“She’s gone for good,” he said.
“I just don’t believe it,” I said. “Ralph, I look at this letter, and what I see is a cry from a woman’s heart”
He gazed at me, blearily. “A what?”
“A cry for help, Ralph.”
“She’s gone for good, Art.”
“She loves you, Ralph, she says so right here. And she wants you to understand her, care about her, love her in the romantic way you did when it was just the two of you. No kids, no legal papers being drafted on the dining room table, none of this extra stuff. Romance, that’s what she wants, Ralph, and she wants it from you.”
“From somebody else,” he said, and growled a little. “If I could find the guy, Art—”
“He doesn’t matter, Ralph. He probably doesn’t even exist, she just put that in there to make you jealous. Like my twin brother.”
“I’ll find him some day, and—” He blinked, slowly, twice. “Like what?”
“My twin brother.”
“What twin brother?”
Good. I had his attention. I probably wouldn’t have it for long, so I plunged right ahead. “It’s a con, Ralph,” I said. “Somebody’s setting me up for something, but I don’t know what I was hoping you’d be able to help me, but I can see you’ve got troubles of your own.”
He was bewildered, naturally. “Well, what happened? What’s the matter?”
“That girl I was engaged to,” I said. “Elizabeth Kerner, you looked her up for me.”
“The heiress,” he said.
“I went ahead and married her, Ralph. Just a week ago today.”
Joy for me commingled with pity for himself, and he began to cry. “Congratulations,” he blubbered. “May you be as happy as I used to be.”
“Listen, Ralph,” I said. “A week ago I married her, and the night before last somebody murdered her twin sister.”
I had his attention again. The waterworks dried up and he said, “Murdered? Are you sure?” Sniffing, he wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeve.
“Bang bang,” I said. “With a gun. Out at Point O’ Woods. Then the killer burned the house down, trying to cover his tracks.”
“Good God!” He’d forgotten Candy completely by now.
“But here’s the crazy part,” I said. “There was another body with her, and the general opinion is that it was my twin brother.”
“What? You don’t have a twin brother.”
“There are documents,” I said, “to prove that my bride’s twin sister was married last month to somebody who called himself Robert Dodge and who claimed to be my twin brother. And now that guy is dead.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” he said.
“It gets crazier,” I promised him. “Because the killer turned out to be that lawyer, Volpinex. Fingerprints on the gun, and he’s disappeared, and there just isn’t any question.”
He sat back, wiping snot from his cheek with his other sleeve. “None of it makes sense, Art,” he said.
“I’m afraid of it,” I told him. “I don’t know what’s going on, Ralph, but I figure I’m the patsy if I’m not damn careful. So I haven’t said anything to anybody. I haven’t even denied the twin brother.”
He frowned at me. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t know what it means. Listen, there’s a lot of money in that Kerner family, and somebody’s after it. You know me, Ralph, I’ve done some pretty cute conniving in my day, I’m not sure I could stand a really tough police investigation. I mean, things that were perfectly innocent at the time could be made to look pretty incriminating right now.”
“The truth is usually best, Art,” he said doubtfully.
“I know that, Ralph. But this is all so weird, I’m afraid to make any move at all. If I just sit tight, maybe I’ll find out what’s going on.”
“Don’t sign any false statements,” he told me.
“Ralph, I wouldn’t sign a birthday card right now.” (Or write one either, apparently.)
He nodded, thinking it over. “That’s probably best,” he said. “You aren’t a witness or anything, are you?”
“I was in Manhattan with my bride while it was going on. I’m just an in-law. Or a relative, if you want to believe the twin brother story.”
“Then you’re probably right,” he said. “Sit tight, and wait to see what happens next.”
“And if something does happen, Ralph, can I come to you?”
“You know that, Art. How can you even ask? Aren’t we friends?”
“I was just thinking... under the circumstances...” And he began to dissolve again. “Ralph,” I said, leaning forward to pat his knee, to console him. “She’ll be back, Ralph.”
“She’s gone for good, Art.”
“Ralph, I’ll look for her.”
He gazed at me in bleary hope. “You will?”
“I’ll talk to her, if I can. I’ll do anything I can to help, Ralph.”
“Art, if you could— Art, I just—”
“We’ll help each other,” I suggested. “I’ll help you with Candy, and you’ll help me with this crazy twin brother thing.”
And we fell into one another’s arms.
53
The next four days were lived on tiptoe, but by God not a single egg got broken. The police seemed to have swallowed my Volpinex-as-murderer playlet, and lacking a denial from Volpinex himself there was nothing to jar their sweet certainty. Bart’s death certificate was as legitimate as the coroner’s office could make it; he had been such stuff as dreams are made on, and his little life was rounded with a sleep, as he rested, an unidentifiable mound of ashes, in a brass urn in the Kerner family vault, beside his bride.
The cat’s cradle of stories I’d told here and there held up very well, mostly because it was never really tested. No cop ever talked to Gloria or Ralph or Doris or Joe Gold, and why should they? My ex-wife Lydia was cooled out with the same coincidence gambit that had worked with Doris, and everybody else went on believing the various fantasies and half-truths I’d already delivered. With no arrests or other postmurder development, the news media lost interest in the BIZARRE SLAYING within two days, and that also helped.
Gloria continued to run Those Wonderful Folks, with no assistance from me other than erratic phone calls; I did not drop by my office, any more than I visited my former apartment. Ralph, based on the evidence of my few calls to him, continued to drink and mope and feel sorry for himself, with not the slightest thought for the outside world. As for Candy, the only loose end left to be tied, I had a story to tell her, of course, but she was unavailable to listen to it. She had dropped, as the saying goes, from the face of the earth, and could stay dropped forever for all of me.
Which left Liz. For a day or two she remained indignant and enraged with the altered contract, but by the weekend she had calmed down considerably and seemed prepared to accept the inevitable, saying to me, “What the hell, I kind of like you anyway. I could have done worse.”
“You have,” I told her. “Frequently. But that’s all over now.” And we went for another romp on her big bed.
54
On Sunday night, six days after the double murder, Liz said, “Let’s get away for a while.”
“Sure,” I said. The danger period was over, the official investigation having moved on to other concerns and unofficial curiosity having been generally appeased, so a vacation away from the scene of my broken-field-running exploit might be very restful indeed. Also, Liz had become increasingly docile and pleasant the last day or two, with none of that nastiness I had come to expect from her; removing her to a new setting might help turn this happier personality into a permanent improvement. “Where to?” I asked.