The girl’s face moved, and it seemed for an instant as if she was going to cry or laugh at the ridiculous word.
“It means,” he said, “that wherever I choose to go, at whatever time, I won’t be required to phone home and give my exact location, the nature of my companions, and the state of my health. I am now a free agent, an emancipated man. I’ve had to suffer to get to this point, but I’m here now. Nothing whatever is expected of me.”
“I’m not the type who interferes,” Polly said. She tried to sound cold and scornful but her voice trembled. “I don’t require ten-minute reports, you wouldn’t have to be phone-ridden. I’m not... I’m not Edith.”
“No. But Edith wasn’t always Edith either. Years ago Edith too was engaged to a young man. But when Mildred died she broke her engagement, she said it was her duty to stay with me. The fact was that she didn’t love the young man enough to take a chance on marriage, so she eased herself out of it by that word duty. As the years passed Edith closed her mind to the real facts. She blamed me for ‘her frustrated love affair. She took it out on me, not overtly, but by kind and gentle and loving nagging.”
She looked at him, stubborn and mute.
“I’m wasting my time pointing out analogies. I’ll have to give you a direct order, Polly. Leave this house.”
“I won’t. This is ridiculous.”
“Leave this house immediately, do you hear?”
“You might at least keep your voice down. The maids...”
He saw that she had no intention of going. Even though she might have wanted to, her own obstinacy was in the way.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and struck her on the cheek with the flat of his hand.
Her face seemed to break apart under the blow. With a sudden whimper she turned and ran out of the room holding her hand to her cheek.
The two men stood in silence. They heard the front door open and slam shut, a car engine racing, the blast of a horn, and then just quiet again.
“I’m sorry,” Andrew repeated. “I... I don’t really believe in violence.”
“No,” Sands said. “It boomerangs.”
“The poor child, she was frightened to death.”
“She’ll get over it. Edith won’t.”
“Edith — yes. You want to see Edith, of course?”
“Yes.”
“Very peaceful. Morphine is a peaceful death. You go to sleep, you dream, you never know where the dream ends.”
Where the dream ends — for Greeley in an alley and Edith in her soft bed.
Chapter 14
She had not undressed. She lay on the bed, a blanket covering her to the waist, her head resting easily on two pillows.
“She didn’t go to bed,” Andrew said softly, as if she might wake at any minute and be displeased to find him in her bedroom talking about her. “She wouldn’t have liked to be found in a nightgown.”
“You think that’s it?”
“Perhaps. I’m only guessing. It’s all we can do now.” Sands moved closer to the bed. Edith’s hands were folded and he saw that one of her fingers had a smudge of ink on it. His eyes strayed to the night table beside the bed. It held a glass of water and a pitcher and a lamp. At the base of the lamp lay a fountain pen with the top jammed carelessly on.
Sands thought, she sat here marking the passages in the diary. She worked quickly — why? Was she fighting against time, or was she in a hurry to go to sleep, to dream, to die?
“Why?” he said aloud. Why go to all the trouble of marking the diary and seeing that it got in neutral and therefore safe hands?
“Why kill herself?” Andrew said, quietly. “Because she’d written a letter. When I came upstairs last night she was in my room trying to find it. It was in the bundle of Lucille’s clothes that came from the hospital. She was afraid that I might read it and find out that she had driven Lucille to suicide.”
“I see.”
“Here it is. I read it last night.”
He brought the letter from his pocket and handed it to Sands.
Sands read the agitated scrawclass="underline"
“Dear Lucille: I hope you received the chocolates and pillow rest I sent day before yesterday. It is very difficult to get chocolates these days, one has to stand in line, We all miss you a great deal, though I feel so hopeless saying it because I know you won’t believe it. Everything is such a mess. The policeman Sands was here again, talking about the train wreck. You remember that afternoon? I don’t know what he was getting at, but whoever did anything to you, Lucille, it wasn’t me, Lucille, it was not me! I don’t know, I can’t figure anything out any more. I have this sick headache nearly all the time and Martin is driving me crazy. They have always seemed like my own children to me, the two of them, and now, I don’t know, I look at them and they’re like strangers. Meals are the worst time. We watch each other. That doesn’t sound like much but it’s terrible — we watch each other. I know Andrew wouldn’t like me to be writing a letter like this. But, Lucille, you’re the only one I can talk to now. I feel I’d rather be there with you, I’ve always liked and trusted you. Everything is so mixed up. Do you remember the night Giles came and I said, God help me, that we were a happy family? I feel this is a judgment on me for my smugness and wickedness. I don’t know how it will all end. Edith.”
It had all ended now, for both of them. Edith’s calm cold face denied all knowledge. Whoever did anything to you, Lucille, it wasn’t me, Lucille, it was not me! The words rang clear and true in Sands’ mind.
“She had to get the letter back,” Andrew said. “She knew that Lucille killed herself soon after it was read to her, and she realized that if other people read it they would know the letter was mainly responsible for Lucille’s death.”
Sands barely heard him. He was looking at Edith, seeing the cold denial on her face. The diary felt large and heavy in his pocket, as if it had grown since he’d put it there.
He turned suddenly and walked back to the door. The diary swung against his side, and when he passed Andrew he saw Andrew’s eyes on his coat pocket.
“Do you carry a gun?” Andrew said.
“No.”
“What’s that?”
“A book.”
“If you don’t carry a gun, what do you do In an emergency?”
“I plan for emergencies. Then they are no longer emergencies.” He smiled, very faintly. “Do you carry a gun?”
“No.”
“You are against violence, I had forgotten. Excuse me, I have to phone in a report. Your sister — must be attended to.”
“Yes, of course. You know where the phone is.”
Sands was gone for ten minutes. When he came back Andrew was standing in the hall outside Edith’s room, waiting for him.
“That book in your pocket,” he said, “that’s my wife’s diary, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I thought it would be. I couldn’t find it. I gave it to Edith last night to read.”
“Why?”
“She found it in my room when she came to look for her letter. I thought it was the natural, thing to do, to let her read it.”
“Natural,” Sands repeated. “Everything’s been pretty natural all down the line, hasn’t it? Everything has more or less just happened “
“I’m glad you see that. I feel it very strongly myself.”
“Yes, I know.”
“The only really unnatural thing is where you got my wife’s diary.”
“Your sister wrapped it in a paper bag and mailed it to Janet Green last night before she died.” Seeing Andrew’s frown he added, “She was at the funeral yesterday. Cora Green’s sister.”