For two solid days and nights Conway wrestled with the challenge he had set himself, and was no nearer a solution than when he started. By evening of the third day he had become convinced that he had conceived a perfect murder and that there was no solution.
By means of careful timing and a good deal of listening at the door, he had managed to avoid Helen for two days. Now, with the old, familiar defeat staring at him, he dared not face her. But he had to get out, out of this room, out of the house; he needed a change of scenery, of diet, of air. He listened from behind his door for over an hour; then, having heard no sound, he ventured down.
Helen was sitting in the living room like a cat outside a mousehole.
“Don’t look so surprised — I live here, you know. And don’t forget it. How long did you think you could go on ducking me the way you’ve been these last two days?”
“I haven’t been ducking you, I’ve been working.” Even as he said it he realized the feebleness of the defense, and the opening it provided her.
“Working! At what? Giving yourself a manicure? You certainly haven’t been working at that typewriter.”
He reminded himself that he must keep calm, that he must not let her lash him into a fury. “It’s the finish,” he said. “I’ve had to think it through. It’s been a tough nut to crack.”
“And you haven’t cracked it.”
“Not entirely, but—”
“And you never will.”
It was time for her to start to rage, he thought; for her voice to rise to that screaming frenzy he had come to know so well. But it didn’t. The rage was there, but it was blanketed by an icy hardness as she went on.
“Another masterpiece you couldn’t write. If all the unfinished manuscripts of Arthur Conway were laid end to end, they’d make a good paper chase. And that’s all they are good for.”
“Okay.” With a faint hope that he might be able to make it, he started for the door.
“Wait a minute. I didn’t sit around here all afternoon just to get a glimpse of your lily-white face.”
Conway breathed more easily. This was not to be a tantrum: she had something to say. “Thank you, Mrs. Conway. Somehow I didn’t think you had.”
“And don’t call me by that name — it reminds me of you. I loathe you, I detest you, I despise you, and if you were worth it, I’d hate you.”
“Very nicely put. Sounds like something out of one of those unfinished manuscripts.”
“And you can save those bum jokes.”
“I’m only filling in until you decide to come to the point.”
She hesitated only a moment. “I want a divorce. And unless you’re even stupider than I think you are, you do too. So — what do we do?”
For the first time it had been mentioned. It was out in the open, and it cleared the air to such an extent that he almost liked her.
“After considered thought, my suggestion would be that we get a divorce.”
“Very bright,” she said. “Now see what you can do with this one. What about money?”
Conway thought he knew where this was leading, but there seemed no point in hurrying her. “You know what we’ve got in the bank,” he said. “It ought to be enough for the lawyers and the court costs.”
“Yeah. And what about me?”
“What about you?”
“You think you’re going to divorce me and throw me out without a cent to my name?”
“In the first place, I’m not going to divorce you — you’re going to divorce me. In the second place, you can have every penny I’ve got. That’s my best offer.”
“That’s fine. That’d be just dandy. You give me every penny you’ve got after paying for the divorce, and I wouldn’t have bus fare. That’s a nice out for you. But what am I supposed to do?”
“You might go back to Topeka. You could make up with your sister, and live in that house your mother left her.”
“I wouldn’t be caught dead in Topeka, I wouldn’t speak to Betty if she was the last person on earth, and the cold little fish is my half-sister, not my sister.”
“Okay. Well, what did you do before we were married?”
Her eyes narrowed. “What’s that got to do with it?”
“As I recall, you had a job for which you were paid $37.50 a week. You lived on that, if not sumptuously, at least adequately. Since we’ve been married you’ve dwelt somewhat more comfortably, been nourished at least as well, and dressed considerably better than when you provided for yourself. To my great regret I can’t guarantee to continue this — this ‘standard of living to which you’ve become accustomed,’ I believe the phrase is. But I see no reason why you shouldn’t go to work. I’ll agree to pay you a percentage of what I earn until you remarry, as alimony, and you’ll wind up much better off than you’ve ever been. Just don’t marry another writer.”
“I can see myself ever getting a plugged nickel from you once we were divorced.”
“You’d have the devoted assistance of every police force and court of law in the United States to aid you in getting it; one of their chief functions is to guarantee the unearned increment of divorcees.”
“Let’s stop kidding. If you didn’t have it, I couldn’t get it out of you, even with the police, the army, navy and air force on my side. And you’ll never have it.”
Conway wondered how much of this constant tearing down, this repeated belittling, a man could take.
“Not that I wouldn’t get a lot of pleasure out of seeing you in jail, but it wouldn’t pay my rent. No — I want cash. Not very much, but I want it now.”
“What’s your idea of not very much?”
“Five thousand dollars.”
Her calmness had puzzled him from the beginning, and now he was bewildered. She had something in mind, he knew, but what it was he could not imagine.
“I can’t think of anything I’d rather have than five thousand dollars to give you. Have you any ideas as to how I might obtain that paltry sum?”
She looked at him judicially. “One of the most repulsive things about you is that cheap sarcasm you’ve become addicted to. I suppose it makes you think you’re a wit.”
Conway had no illusions about being a wit, but he did wish that occasionally he might be able to produce a comeback to some of her more devastating remarks. But his retorts had been getting more and more feeble, less and less frequent.
“Naturally I know how you can get five thousand. I wouldn’t expect you to.” Conway looked at her blankly. “I’ve made up a list of a few friends of yours back East,” she said as she took a slip of paper from her bag. “They’re all doing very nicely. And they’re all very fond of you — respect you because you’re a writer, and they’re only businessmen. They all thought you were going to write that great American novel, too. And they haven’t seen you for a couple of years, so they haven’t found out what a phoney and a flop you are. It’ll be a cinch to get five thousand out of them.”
“You’re out of your mind!”
“Oh no I’m not. This is the best idea I’ve had since I said ‘No’ the first time you proposed to me. I make you a present of the idea and you have a chance to do a little creative writing — and you’ll get paid for it for a change. Tell ’em that you’re sick, I’m sick, you’re writing that novel, I’m going to have a baby — anything you like. There are five names here,” and she handed him the list. “Allen and Tyler should be good for two thousand, maybe twenty-five hundred. Strike them for twenty-five hundred anyway. Try the others for a thousand; a couple of them might only come across with five hundred, but even so — And if you get more than the five thousand, you can keep the profit — or some of it, anyway.”
Conway’s mind must have been running in terms of fiction: he had half-expected her to name a bank to be robbed, or suggest a dope-smuggling scheme. Her plan was safer. It was also simpler, surer, and more repugnant to him.