He flung out his arm. “You bitch! Don’t call me names!”
“Bitch?” Sheila screamed. “Get out of my apartment! Now!”
“No!”
She slapped him with all her might.
And then it came. With a rush.
She was not aware at first what her slap had loosed. For she had started for the house phone. “You leave me no choice. I’m calling John Leslie up here to get you out. I never want to see you again.”
From childhood the great flaw in his make-up had been his temper. It had been a hair-trigger thing, exploding at his governess, the servants, other children, his mother — although never his father. Ashton had blamed Lutetia (“You’ve spoiled him”) and hoped that the other boys in boarding school would whip him regularly enough to cure him. But his rages had seemed to feed on violence; and it was not until he was an upperclassman at college that Dane had taught himself restraint. But the lava of his temper was always boiling under his skin.
Now Sheila’s hot words, his own guilts, the underlying fear of the confrontation with his father, made him erupt. He leaped at Sheila, whirled her about, and seized her by the throat. He felt, rather than heard, his own voice rumbling, jeering, cursing, choking with hate.
Sheila struggled; her resistance fed his fury. His fingers tightened... It was not until her face turned livid, her cries became gurgles, her eyes glassed over and she went suddenly sodden under his hands — it was not until then that a shudder shook him and awareness returned.
Sheila lay collapsed on the floor, barely able to support herself on her forearms, breathing in great gasps. But breathing. Dane stared down at her. There was nothing he could say. It was all over between them. How could she ever look at him again without fear?
His plans — to help his mother — punish his father — marry Sheila... all, they were all strangled by that single burst of homicidal fury. What was any of them worth now?
She was alive. He could at least take satisfaction in that.
Dane seized his coat and ran.
Sheila got to her knees, pulled herself erect, toppled onto the ottoman.
She spent some time learning to swallow again, her hands trembling on her bruised throat. She felt cold and sick; her body was racked with shudders. Gradually they subsided, her gasps became normal breathing, her racing heart slowed down.
The thought kept hammering in her head: He almost killed me. He wanted to; it was in his murderous eyes... Little things came back to her. Hadn’t there been signs? His unnatural sulkiness when thwarted? His easy excitability? His inexplicable silences?
Quivering, Sheila scrambled up and went to the bathroom and turned on the cold-water tap. She was drying herself when she heard a key in her door.
It was Ashton McKell.
He looked tired. But his face lit up as he saw her.
“Well, the nation’s fate is secure for tonight, anyway,” he said. “Old Ash McKell has given the President — good evening, Sheila” — he kissed her, sank onto the ottoman — “the benefit of his advice. Now all he has to do is take it. Sheila? Something wrong?”
She shook her head. Her hand was on her throat.
He jumped up and went to her. “What’s happened? Why are you holding your throat?”
“Ash... I can’t tell you.”
“Did you hurt yourself?”
“No. No.”
“Did someone hurt you?”
“Ash. Please—”
“Let me see your neck.”
“Ash, it’s nothing, I tell you.”
“I don’t understand.” He was distressed and bewildered.
“Ash, I don’t feel well. Would you understand if...?”
“You’d like me to leave?”
Weeping, she nodded. He hesitated, patted her shoulder, picked up his bag and hat, and left.
Sheila looked out her window at the nighttime city for a few minutes after Ashton McKell’s departure. All at once she turned away and hurried into her workroom. She pushed a pile of unfinished fashion sketches aside, took a sheet of note-paper and envelope from a drawer, sat down.
She wrote rapidly:
Sept. 14th
Dane McKell tonight asked if he could come up to my apartment for a nightcap. I told him I had work to do, but he insisted. In the apartment he refused to leave and nothing I could say made him do so. I lost my temper and slapped him. He then tried to strangle me. This is not hysteria on my part — he actually tried to strangle me. He took my throat in his hands and squeezed and seemed to be out of his mind with an insane rage. As he choked me he screamed that he was going to kill me and he called me many obscene names. Then he dropped me to the floor and ran out of the apartment. In another minute I would have been dead of strangulation. I am convinced that he is a dangerous person and I repeat his name, Dane McKell. He definitely tried to kill me.
She did not even bother to reread it. She thrust it into an envelope, moistened the gum, sealed it securely, and on the envelope wrote: To be opened only in the event I die of unnatural causes. Now she searched her drawer, found a larger envelope, inserted the first envelope into it, sealed the outer one — heavy and yellow — and on its face wrote: For the Police. She hesitated, slipped the envelope into a bottom drawer of her desk, bit her lip, shook her head, took the envelope from the drawer, and dropped it on her desk. I’ll find a better place for it in the morning, she told herself.
Sheila sat back now, exhausted to the point of nausea. After a moment she got up and went over to an easy chair in a half-stumble and sank into it. Dizzy, sick to her stomach, shocked to the core, she felt as she imagined people feel when they are dying. If I died right here and now, she thought, I wouldn’t care.
Her eyes closed...
Later, she could not imagine at first why she was in the easy chair. All of a sudden it came back to her. A glance at her watch told her that less than ten minutes had elapsed.
She visited the bathroom again, dipping a washcloth in cold water, bathing her eyes and neck. My God, what a nightmare, she thought.
Sleep was out of the question, creative work. Yet it was either back to her drawing board or to bed with a sleeping pill, unless... Routine, that was it. There were always mindless matters to lose oneself in, rituals of invoice checking, sample matching, note jotting...
It was as if she had reached a refuge on her hands and knees. Sheila sat down once more at the desk in her workroom.
This affair had turned out monstrously, monstrously. The best thing to do was to forget it (could she ever forget the clutch of those fingers on her throat?). And she reached for a pile of papers in the desk bin.
Her hand remained in midair.
Someone was in her living room.
Her hand felt paralyzed. She forced it — a sheer act of will — to move toward the telephone, watching it as if it were part of someone else’s body. One fingertip clawed at the dial, pulled.
Whoever it was moved stealthily. From the living room into the bedroom.
Far off, a voice spoke. Sheila started. It was in her ear.
“Operator.” She tried to keep her voice steady in its whisper. “Police. Quick.”
“Is this an emergency?”
“Yes.”
Sheila’s teeth chattered on the sibilant. Then there was no sound but the air-conditioner. Then a man’s voice said, “Seventeenth Precinct, Sergeant Tumelty.”
“Someone is in my apartment.”
“Who is this, please? What’s your address, phone number?”
Sheila told him. “Just hurry,” she whispered.
“Don’t panic, Miss Grey. Lock the door of the room you’re in. We’ll have somebody—”