Shock Treatment (17 page)

I knew I didn’t strike much of a figure. My suit and shoes were shabby, and my hands were none too clean. I was a radio engineer: no more, no less, and I was out of place against, this background of richness and luxury.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“I’ve come about the radiogram. Gilda! Don’t look at me like that! For God’s sake — I love you!” Then I paused, frowning at her. “But what are you doing here? Are you his secretary?”

“No. I am his wife.”

I felt as if someone had stepped up to me and had slugged me under the heart.

“You mean you’re Fuller’s wife?” I said. “You married that old ruin? You? I don’t believe it!”

“I am Mrs Henry Fuller,” she said, her voice flat and cold. “You are nothing to me now. Will you please remember that? Nothing at all.”

I stood there, staring at her, feeling pain eating into my heart.

“Why, sure,” I said. “Congratulations,
Gilda.
You seem to have struck it pretty rich.”

“If you think you can blackmail me,” she said, and there was a vicious note in her voice that shocked me, “you’re mistaken. Don’t try anything like that with me or you’ll find out just how mistaken you are.”

“Blackmail you? Why should I blackmail you? Gilda: don’t talk like that! I love you! I’ve never stopped thinking about you!”

“It was because of you I had to stand trial for my life,” she said, her forget-me-not blue eyes glittering. “That’s something I’ll never forgive you for. Now get out!”

“But your husband wants me to build him a radiogram,” I said.

“I’ll explain to my husband. Now get out! I’m not having you here! Get out and keep away from me!”

“All right,” I said, suddenly deflated. “I won’t bother you, Gilda. I’ll keep away. I’d like to say I’m glad things have come out right for you. I wish you happiness.”

She turned her back on me and walked to the far end of the room and began to leaf through a magazine.

The butler let me out. I rode down in the express elevator too stunned to think or even feel.

Three weeks later I read in the newspaper of Henry Fuller’s death.

He had fallen down the terrace steps of his roof garden and had broken his neck. There was to be an inquest.

Something that was morbid and frightening inside me urged me to go to the inquest.

The little courtroom was crowded with fashionably dressed people. I got a seat right at the back out of sight of those sitting up in front.

As I sat down I saw with a start of surprise that Maddox of the National Fidelity was in the seat next to mine.

He gave me a sardonic grin as he nodded to me.

“Up on a business trip,” he said breezily. “I thought I couldn’t miss this performance. Well, well: history repeats itself, doesn’t it? She’s learning, and learning fast. The poor old dope wasn’t insured, so she hasn’t much to worry about.”

Before I could realize just what he was saying, Gilda came in with George Macklin. She was in black and she looked lovely. She was pale and she held a handkerchief in her hand.

Macklin steered her to a chair. He seemed very solicitous and somehow possessive.

The Coroner treated her as if she were made of egg shells.

From the evidence there had been a party at Fuller’s apartment. Most of the guests had been pretty high. Fuller had been drinking whisky and champagne all the evening, and he had been very unsteady on his legs. It had been a hot night, and the party had moved out into the roof garden after dinner.

There were thirty steps leading down to a second terrace. Most of the party had gone down there to get a closer look at the lights of the City.

Fuller and Gilda had remained at the top of the steps. Suddenly Fuller was seen to stumble. Then he fell. Gilda had made a desperate grab at his arm, but she had been too late.

He was dead when they reached him.

Maddox muttered to me, “That’s what I call a four million dollar push. A poor old drunk like Fuller would be child’s play to her.”

There was no trouble about the verdict. Everyone had seen the accident. The Coroner was careful not to stress the fact that Fuller was drunk. He said apparently Fuller had become suddenly dizzy and had lost his balance. He expressed his sympathy for the widow, and then everyone drifted out, looking sorrowful.

Gilda was the first to leave. She didn’t see me. She was holding her handkerchief to her eyes and Macklin, fussing a little, held her arm.

“Well, well,” Maddox said. “Who says you can’t get away with murder? Anyway, she never did get any money out of me.”

He nodded to me and went bustling down the steps and climbed into a taxi.

As I reach,ed the street, I was in time to see Gilda and Macklin drive away in a big cream and blue Cadillac. She was looking at him, her face now bright and expectant, and he was leaning towards her, hanging on her words with that touch of deference any up-and-coming attorney puts on when listening to a four million dollar client.

As I was walking back to the shop, for no reason at all, I suddenly remembered Delaney’s words when he talked to me on the verandah so many weeks ago:

Do you know what’s the matter with my wife? I’ll tell you. She’s mad about money. That’s all she thinks about.

I paused, and stared blankly down the street.

Had she poisoned Delaney?

Had she pushed Fuller down the steps?

Had Maddox been right after all?

Then I remembered the softness of her body as she had lain in my arms, her forget-me-not blue eyes and her loveliness.

No, I said to myself, she wouldn’t have done such a thing: not to Delaney, nor to Fuller.

I loved her.

How could I possibly believe such a thing about a woman I loved and would go on loving to the end of my days?

THE END