Hortense’s movement exceeded a start; it was almost a leap. She saw the danger in that question and breathed even more quickly. But danger loosened her tongue. It made her almost voluble.
“Yes, yes. We quarreled. He was vindictive. He tortured me — saying I was old, displeasing, that I should not live long—” Her hands were now free of each other. They were clenched. She struck the air with them. “It was hideous!”
“You said you wished he was dead?”
“No! I don’t remember. I was in pain.”
“Did you, in fact, wish he was dead?”
The lady shuddered.
“Perhaps. Perhaps. In anger. I don’t think so. It would have satisfied him too much. Yes, I did wish him dead! But I did not kill him. I don’t know who killed him. I don’t know. I have no idea. It might be — anybody.” Her voice suggested the approach of hysteria.
“Madame Kimel, I ask these questions as a duty. I know you had a bitter quarrel and that it was not the first. It was one of many. Isn’t that so? Over a long period of time?”
“A long time, yes.”
“You hadn’t seen him for several weeks. Why did you come here two nights ago?”
“He telephoned to me. He asked me to come.”
“To dine?”
“Yes.”
“Why to dine? As a friend?” She was consumed by memory of wrong and hatred. Calloway had to speak more loudly in order to obtain an answer. “Nothing more? I said, nothing more?”
I expected her to scream a denial. She did not do so. Indeed, when she spoke it was almost as if she sighed.
“Not only to dine, Mr. Calloway.”
“I see. You were to spend the night with him. You did not spend the night? Or did you? You were his mistress?”
“I was not his mistress.”
“Please!”
“Do not offend me by such a disgraceful suggestion!”
“I don’t understand you, Madame Kimel.”
“I was his wife, Mr. Calloway. I had been his wife for fifteen years.”
Calloway showed no surprise. He merely wrote a word upon one of his sheets of paper, considered his further questions for a moment or two, and then embarked upon a series of them.
Having been married to Rouben for so long, she must know something of his affairs? Nothing, nothing at all. Hadn’t she guessed anything? Nothing! Not about drugs? Nothing! How could she? Was she sure? No drugs; nothing!
She was not to be shaken.
Calloway retreated, and chose another topic.
Did she know anything about other women?
Ah, that was different! Her eyes glittered as I had seen them glitter before. Animation came into her haggard face. Rouben had been unfaithful to her throughout their married life. Again and again and again. Evidently he was incorrigible. She had left him twenty times — and returned as often. He had begged her to do so — entreated — until a little while ago.
That was different, was it? It was different. He had told her something. It had made her jealous? She was past jealousy. It had nothing to do with his death. Nothing.
Six months ago he had fallen in love — with a beautiful girl. His love was driving him mad, he said. He had asked her to divorce him, so that he could marry this girl. She had refused. She had refused — to save a lovely child from the hell she had known. Refused, refused! She had sworn she would always refuse.
She had seen him since then; she had dined with him. On friendly terms — not quarreling — without love or kindness, but on account of their daughter, who was at school, and whose future was in question.
But last night was different? It was different. He had telephoned. It was the anniversary of their wedding day. To celebrate and forgive, he said. But she knew the lovely girl had died three months ago.
“You forgave him? Yet you quarreled.”
Her face grew as dark as a thundery sky. Only under pressure did she reveal that Rouben still wanted a divorce.
“Though the girl was dead?”
“Yes.”
“Could there have been another beautiful girl?”
No answer.
“Do you know the girl’s name?”
It was clear to me, as it must have been clear to Calloway, that Hortense knew the girl’s name. She pretended not to. She pretended never to have heard it. She sobbed. No, she could not remember the name.
At last she thought it had been Josephine.
“Josephine what?”
She did not know. No, she really did not know.
“Josephine what?” Calloway kept repeating.
It took fully ten minutes to extract the name — Josephine Arnould.
I could have sworn that the name meant something to Calloway. He sank back in his chair and his eyes closed as if he were exhausted.
That was all. Long after she had gone, he stood deeply considering the interview, sometimes walking up and down the empty restaurant, sometimes staring at the floor until one thought a pit yawned at his feet.
At last he stopped dead. He was a yard away.
“Blast this trade!” he said. It was almost a moan.
The blazing light overhead showed sweat on his brow.
He had pulled himself together again by the time the princess — or Adrienne, as I now knew she was called — joined us; and he placed the chair for her directly opposite to him with no change of manner that I could detect. As soon as he began his examination, however, I saw that he was suffering from unusual strain; he could hardly frame the questions which duty compelled him to ask. How strange that the two women, Hortense and Adrienne, should produce in the same room, in the same situation, such different emotions in a man whom I thought to be without emotion!
This girl fascinated me. She was exquisitely virginal, distinguished, resolute, again inspiring in me, by her pride, a feeling of adoration rather than masculine interest — as if the very blood of Aphrodite ran in her veins. She was very beautiful. Could one imagine her in love? I could hardly do so; yet I was caught by Calloway’s bewildering manner, in which severity was incomprehensibly mingled with the humblest, most indulgent, simplicity.
“I want you to tell me the truth, Adrienne,” he said, like a judge addressing a little girl in the witness box. She bowed. “The exact truth. You understand? How old are you?”
“I am nineteen,” was the reply. Adrienne sat upright in the chair, as she must have once been taught by a good nurse. She had incredible poise.
“How long have you worked in this restaurant?”
“For a month.”
“Did you know Mr. Rouben before you came to work here?”
She calmly consulted her memory. It was not that she hesitated.
“No. But I had heard of him.”
“Why did you come here?”
She could be as unreadable as a mask; and yet she was not a mask, but a living, breathing, enchanting girl. Her lips met; her expression, which hitherto had been one of lovely candor, faded from her eyes. She was about to lie — I was sure of it.
“I thought it would be... interesting.”
Calloway looked gravely at her.
“A sort of game?” he asked.
She said, no, not a game. She had to earn her own living.
“You don’t give that impression.”
“No?” No explanation, no discomposure — only a polite acceptance of the limits of Calloway’s knowledge of her.
“You remember what happened here two nights ago?”
Adrienne drew herself together, as if she felt suddenly cold. In a very low voice, as if they were alone, she said,
“Yes, I remember. You dined here.”
“I dined here. That wasn’t what happened.”
“It was the third time you had been here.”
I caught my breath. Extraordinary! She — alone among all the human beings who were not his friends — had distinguished Calloway from other men!