Randolph? Michael dismissed that hypothesis not because of Randolph ’s charm and talent but because of a fact that stood as solidly as Mount Everest. Randolph was genuinely, desperately, in love with his wife. Although Michael had interviewed a lot of people, he couldn’t always tell the truth from the assumed; but in this case he would have staked his reputation on the genuineness of Randolph ’s feelings.
All of which led straight back to the most obvious source of evil. Linda herself.
Now, there, surely, he was out of his depth and could candidly admit the fact. God damn it, he wasn’t a psychiatrist. Nobody but a professional had the right to speculate about a mental condition as severe as Linda’s. He couldn’t even consult a professional. It would be an unforgivable violation of friendship.
But the idea remained, dangling like a shiny toy in the forefront of his mind, and for a few minutes he played with it. Often in his biographical research he had talked to Galen Rosenberg about the personalities of his subjects. Rosenberg had been one of his father’s best friends, and Michael would have appreciated his pithy comments even if he had not been one of the top psychiatrists in the east. His humility and his sardonic sense of humor were as great as his all-embracing tolerance. It was a pity Gordon couldn’t convince his wife to see Galen. If anyone could help her…
Michael shook his head. He was busy-bodying again, and if he had learned anything in the course of his thirty-three years, it was the futility of trying to force help on people who didn’t want it. No, he couldn’t discuss the case with Galen, not even under pseudonyms. His problem was not Linda’s neuroses, it was a question of his own professional competence. Could he do a decent job with Randolph ’s life without mentioning the fact that Randolph ’s wife had tried to kill him? Another of those simple questions that weren’t simple at all.
The answer, like the question, could be phrased with paradoxical simplicity. Michael realized, with a slight shock, that the answer was not the one he had hoped to get. He was a professional, and a good one; on that theme he had no false modesty whatever. Already sentences were framing themselves in his mind, possible lines of investigation were taking shape; the subject fascinated him as a problem, all personal ties aside. Oh, sure, there would be sticky moments, places were he would have to walk carefully, but they were only part of the challenge of the job. He could do it, all right. And he wanted to do it. And he didn’t want to do it.
Michael bounded to his feet with a snarl, knocking two issues of Mad, an American Historical Review, and approximately two weeks of the New York Times off the coffee table, and evoking an answering growl from Napoleon, who was crouched on the rug by the front door. It was his favorite place. What he was waiting for, Michael never knew, though he wasted a lot of time speculating. Other cats? Not people. Napoleon hated people, all people, and departed via the window whenever a visitor approached.
“Why the hell I don’t get a nice friendly dog, I don’t know,” Michael said aloud. “I could talk to it and get an answer now and then. I can’t even kick you to relieve my spleen. You’d wait till I was asleep and then come in and tear my throat out. Who do you think you are, squatting there by the door? A watchdog? A lion? A vulture? God damn it, I hope that old saw about animals reflecting the personalities of their owners isn’t true. You make me look like some kind of nut.”
Having thus relieved his spleen, he stalked toward the bedroom, shedding coat, tie, and shirt as he went. Napoleon settled back on his haunches muttering to himself. The eerie sound followed Michael all the way into the bedroom, and he kicked the dresser in passing. Why couldn’t the cat purr like an ordinary feline? This sound wasn’t quite a growl, but it certainly wasn’t a purr; Napoleon never expressed approval in that traditional fashion. He never expressed approval at all. He just sat around muttering to himself. A helluva pet for a poor miserable bachelor…
No pets. No animals at all, on the whole expansive twenty acres of Randolph ’s estate. Surely that was not coincidental. You’d expect a man like Randolph to ride and hunt, to keep dogs.
Michael turned out the light and pulled the crumpled sheet up to his chin. He liked to consider himself above such considerations as physical comfort, but his uncooperative body remembered the smoothness of the sheets at the Randolph house, and the yielding yet firm surface of the mattress. Surely this mattress had grown another lump since the last time he slept on it. He wriggled, trying to find a smooth spot. No use. The damned mattress grew tumors, like protoplasm…
There was no clue to Randolph ’s personality in the absence of animals; that was a pretty corny old cliché. A lot of nice people didn’t like dogs. There were such things as allergies, too. And…of course. Linda Randolph’s neurosis had to do with animals. Randolph couldn’t have a dog on the place when the sight of an imaginary one sent his wife into fits. So much for the subtle analytical biographer’s insight.
Michael gave up his search for comfort and lay staring up at the ceiling, hands clasped under his head. The dirty yellow light from the street filtered in through panes grimy with city dirt, past the cracks in the wooden slats of the ancient blind. Sounds filtered in, too-the soft drizzle of the rain and the hooting, honking blare of traffic. Even at this late hour there were cars on the city streets. Soon the trucks would begin their nightly deliveries, but he wouldn’t hear them; his ears had become inured to the grind of brakes and the vibration that was gradually eroding the fabric of buildings and pavements. He was used to the sounds and the grime and the press of human beings. They were part of his habits; without them he probably couldn’t work. Yearning for apple blossoms and fresh country air and crocuses (crocuses?) pushing their tender green tips through the damp brown earth-sentimental nonsense, that was what it was. A nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.
Soothed and comforted by the familiar cacophony and the friendly dirt, he was drifting off to sleep when he remembered something else. He hadn’t paid much attention at the time to Randolph ’s remark; he had been tired and confused, and the remark hadn’t made any sense anyhow. Now he remembered it, and the utter illogic of it brought him out of his doze, wide awake and staring.
“If she should come to you,” Randolph had said, “try to get her to see a doctor. Maybe you can do it.”
Had Gordon Randolph really said that? Of all the weird, crazy things to say…And he had simply nodded and muttered, “Sure, of course; be glad to.”
Michael groaned aloud. What had he got himself into this time? What kind of tacit admission could be read into that acquiescing mumble of his? He was always doing things like that, agreeing to propositions without listening to them, letting his mind wander off into byways and returning to a conversation to find that he had committed himself to ideas he violently opposed or plans that he had no intention of carrying out. But this was his worst fiasco yet. Did Randolph really think…?
Of course there had been those two episodes. When a man walks into a room and finds his wife in another man’s arms, he may be excused for thinking there is something between them. Was Linda Randolph a nymphomaniac as well as an alcoholic?
Michael groaned again, so heartily that it provoked a loud response from Napoleon, out by the front door; but at the same moment he denied the thought. He had spotted Linda as a heavy drinker the first time he saw her. The symptoms of the other were just as obvious, and she wasn’t…No, indeed, she wasn’t. His face burned, in the darkness, as he remembered the strength with which she had held him off.