“The whole thing was so quick, so incredible, that it seemed to be taking place in a dream. I was too stunned to think clearly or to make plans. I could only act, automatically, by instinct. I tried to clean up the mess with bath towels, but it was no use, there was too much of it. Consuela kept crying and moaning, partly in regret over what she’d done, but more, I think, in dismay over what was going to happen to her now. It was at this point that I realized I had accepted too passive a role in the whole business. If I was to help Amy, I had to do something more positive. I couldn’t just sit back and wait for time to restore her to her senses. And so it was, as I said, Consuela herself who forced me to action by her killing of O’Donnell.
“Armchair critics, and people who’ve never been in my position, may censure me for not immediately calling the police. But you know, Dodd, that I couldn’t afford to; that if I had, my wife might very well be in jail right now. Consuela would have told the authorities her story of Wilma’s death, and Amy, ten chances to one, would have confirmed it. So in order to protect my wife, I had also to protect Consuela. For a time, anyway.
“We started out, using O’Donnell’s car for obvious reasons. When I stopped at the kennel to get Mack, I had some wild notion of ditching Consuela, picking up Amy at the rest home, and just taking off with her and Mack and disappearing. But I knew this wouldn’t work out, that in some way I must get Amy and Consuela to confront each other. I figured that Amy was a little more sure of herself by this time, and Consuela a great deal less. From such a meeting I hoped the truth would emerge. That’s why I called you from the Big Sur, and asked your help in arranging it. I’m aware that I’ve put you in a very difficult position, but believe me, it’s for a good cause. My wife’s whole future is at stake.”
So is mine, Dodd thought, and started making a mental list of the number of laws he’d broken in the interests of Amy’s future. He stopped at seven; the project was too depressing.
In the adjoining room the telephone began to ring and Dodd went to answer it. The two women watched in silence as he picked up the phone. “Yes?”
“I sent Pedro up with the silver box,” Escamillo said. “Did you receive it?”
“Yes.”
“Emilio is now in my office. He tells me she is on her way upstairs.”
“Thanks.” Dodd replaced the phone and turned to Amy, who was sitting on the edge of the bed looking pale and bewildered, as if she’d somehow wandered into the whole affair by mistake. “Are you ready, Mrs. Kellogg?”
“I guess I am.”
“How do you feel?”
“All right. I guess all right.” Her hands plucked listlessly at one of the chenille roses of the bedspread. “I wish Rupert were here.”
“He’s right in the next room.”
“I wish he were here.”
Exasperation showed in his face and posture. “Mrs. Kellogg, I needn’t remind you that a lot of people have gone through a great deal for your sake, especially your husband.”
“I know. I know that.”
“You’ve got to cooperate.”
“I will.”
“Of course she will,” Miss Burton said in a hearty voice, but her bracelets clanged nervously and one of her golden eyelids twitched in dissent.
When Dodd had left, Amy sat on the bed repeating his words to herself: A lot of people have gone through a great deal for my sake. Especially Rupert. I’ve got to cooperate. Because a lot of people have gone through a great deal for my sake I’ve got to cooperate — got to...
As soon as Consuela opened the door of her broom closet she could hear the voices again. They were indistinct, until she pressed her ear to the listening wall, and then she heard, quite clearly, the sound of her own name, Consuela. And again, Consuela, as if they were calling her, summoning her.
No, she thought, no, that is impossible. Escamillo said the suite was empty, and I went to the door myself, and knocked, and no one answered. The voices are heard by me alone. Perhaps I have a fever. That must be it, of course. In a fever the mind often plays tricks; one imagines, one sees and hears things that are not so.
She raised one hand and touched her forehead. It felt moist and cool, like a newly peeled peach. No trace of a fever. Still, it must be there, she thought. So far it is all on the inside and hasn’t yet come to the surface. I must go home and take precautions against the evil eye that someone has cast upon me.
But when she stepped out into the corridor she saw that the door of 404 was partly open. She knew it could not have been blown open by the wind — half an hour ago it had been so securely fastened that her passkey wouldn’t budge in the lock.
She crept along the wall to the half-open door and peered inside. There were two women in the room. One of them, the small brown-haired one sitting on the bed, was alive. The other, standing in front of the open balcony door, had died almost a month ago. Consuela had seen her die from this very doorway, had heard her final scream. Now she had stepped from her coffin, groomed and jeweled as if she’d been to a party, wearing the same red silk suit and the same fur coat, untouched by any worms or mildew or decay. A month of death hadn’t changed her at all; even her expression, when she saw Consuela, was the same, annoyed and impatient.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said. “Again. Every time I take a breath around this place someone comes creeping in to change the towels or turn down the beds. I feel as if I’m being spied on.”
“They just try to give us good service,” her companion said.
“Good service? The towels all stink.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“You smoke too much. Your sense of smell isn’t as sharp as mine. They stink.”
“I don’t think you should talk like this in front of the girl.”
“You can tell from her face she doesn’t understand a word I’m saying.”
“But the travel agency said everyone on the hotel staff spoke English.”
“All right, why don’t you try her out?”
“I will,” Amy said. “What’s your name, girl? Do you speak English? Tell us your name.”
Consuela stood, mute as a stone, her right hand clutching the little gold cross she wore around her neck, her eyes fixed on the hammered silver box lying on the coffee table. It has all happened before, she thought, and it will all happen again. It is not that the American lady died and has come back from her grave. It is that we are all dead, all three of us, dead and in hell. This is what hell is, everything goes on repeating and repeating, forever and ever, and nobody can change it. The whole thing has happened before, and it will happen again. Pretty soon they will start to quarrel about the silver box, they will struggle over it. And I will stand here and watch her die, and listen to her last scream...
“No! No! Please! No!” She fell forward on her knees, pressing the little gold cross against her dry lips, mumbling in Spanish the words of her childhood: “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.”
She went on praying, only partly aware of other people rushing into the room, of men’s voices shouting at her, asking her questions, calling her names.
“Liar.”
“You must tell us the truth.”
“What happened to Mrs. Wyatt?”
“You killed her yourself, didn’t you?”