An Air That Kills (19 page)

“Of course.” Turee saw Harry's bright new smile, and the bright new confident look in his eye, and anxiety began to gnaw at his mind with the teeth of rodents. Harry was on his way up again, the long erratic journey up, like a crazed bird, or a misguided missile darting wildly in and out of the orbits of meteorites. “Harry. Listen. Don't get too high.”

“Now that's a funny remark. A few minutes ago you were trying to cheer me up and now that I'm cheered up, what are you trying to do? Puncture me? Well, you can't, old boy. I feel wonderful, see, I feel . . .”

“Harry, before you leave town, I think you should hire a lawyer.”

Harry's jaw dropped in astonishment. “Lawyer? What for?”

“For Thelma.”

“So she can divorce me? Is that what you mean?”

“No, no,” Turee said impatiently. “She's going to need someone to protect her interests, that's all.”

“Why?
I'm
going to protect her interests. I'll send her every cent I can spare.”

“I know that. But suppose something happens to you­—you become sick and can't work, you get hurt in an accident—what then? Thelma would be left alone with a child to support.”

“I don't see how a lawyer would help that.”

“You're not thinking straight, Harry. The child is Ron's­—he's admitted paternity—therefore his estate should be made responsible financially for the child's upbringing.”

“Thelma would never take a cent from Esther. She's too proud.”

“Pride be damned. There should be nothing personal in this situation. Thelma may be proud, Esther may be re­luctant, you may be all churned up, but the fact remains that the child has a legal right to support. That's where the lawyer comes in. He'll act in the child's best interests. His own, too. I understand in cases like this where a considerable amount of money is involved, they work on a percentage basis.”

“What exactly do you mean, a considerable amount of money?”

“I didn't mean anything exact. All I'm saying is that Thelma should have a lawyer.”

“But then there'd be a lawsuit. Everything would come out in the newspapers.”

“If Esther's lawyers advise her to fight the case, there'd be a lawsuit, yes, but I don't think they will. And if they did, I don't think she'd accept their advice. At the moment Esther's pretty bitter about Thelma, but she's not really a vindictive woman. She'll simmer down between now and the time the child is born.”

“What it boils down to, then, is
begging Esther for money. Well, I won't do it. To hell with it. I can support Thelma and the child, and no
begging
necessary.”

“Oh, be reasonable, Harry. Why deprive the kid of its legal right? I know how willing you are to support it, but it's going to grow up, to need things, housing, clothing, educa­tion. Ask me, I'm an expert. I've been broke for fourteen years and no doubt will continue that way for another fourteen. Kids are expensive. They don't always stay in the cradle, wearing diapers and living on milk. They need shoes, dolls, new suits, bicycles, baseball mitts, piano lessons, there are doctors' bills, dentists' bills . . .”

“All right,” Harry said listlessly. “Don't go on. You're telling me I can't afford all those things.”

“No. I'm telling you you don't
have
to. Thelma and the child are entitled to be kept in comfort and there's no sen­sible reason why they shouldn't be, except your pride and Thelma's, if pride is the right word.”

“I don't need charity.”

“Keep yourself out of it, Harry. Because you're not really in it. You'll have to face that squarely.” Turee paused, press­ing his fingertips against his temples as if to press his thoughts into the right phrases. “You're not really in it,” he repeated. “I think you've been daydreaming this past week, Harry. I think you've half convinced yourself that nothing took place between Ron and Thelma, that the child is ac­tually your own. Don't keep on like this, Harry, it's dan­gerous.”

“But suppose . . .”

“There's no supposing about it. The child is Ron's. Now accept the fact and go on from there. If you keep setting up delusions to stumble over, you'll get nowhere. Why can't you face the truth?”

“I guess—I'll have to.” The long erratic journey up had ended for Harry. The crazed bird had grown weary, the mis­guided missile had struck a meteorite and was falling through space. “I couldn't give her the child she wanted. I tried. God knows I tried. I've been going to a doctor for over a year without telling her. I covered up for myself by pre­tending that I didn't want her to have a child because of her health, her age.”

“Why didn't you tell her the truth, Harry?”

“I wasn't sure, at first. Then when I was sure, I was afraid to tell her. After that, when I began taking treatments and pills—well, I kept hoping things would change. They changed all right,” he added grimly. “In a way I never thought possible. My best friend, and my wife.”

“It's happened before.”

“Yes, but didn't they ever stop to think of Esther, of me?”

“There are times,” Turee said, “when people don't stop to think of anything.”

NINETEEN

As far as the newspapers were concerned, the Galloway story died on the obit page, but rumors were flying wildly around town like kites without tails. One of them got en­tangled in Esther's telephone wire: an anonymous caller ac­cused her of murder and demanded five thousand dollars as the price of his silence.

After this episode, Esther refused to take any calls or to see anyone except the lawyers concerned with the probate of Ron's will. It was a curiously simple will for a wealthy man to make. No trust funds or other safeguards had been set up for the children; except for a few minor bequests, everything was left outright to Esther, as if Ron had had greater faith in her good judgment and common sense than he had in his own. The lawyers came with papers for her to sign, and went away again, and came back with more papers. These visits were, for a time, Esther's only contact with the outside world.

She stayed indoors, wandering from room to room of the huge house, trying to find things to do, straightening pic­tures that weren't crooked, dusting ash trays that hadn't been used, moving chairs that had been moved only a few hours before, reading aloud to the two boys in a new gentle faraway voice which had a strangely quieting effect on them. The extremes of unexpressed grief and rage, which charac­terized the early period of her mourning, began gradually to moderate with the passing of the days, leaving behind a kind of acceptance, and a broader perspective. She came to real­ize that she was not the only injured and bereaved person, that it was Thelma, perhaps, who would ultimately suffer more than anyone else. She had a growing urge to call Thelma, partly out of pity, partly out of curiosity, but she was a little timid about doing it directly, since she couldn't be sure how Thelma would interpret such a call.

As a compromise she tried to get in touch with Harry at his office. She was informed that Harry had left the country a week previously and his present location was unknown since the head office in Detroit handled all transfers to the United States.

The following afternoon she received a badly typed letter from him, postmarked Kansas City, Missouri.

 

Dear Esther:

I tried to say good-bye to you but I was told you were ill. I hope you are feeling better by this time and bearing up under the terrible strain. As you probably know by now, Thelma and I decided to separate, and I applied for a transfer and landed here, of all places. It's a lot like home, even the climate, though I guess it's warmer here because there's no lake.

I feel the way I did when I first left home for boarding school, like a mass of jelly inside from sheer homesickness. The nights are the worst. In the daytime I keep busy. I have to. This is a big city and I have to get to know it the way I know Toronto, if I'm to be any good to the company. They've given me a company car to drive, by the way, and everyone is very nice, so I've really nothing to complain of, jobwise. If I could only get over this sick, empty feeling inside.

I have just reread the first page of this letter, and for a guy who has nothing to complain of, I certainly complain! Forgive me, Esther. You have your own sorrows, I'm a dog to add to them.

I've sent Thelma three special-delivery letters but she hasn't answered. I know you two aren't likely to go out of your way to meet each other, but if you hear any news of her through Ralph or Billy Winslow or Joe Hepburn, please let me know.

I have so many things to say to you but somehow I can't say them. I want you to know one thing, though­—I accept full responsibility for what happened. It was entirely my fault, I should have been more alert, more suspicious, more everything, I guess. I can't go into the details, they are too personal, but I repeat—it was all my fault and mine alone. Ron would be alive today if it weren't for my weakness and vanity. Last night I dreamed I was a murderer, so I guess this is how I really feel inside.

I will try to be more cheerful next time I write. Meanwhile, take care of yourself, Esther.

Love,

Harry

It was the second time within a week that the word mur­der had come up.

She reread the last part of the letter, thinking how simple­minded Harry was to believe that a catastrophe could be caused by any one person. A lot of people were involved, not just the leading characters, but the bit players, the prop man, the stagehands, waiting in the wings.

In the same mail a letter, with an imposing letterhead of six names and the address of a law firm, contained an in­congruously informal message:

 

Dear Esther:

I'd like to drop in early Friday morning. No papers to sign, but a few matters to discuss.

Yours,

Charles

 

Charles Birmingham was a tall, austere man in his early sixties with a strong British accent which he had picked up at Oxford and managed to retain for forty years, intact. His too-formal manner of dressing gave the impression that he was always on his way to a wedding or a funeral, and his cold fishy eyes indicated that it didn't matter which.

Esther didn't like him, and he considered her a fool, so there was little room for a meeting of minds.

He came to the point of his visit without any preliminary niceties. “Mrs. Bream has retained an attorney.”

“Yes, I just had a letter from Harry yesterday telling me he and Thelma have separated.”

“I'm afraid you miss the point.”
Women always do,
his tone implied. “This has no bearing on the separation. It con­cerns Mrs. Bream's unborn child. If Ron hadn't been so idiotic as to write that letter and you hadn't been so precipi­tate about handing it over to the police, we'd have an ex­cellent chance of winning our case.”

“Winning our case? You intend to fight?”

“To the best of my ability. As your attorney, it is my job to protect your financial interests.”

“Have I any say in the matter?”

“Naturally, but it's customary for clients to take the advice of their attorney.”

“Is it, indeed?” Esther's smile was chilly. “Well, I don't always do the customary thing.”

“I'm sure you don't. However, in this case, I do hope your negativistic attitude toward me personally won't inter­fere with your better judgment.”

“I don't like the idea of going into court, not one bit.”

“If you're sued, you'll have to.”

“Well, fix it so I won't be sued. Why can't the whole thing be handled in a friendly, civilized manner?”

Birmingham's lifted brows indicated his low opinion of this suggestion. “My dear Esther . . .”

“I don't want any scandal or fuss.”

“There already is scandal.”

“I know that.” She remembered the soft, queer voice on the telephone, and her own terror, so paralyzing that she couldn't answer, couldn't even hang up. “It's got to be stopped. I'm afraid to go out, afraid to send the boys to school. I have this feeling that we're being watched.”

“By whom?”

“I don't know.”

“What do you propose we do about it?”

“Offer Thelma money to leave town. Once she's gone, the rumors will die down, people will forget, I can begin to live again.”

“How much money?”

“Fifty thousand dollars. It would be worth that much to me to see the end of her.”

“Suppose she refuses?”

“I don't see why she should. She has nothing to gain by staying here, except shame and humiliation and ridicule.”

“Perhaps that's what she wants, self-punishment, self­-debasement.”

“Thelma's too sensible for that.”

“My dear Esther, one of the things you learn early in my profession is that you can't tell from the outside who's sen­sible and who's not, and a great deal of the time you can't tell for certain what's sense and what's not. As far as I was able to gather, Mrs. Bream is not the usual femme fatale with a string of extramarital affairs behind her. She's an or­dinary virtuous woman who has committed the kind of sin which ordinary virtuous women don't permit themselves to commit. If they do, they suffer. Mrs. Bream is suffering, suffering doubly because of the drastic consequences of her infidelity. In such a frame of mind she'd be unlikely, I think, to accept the kind of pay-off you suggest.”

“Why?
”

“It might seem to her a reward for having done something she loathes herself for.”

“You read too much psychology.”

Birmingham permitted himself a small tight smile. “Not at all. I practice it.”

“I still think you're wrong about Thelma.”

“Quite possibly. I talked to her only once, yesterday, in the presence of her attorney. She said very little, seemed un­interested, detached. Finally she complained of feeling ill, stomach cramps, dizziness, and so on. Purely psychosomatic, of course.”

“Have you ever,” Esther asked coldly, “been pregnant, Mr. Birmingham?”

“Fortunately, no. When I left, Mrs. Bream was trying to get in touch with the doctor, and her attorney was hopping around the office like a nervous stork. I deplore such excite­ments. Her attorney, by the way, hinted delicately at a small monthly stipend from the estate until the baby is born. This is impossible, naturally.”

“Why?”

“Any payment—including the one you suggested—would be a virtual admission that your husband was responsible for the child. Then, later, when the child is born, we wouldn't have any grounds to fight the case. Mrs. Bream, or rather, her attorney, who will probably receive twenty-five percent of any settlement, would be in a position to make some pretty stiff demands.” He added on a note of cheer, “Of course there's always the possibility that Mrs. Bream won't carry the child to term, or that it will be born dead, in which case our responsibility ends.”

“What an inhuman remark to make.” Esther had turned white with anger and her hands trembled as she lit a cigarette.

“It wasn't intended as such. You have an unfortunate ten­dency to over-emotionalize the issue. A natural womanly reac­tion, of course, but it increases the difficulty of my position.”

“What is your position, to distort the facts?”

“My dear Esther . . .”

“You know the truth and so do I. Let's face it.”

“Facing the truth,” Birmingham said bluntly, “is going to cost you a heap of money.”

“All right. I've got a heap of money, haven't I?”

“Considerable, yes. You also have two arms, but that's hardly a reason for discarding one of them.”

“A very poor analogy. Look, Mr. Birmingham, let's get this straight. I hold no brief for Thelma. I don't like her and never have. But I feel a certain obligation toward her because I . . .” She hesitated, coloring slightly. “Because I understand her position. It could happen—has happened—to other—other women. I don't intend to fight any claims she makes on the estate. My conscience wouldn't allow it.”

Birmingham had not been Galloway's lawyer at the time of his divorce, but he remembered the case and Esther's role in it and be began to realize that it was futile to argue with her. Whether or not she liked or approved of Thelma Bream, she had made a very strong identification with her:
There went I. Only I was luckier.

“Very well,” he said. “We'll let the matter ride for the present.”

You will, I won't, she thought. But aloud she said cordially, “Of course. I'll see you to the door.”

“That won't be necessary.”

“It will be a pleasure.”

She stood at the door watching his departure. He walked stiffly down the broad stone steps of the veranda and crossed the driveway to his car with ponderous dignity, like a penguin crossing an Antarctic waste, never missing the warm places of the world because he did not know they existed.

Though she had disliked Birmingham for years, she had never before openly opposed him. Now, like a child who has suddenly issued a declaration of independence, she felt a new power and vitality, as if some secret well of energy had been tapped. She ordered old Rudolph to check her car and bring it around to the front of the house. Then she went upstairs to dress for town. For the first time in a month she passed the closed door of Ron's room without the increased heartbeat of fear and guilt.

“You're out of practice,” Rudolph said. “You better let me drive you, Mrs. Galloway.”

“No thanks. You can stay and help Annie with the boys. Tell them,” she added, “tell them they'll be going back to school tomorrow.”

Usually, when Esther drove downtown, she avoided the heaviest flow of traffic. Today she deliberately sought it out, feeling a pleasant, reassuring sense of anonymity. She was a woman in a car among hundreds of other women in cars. There was nothing special about her to attract attention. No one would bother watching her. No one but some crank on a telephone would believe she murdered her husband.