She got up, went to the door, found the newspaper there, brought it in, sat on the edge of the bed reading it.
She glanced at the usual headlines; politics, world affairs. They didn’t interest her. She turned to the inside pages, listlessly. What did anything matter to her?
Little scandals, divorces, deaths. She read them all, all seeing. What was this? She read a small item:
Miss Grace Trummer, about twenty-five years old, a pretty little blonde seamstress, committed suicide at a rooming house in ..... Street, last night, by inhaling gas. Miss Trummer left no reason for the deed, and, as far as is known, she had no relatives—
Irene dropped the paper on the bed. There, that was a way out — gas. She could do that — could end things that way. What if she did? That wouldn’t hurt Dennison. He’d be glad she. was out of the way, really. If she could be found dead! If Dennison could be blamed! That would be something. He would be electrocuted for her murder! Of course! That would be clever!
In her mind, now, she went over the whole thing — how she could kill herself — and leave little evidences about, so that it would look as if Dennison had killed her. She’d have to be careful, of course. Why, of course. She would have to make it look as if Dennison had planned to make it look like suicide or burglary! Burglary would be best. Dennison would die! She laughed almost wildly over that. She dressed and laughed all the while. She felt sort of funny. Was she mad? She didn’t think she was. Of course not. Yes, that’s the way she’d do things.
But — then she would be dead. She didn’t want to be dead. She wouldn’t know about Dennison. She had to know. No, that wouldn’t do either. She wanted to live. She was too young to die. She must get even with Dennison!
That woman who had died — a blonde woman, too, nearly her age. She wondered about her.
Then the thought came to Irene. It came to her, suddenly. It enveloped her, left her weak, dizzy. Could she get that body? If that body could be found — here — instead of hers!
The woman had no relatives — surely that would be easy enough. She would try. That was it. She could do her best. It was the only way — a way to get even...
Her heart started to sing in a wild way, a way it hadn’t sung for a year — more than that. If she could — if she could fix things so that it would look as if Dennison...
She thought it over. If things went right! If not... well, she’d have to take some chances, anyhow.
A ring at the door-bell. She trembled. The mail man. She went downstairs, a plan already formulated in her mind. She met Mrs. Peterson in the hall, started right in on the plan — talked with her... the vacation... a holiday with Dennison.
She telephoned to Schmidt to bring her trunk up. He brought it and the bags up almost immediately. She talked with him eagerly, nervously.
Another ring at the bell. It was the man for Dennison’s trunk. She trembled as the man took it out. Mrs. Peterson, again. Dennison’s trunk gone.
She finished dressing, went out, the clipping about the woman suicide in her purse.
Mrs. Peterson’s door was still open. That prying little woman. She’d keep on talking — prepare her — in case things went all right.
VI
She hurried out of the apartment building, took a subway train, went to the address mentioned in the news story. It was a cheap rooming house. She hurried up the stone stairs, remembering to sniffle a bit.
A weary looking woman with red eyes answered the door.
Irene’s voice trembled. She really was nervous.
“I–I read in the paper just now—” she began.
“Yes?” the woman looked at her, suspiciously.
“My sister — her name — she disappeared from home. I just happened to be here, visiting in New York — she could sew — she was blonde — like me...”
The woman’s expression changed.
“Your sister?” she asked sadly, but with a certain eager curiosity.
“Yes — I–I think so,” said Irene. “Is — she — the body — here?”
“No,” said the woman. “They came last night — took her right down to the morgue. You can see her down there.”
Irene hesitated. Her mind leaped on.
“I–I — we want to take the body home — if it is my sister,” said Irene. Then, “Do you know what I could do — how to get it?” She started to cry.
“It’s too bad,” said the woman. “I’m Mrs. Figg. She’s rented a room of me for over six months, now. Never talked much of herself. And yesterday morning — come in, dearie...”
Irene went in, saw the cheap little room of the other woman, listened to stories of her. No one cared for her. It seemed the woman was herself, in a way. That didn’t matter. She wanted — the body.
“I’ll go, now — to the morgue,” she said.
“I’ll go with you, if you like, dearie,” Mrs. Figg volunteered. Irene shivered a little more at that. Then she nodded. After all, she didn’t know how to get a body at the morgue. With this woman, who believed her story...
She sat, quiet, while the woman dressed. They took a cross-town car. The morgue...
It was a big, gloomy building, smelling of disinfectants, clean, solemn.
They went into a bare room, with wooden chairs about. A man asked questions. Irene sobbed. Mrs. Figg answered. The woman had died — no post-mortem had been necessary. Irene suddenly remembered those. What if there had been. How would she have got out of this?
Yes, they could see the body. If Irene could identify it there would be no objection to her taking it away. She must get an undertaker, of course — she could sign, authorizing him — he could take it to his shop, embalm the body — have it shipped to her home out of town...
Irene didn’t want an undertaker or embalming. All she wanted was that body, untouched, in her apartment, without a coffin, without anything — that body. She must get it. What could she do? She must get it. Her mind raced on.
Well, she’d do her best. A new cunning seemed to come to her. If things would only go on...
The man led the way down a row of narrow stairs into a big room, with walls of white tile, clean, like a kitchen. There were huge drawers in the walls — drawers that pulled out...
“Here,” said the man, and pulled out a drawer, a long drawer with a woman on it — a dead woman. Was that the woman? She looked, covered her eyes. A dead woman — a woman she had never seen before — a blonde woman with a sad, thin face — not like hers — and yet — in a way — if there was enough time before the body was found...
She glanced at Mrs. Figg through her fingers. She had to be sure that this was the woman — that they were not testing her.
Mrs. Figg nodded.
“The poor, poor thing,” she said.
“Yes,” said Irene, “that — that’s my sister — two years older than I am — and she’d dead — all alone...” she sobbed. They were real tears, now. She was thoroughly frightened.
The man turned away. He was accustomed to scenes.
They went up the narrow stairs. Another man filled out a blank slip, gave it to Irene, told her the details about getting an undertaker.
She and Mrs. Figg walked out of the morgue. Another step was finished. She couldn’t fail, now! What should she do?
Irene was sobbing again.
“I wonder,” she said, “if — if I dare ask you another favor. Could I bring her — the body — to you? Could she be embalmed there? I could go out and buy her a new dress — so — that, when we got her home... I’ll get something right away. I can’t bear to think of her in an undertaking shop. She wouldn’t be in your house very long. I’ll have my trunk sent there, too, with some things in it. I live in the country — I’ve been here a week — I’ll go right home with — with her. To think that Grace...