Her cloudy, chestnut hair was in wet, limp strands; she was wearing one of the spike-heel pumps that made her ankles look especially nice. The other shoe was still in the river...
Hagan said softly, “You want her rings and watch?”
Bill nodded dumbly. Her engagement and wedding rings, the watch he’d given her... yes, he wanted them.
Objects swimming in his vision, he looked down at the hand that had worn those rings and something hot washed over him. As if afraid of what he would see, he picked up her limp, left hand. He spread the first and second fingers. He said hoarsely, “This... this isn’t Mary!”
“What...!”
“The night before I left, Hagan, Mary cut herself between her fingers, but there’s no wound...”
Hagan grabbed the cold hand, looked between the fingers, and jerked his face toward Bill. “Then who is this? Why is she dressed in your wife’s clothes? And where is your wife, if this isn’t she?”