The Gorgeous Murderer Page 6

  “Not at all,” she said. “Sensitive, perhaps yes. The kind of thoughts that run through your mind run through the minds of all men, and they delight in them, they feel a masculine delight with themselves, they don’t feel they’re rotten, and they feel no guilt about it.” The small smile widened. “Kindly understand. This is explanation. Not encouragement.”

  “But what I’m trying to say—”

  “I know just what the heck you’re trying to say. I’m a woman, I’m an attractive woman, and if I wouldn’t—how shall I say?—stir the beast in a man, I’d be awfully disappointed, in myself, and the man. But we don’t live in a jungle, and I’m not—forgive me—an Evangeline Ashley. I have scruples, and principles, and morals, and all the rest of that bosh, except it isn’t bosh. Now, if you please, you don’t go home on Thursdays, do you?”

  “No.”

  “You may stay over here, if you wish.”

  “But you—”

  “Oscar, you’re a dear innocent, and like all dear innocents, more direct, more deadly, and more dangerous than the supposed sophisticates. Staying over here, sleeping here, does not mean sleeping with me. Kindly, dear innocent, get that straight. I have plans for you, and for the nonce, and probably for a long time to come, they are non-sexual. I like you very much. In my own way, as I had suspected I would, I may be falling in love with you, already.

  “But, I repeat, I’m not—well, let’s not mention names. Let’s say I’m not of that ilk, not at all. Now, tonight, I’d like to do my first sketch of you. Tonight, your face, to me, the painter, is just wonderful, I love it. So, if you’re willing…”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’d like to stay.”

  “And you’ll sit for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “It’s tiring, especially at the beginning. But I’ll babble. I won’t talk about you, or any of your problems. I’ll talk about me.”

  “I’m ready,” he said.

  “Come with me, dearest innocent.”

  X

  THEY SAW ONE ANOTHER every day. They ate together, either in Washington Mews, or in restaurants that they kept “discovering.” They were deeply, quickly, in love. They went to theatre together, concerts, ballet, museums, art exhibits, jazz joints, coffee houses, and opera. They slept, frequently, under one roof, separately.

  Oscar Blinney, quiet, reserved, laconic, and outwardly bland, but harried, suffering, miserably happy at odd moments and deeply despondent at others, had had the double experience—for the first time in twenty-nine years—and one within three months of the other—of the ecstasy and nadir-reaction of fulminating infatuation with one woman and the profound, humble, beatific, and expanding emotion of love with another, when, on the seventh day of June, the woman to whom he was married announced that she was pregnant.

  He came home, perspiring, at midnight of a warm Friday, and Evangeline was waiting for him, cool and pony-tailed, in orange ballet-tights, orange slippers, and a tight orange sleeveless backless scoop-necked blouse.

  “Hi, Dad,” she said. “Nice to see you once in a while.”

  “Likewise,” he said.

  “Nice to see you, Dad,” she said. “And the Dad ain’t jazz-type talk, Dad. The Dad is real Dad.”

  “Oh, now, what the hell this time?” he said wearily.

  “Dad, you’re going to be a father, Dad. Like I’m a little bit knocked up.”

  He could not have predicted his reaction. Adrienne had called him an innocent and right then he knew, for all time, that he was. His heart leaped within him and the elixir of total forgiveness was part of his blood. Suddenly Adrienne Moore was an impropriety. Suddenly the salve of love was a blistering ointment. Suddenly the garish woman before him, hatefully attractive, was Mother, was the Mother-Of-All, was Eve, was Mary with Miraculous Child. Suddenly there was hope, transcendence, reformation of the accursed. The new-born, the young, the progeny would purify.

  Suddenly there was hope, of child, children, family, purpose, a knitting together, a striving-forward, a balance, a meaning, a plan and design no matter how jaggedly fitted together. Now the edges would smoothen; life stirring in one would perform amelioration upon all. Suddenly perspiration was of emotion rather than climate. He thrust off his jacket, pulled down his tie, opened his shirt.

  “Are you sure?” he said.

  “Too goddamned sure,” she said.

  And still the nirvana was upon him. “How do you know?”

  “I went to a doctor, that’s how I know. I had the whole bit, the rabbit bit, everything. There’s a babe, no doubts, no angles, no anything else. Like no tumor, you know?”

  “Now look, Eve, maybe this is it. Maybe this is what we needed. Maybe we settle down, you know? Kids, a family, little ones, something to punch for, something to get together about, something to give us focus, a reason, a meaning…”

  “Rave on, McDuff.”

  “No, Eve, seriously, this could be it.”

  “In a pig’s eye it could be it.”

  “No, Eve, listen—”

  “Now you listen, and listen real close. I’m going to have this thing aborted. Now in Cuba, Havana, they do it like legal, real nice, in a hospital, antiseptic, you know what I mean. I’m going. I’m flying down, fast. I want you to pay. If you don’t pay, I use my own loot. You got me into this. Get me out.”

  “No,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Eve, listen to me—”

  “Sure, listen to you—because it’s not you. Well, you listen to me—because it’s me. I’m not going to carry your brat. It makes me sick, just to think of it. You’re so good, you’re so considerate—why don’t you try to understand that? I don’t want—and either you send me, or I go myself. Now which way do you want it, Daddy-boy? Nice, proper, ethical fella—which way do you want it? You send me, or do I send myself?”

  And at last, he knew. Finally, completely, sickeningly—he knew. Suddenly he was whole again, forever. “I’ll send you,” he said.

  “Nice Daddy,” she said. “Now the sooner I go the better. In a day or two. All right?”

  “How much?

  “I’ll go for a month. Take care of it, rest up, you know. I figure two thousand for the whole deal. Two thousand should do it. Any more, I’ll pay out of my own.”

  EVANGELINE RETURNED ON the second day of July. She had been gone twenty-three days. It was a Saturday at ten o’clock in the morning. Blinney was in pajamas, in the kitchen, frying bacon and eggs. Adrienne Moore was in Chicago, on business, for the weekend. He heard the outside door slam and he called, “Who is it?”

  “It’s me,” she said.

  He had never seen her looking better. She was deeply tanned, glowing and her expression was radiant.

  “I brought a friend,” she said.

  Her arm was linked through the arm of her friend. Her friend was tall, dark, slender, erect, and handsome. Her friend was dressed in beautiful fashion: charcoal-grey pin-stripe suit of silk, shiny black shoes, oyster-grey shirt of the finest cambric, conservative tiny gold-figured tie of black foulard.

  Her friend had a black curly Vandyke beard, charming, dashing, Bohemian, well-tended and trimmed. Her friend had dark eyes as soft as a woman’s, and an amused, bemused, somewhat sardonic expression.

  “This is Bill Grant,” she said.

  “How do you do,” said Blinney.

  “My husband, Oscar Blinney.”

  “How do you do,” said Bill Grant.

  “Bill is an old friend from Miami,” said Evangeline.

  “Ran into each other in Havana,” said Bill Grant. “Americans can’t miss in Havana. There are only a certain number of places that Americans frequent. Sooner or later, they meet.”

  “You going to stay in the States now, Mr. Grant?” said Blinney.

  “For a short while. Perhaps six weeks or so. Actually, I’m en route to London.”

  There was a sizzle from the kitchen. “
Bacon burning,” said Blinney. “You people hungry?”

  “Starved,” said Evangeline.

  “Bacon and eggs?” said Blinney.

  “Fine,” said Bill Grant.

  After breakfast Evangeline said, “Are you going to need the car, Oz?”

  “Not especially. Why?”

  “There’s a good motel a couple of miles down on the Highway. Silver Crest, I think it’s called. I’d like to drive Bill over.”

  “What about your bags, Mr. Grant?”

  “They’re outside in your foyer.”

  “So are mine,” said Evangeline. “I wish you’d take them up for me, Oz. All right about the car?”

  “Certainly,” said Blinney.

  “Thank you,” said Bill Grant.

  “Not at all,” said Blinney.

  Whether Oscar Blinney was driven by unconscious motive to go home the next Thursday night, he could never say. Whether the conscious rationale of feeling suddenly very tired was a screen for the unconscious motivation, he could never say. He had never gone home on a Thursday night since he was married. He went home on this Thursday night.

  He had no conscious desire to sneak, to peek, to pry. He went home because Adrienne had a bad cold and couldn’t see him and the Gun Club meeting seemed an intolerable alternative. He went home in order to wear a clean unstained suit the next day; he went home in order to bathe and sleep in the house where he was born; he did not go home to spy upon Mrs. Evangeline Ashley Blinney.

  The house was dark when he arrived. There was no hum from the air-conditioners. The foyer was hot and airless when he put on the light. He threw off his jacket and went directly upstairs to the bedroom. He opened the door to a heavy admixture of many odors: perfume, perspiration, bourbon, stale cigarettes, smell of human breathing.

  He switched on the light. They lay in his bed without covers, asleep. Bill Grant was prone, on his stomach, sleeping on one side of his face. She huddled about him, as though protecting him. There was an empty bottle of bourbon on the floor beside the bed. There were glasses on the bed-table. Stubs of cigarettes floated stickily in the brown residue in the glasses. The ashtrays were heaped with butts.

  The overhead light did not disturb Bill Grant. He remained prone, on his stomach, sleeping soundlessly, on the side of his face. She moved. She raised herself upon an elbow, turned her head and blinked her eyes, annoyance disfiguring her face. She saw her husband. She closed one eye, squinting. Then she lifted one hand, waving him off, fingers moving slowly.

  “Go away,” she said thickly. “Put out that damn light and go away. Will you please?”

  “Phew,” Blinney said, feeling an infinite disgust.

  He went to the air-conditioner and touched a button. The motor commenced its initial roar. He crossed to the light-switch and thumbed off the overhead light. He closed the door and went downstairs. He put on his jacket and left the house. He walked all the way to the station breathing deeply and contentedly.

  He was cured and he knew it. Finally the sickness was vanquished and he was immune to recurrence. He never slept in the same bed with her again. For the remainder of their marriage he slept downstairs in the living room. He never desired her again. The sickness was finished.

  The one remaining problem was ridding himself of her. The trap was as firmly sealed as ever but at least it was no longer a trap within a trap; he was loosened from self-hatred; her lure was dissipated; her wiles were feckless; he was free of her within himself.

  XI

  ON THE SEVENTH day of August, the third Wednesday of that month, Adrienne Moore was packing for a trip to France, a quick trip, but one which she faced with divided emotions. She was to have a two-week showing of some of her paintings in one of the major galleries of Paris and she was to attend a number of dinners where she and her work were to be feted and honored. This was a distinct and important step in an already important career and a step which, her manager insisted, could not and should not be avoided.

  In all, the trip comprised nineteen days. Not long, but she was worried about Blinney. She was loath but she was prevailed upon. Now, when Blinney arrived, she had completed her packing. He arrived at five-twenty. He had a post-graduate class in banking for that evening which he had no intention of attending. He was to accompany her to the airport. Her plane was scheduled to take off at seven o’clock.

  They had a drink together and they chatted and she studied him with her painter’s eye and she wondered suddenly whether she had been wrong to deny herself to him.

  At a quarter to six the phone rang and she answered it and she came from it perplexed. “It’s for you,” she said.

  “Me?” he said. “Who would be calling me here?”

  “It’s a man,” she said.

  “What man?” he said.

  “He didn’t give a name. Wants to talk to you.”

  He went to the telephone, lifted the receiver, said, “Hello?”

  “Bill Grant, here,” said Bill Grant.

  “Who?”

  “Take it easy, pal. Easy does it. Keep your voice down and talk like it’s casual. I said—this is Bill Grant.”

  Softly Blinney said, “How did you know to call me here?”

  “Oh, man, there are a lot of things I know. Like your chick is taking a plane for Paris at seven o’clock. Good? Good, huh?”

  “What do you want?”

  “You’ll tell her it’s somebody from the bank that called you. A friend like about an excuse for cutting your class tonight. Dig?”

  “Yes. What do you want?”

  “I want to talk to you. Personal. You and me. Alone.”

  “What about?”

  “About your—dilemma. That’s a beauty for what you’ve got, pal. A dilemma. And, man, yours is a whopper. I may be able to help, Mr. Blinney. You do know what I’m talking about?”

  “What?”

  “Evangeline. Dig?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you meet me tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Remember this address. Two thirty-three East thirty-third. It’s apartment 1 A. Push the button downstairs. How’s nine o’clock?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a smart man, Mr. Blinney. A pleasure to talk to you. See you at nine. Tell the chick it’s a guy from the bank. Bye, now.” He hung up.

  Blinney hung up and returned smiling fearfully.

  “Who was that?” she asked.

  “One of the boys from the bank.”

  “Bank?”

  “Fellow who takes class with me. I once told him where he could reach me, not at home, in case of emergency. His idea of a gag.” He looked at his watch. “I think we’d better get going.”

  “Yes,” she said…

  He took her to the plane. He saw her off. He kissed her goodbye. He had a light dinner at the restaurant at the airport. He thought about Evangeline and Bill Grant. He suddenly had hope. Perhaps they were in love. Perhaps they wanted one another. Perhaps this was it. Perhaps this would produce the divorce that he desired so devoutly: quiet, friendly, practical, adult, uncontested and unrecriminatory.

  In the taxi, driving back into town, he resolved not to add new guilt to old guilt so newly acquired. He would tell Bill Grant. He would tell what he knew of Evangeline. He would not permit this man to follow the spoor that he had created. He would tell him all, everything he knew about Evangeline, and then, if the man persisted, he, Blinney, would have no remainder of stigma of guilt.

  He rolled down the windows as they traversed the bridge. It was hot-August but the hot breeze was cooling. The cab stopped at 33rd Street and Second Avenue.

  “It’s one-way the other way,” the cabbie said. “You want to get out here, mister? Save you two-bits.”

  “Sure,” said Blinney.

  He paid and alighted. He walked to 233 East 33rd Street. It was an old brownstone with a new yellow-brick front. It had a seven-stepped stoop that led into a small, dim, hot, dank-smelling lobby. The name GRANT was printed in i
nk on a strip of cardboard in a narrow bracket above one of the bells.

  Blinney pushed the bell, the buzz of a clicker responded, and Blinney pressed his palm against a glass-panelled door which opened upon a steep wooden stairway. He climbed the stairs and knocked upon the door of 1 A. “Come right in,” called the voice of Bill Grant.

  Blinney opened the door and closed it behind him. Bill Grant was seated in a frayed easy chair. Bill Grant was smiling welcome but the gun in his hand negated the smile. It was a large gun. Blinney recognized the type. It was a Luger. The Luger was pointed at him.

  “So good to see you,” said Bill Grant.

  “Please don’t point that gun at me,” said Oscar Blinney.

  “Mostly,” said Bill Grant, “it’s for effect.”

  “It has made its effect.”

  “The purpose was to startle you.”

  “I am startled,” said Blinney.

  “That was the primary purpose. There are secondary purposes.”

  “So?” said Blinney.

  “You know, you’re a cool one,” said Bill Grant. “I like that. That’s all to the good. It’ll work out to our mutual benefit.”

  “Let’s get to the secondary purposes—if that will stop you from pointing the gun at me.”

  “Secondary purposes are sundry,” said Bill Grant, “as follows, extraordinary circumstance. Reaction—excellent. I commend you.” He touched his free hand to his beard. “Second, to acquaint you with the fact that I own a gun. Third, to acquaint you with the fact that I know how to handle a gun. Fourth—and on this you must take my word—to inform you that if I shot you dead right now, it would not mean one goddamned thing to me. I have done it before, shot people dead. Clear, Mr. Blinney?”

  “Clear,” said Blinney. “Would you now stop pointing the gun at me? Or better still, put it away.”

  “Are you afraid of guns, Mr. Blinney?”

  “Mortally,” said Blinney.

  “Capital,” said Bill Grant, grinning approval. “You know, I like you, Mr. Blinney. I wasn’t certain whether I would. But I do. It makes matters so much more pleasant, dealing with people you like. You know?”