I crossed the hall to my room. I pulled my scuffed gladstone out of the closet, opened it on the bed, and began tossing clothes into it. I had the bag half-filled when the door opened. I threw a glance over my shoulder. Harold closed the door, came across the room.
“What’s the idea of the bag, Steve?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
He lighted a cigarette. His fingers were still shaking. “I know you had a run-in with Papa Joe this afternoon. He told me. Now you’re peeved at me. I can’t say that I blame you.”
I said nothing, but went on packing.
“What you did tonight was decent, Steve. I appreciate it. I really do.”
“Why don’t you take this McGinty trouble to the police, whatever it is, and be done with it?”
His smile was sly. “There’s no need for that now, is there?”
Some inkling of what he was thinking slipped into my consciousness. I snapped the gladstone closed before lifting my gaze to meet his. I saw the expression in his eyes that I was afraid I would see.
“You’re thinking,” I said, “that I carried McGinty out of the cottage, that I’ll chuck him some place for you.”
“I could hardly ask you to take such a risk, could I?”
I was angered at his growing confidence. I swung the bag off of the bed. “I didn’t lie to Vera. McGinty really did vanish, even though he couldn’t have left the cottage. If you missed him, the walls of the cottage would have stopped the bullets. The walls showed not a single bullet mark. McGinty took all that lead, and still did not bleed.”
The sincerity of my tone caused a momentary shadow of doubt to cross Harold’s face. He was struggling to believe what he wanted to believe, and he won.
“I hope you don’t tell that tale to any police inspectors, Steve. I’ll side you in anything you say, provided you’ll keep it plausible.” He turned to leave, then paused. “If they find McGinty in a culvert it’s possible they’ll learn that he knew me. So it’s a regrettable coincidence that he ran into trouble from another source. I’ll see to it that the gun disappears — and I’ve not left the house all evening.”
The door closed behind him. I turned to pick up the bag. I felt exactly as if I had been talking to Papa Joe.
When I reached the hallway, Ellen was just topping the stairs. She said, “There’s a lady down in the parlor to see you, Mr. Martin.”
I deposited the bag outside the parlor door, entered the gloomy room, and drew up short. Lucy Quavely was standing near the center of the room, casually lighting a cigarette.
She looked at me over the tip of the flame dancing on the tiny gold lighter.
“Do you intend to come in, Steve?”
“Yes, of course.” I stepped forward. “Nice to see you, Lucy.”
“You’re a liar. Will you ask me to sit down?”
I motioned to a chair without speaking. She was taller than Bryanne, her body more the feminine athlete’s. The bones of her face were prominent, giving her almost a hungry look. She’d never worn much makeup, I remembered. Now she wore only a touch of lipstick. Her dark brown hair hung straight, almost lank. She disdained style. She was wearing a light polo coat, sweater, tweed skirt, flat-heeled shoes. Her very casualness was in itself utter pretentiousness.
The chill gaze of her slightly slanted eyes was designed to reduce her vis-a-vis to pure crudity. Often the gaze succeeded.
I voiced a question I couldn’t suppress. “How is Bryanne?”
“Much better. The last operation helped. She’s walking now. It was much easier for her to learn to walk the first time, when she was a baby.”
“Lucy,” I said thickly, “will you please say why you’re here, and get out?”
“Still the ruffian,” she drawled. “How dreadfully masculine you are! It was unthinkable for you to marry a Quavely in the first place. After you did that horrible thing to Bryanne I wondered sometimes if our hate wouldn’t reach out and smother you. The irresistible wall, Steve, just hoping you would try to prove yourself the irresistible force.”
I said nothing. Bryanne could not have survived amid turmoil. There had never been in my mind any thought of irresistible forces, only the belief that in my surrender had lain the only possible road back to life for Bryanne.
Chapter V
Lucy read in my silence my refusal to rehash the past. I was more interested by far in knowing what had brought her calling here at ten o’clock at night.
“Very well” — she shrugged — “we shan’t waste words. Bryanne has met someone else, a South Carolinian. His family is in textiles.”
“What will it be for you, Lucy?” I asked. “A cotton baron?”
“You don’t believe me?”
“In the existence of a scion of textiles, yes. In the fact that you’re arranging things your own way for Bryanne, yes. In your other implication, that she has fallen in love with this gentleman of the looms, no.”
“Would it be so strange for a girl to fall in love twice?”
I kept my hands jammed deep in my pockets to conceal their shaking. I hoped the edge of confidence was there that I tried to keep in my voice when I said, “You didn’t drive all the way up from Greensboro to tell me these things. You want something. What is it?”
“I really came at Father’s insistence,” she said arrogantly. “To bring you this.”
She opened her bag, handed me an envelope. It was heavy. I opened it. It was filled with crisp new money.
“There’s five thousand dollars of it,” Lucy said. “There will be five thousand more when you have gone to an easy divorce state and cut yourself loose from us for good. After all, it’s only the legal gesture. For practical purposes you haven’t been Bryanne’s husband for some time.”
I tossed the money back in her lap. Color leaped to her cheeks. “We shan’t be pushed too far, Steve! We shall bargain only a little. Don’t name too high a price!”
“Good night, Lucy.”
“Steve! Don’t you dare leave this room until you have given me an answer!” She leaped to her feet. “What is your price?”
“The Quavely money is the most important thing in the world to you. For that reason, you can’t understand how it could be otherwise with anybody else. You can’t pay my price, Lucy. That price would be the understanding on your part that I married Bryanne despite the fact that she was a Quavely, not because of it.”
Her face flamed. She controlled her temper with an effort.
“Why must you be so unreasonable?” she demanded. “Would twenty thousand add a grain to your common sense?”
“My common sense tells me that you’re doing this without Bryanne’s knowledge,” I accused flatly. “If she loved this guy with his spindles and shuttles she’d do her own divorcing. On the other hand, should I divorce her, the way would be clear for her to fall into your trap.”
“You—” Lucy muttered hoarsely. “You’re impossible! Thirty thousand, then, and that’s as high as we’ll go. I’m stopping at a local hotel, the Bradley. I’ll stop by tomorrow morning to take you to the airport.”
I watched her go. I felt tired and old, as if she had piled thirty years on my shoulders. My mind was shot through with memories of the way it had been.
Mr. and Mrs. Steve Martin. Residence, Atlanta, Ga. Occupations, heavy equipment salesman and housewife. Reason for big celebration, husband’s promotion to district manager. A few drinks, but not enough to back up the claim of the Quavelys. A spot of ice in the highway and the wheel of the car was suddenly lax and powerless in my hands. She’d been laughing at something I’d said when the skid started. Then she’d screamed and the sound had been muffled in the crash.
A long time later I’d clawed my way out of the wreckage. She was pinned beneath the car. She turned her head. I was filled with abject horror; she was still conscious.