The Man Who Loved His Wife (22 page)

“You were worried about his breathing through that aperture in the neck? Afraid he might have covered it in his sleep?”

“He was very unhappy. Desperate. I knew . . .” She had told this to Don as well as Ralph. Either might have told Knight. “I knew he didn't want to live.”

“And when you went into his room night before last?” asked Knight in an offhand way.

Although she was sure it was a guess since she has said nothing of this visit to Ralph or Don, she answered, “He seemed all right when I went in.”

“Sleeping normally?”

“It seemed so.”

“You're sure of that?”

She inclined her head. “If I hadn't been sure, don't you think I'd have done something? Called for help?”

“Was anyone in the house at the time?”

“There's always the telephone,” she replied in a mocking tone.

“Do you know what time it was when you went into your husband's room?”

“I didn't look at the clock. I think it was before Don and Cindy got home from the party.”

“We got in very late, after three. The house was completely quiet.”

“Perhaps you'd like to tell me in your way what happened on Monday night. Had there been anything unusual between you and your husband? Harsh words? A quarrel?” This, in spite of the bruised jaw. Knight seemed blind to it. He was being gentle with the woman. A successful pediatrician could not have surpassed him in the bedside manner. Speaking as to a sick child, and wearing a look of tender patience, he urged, “Tell me just what happened that evening.”

“Hasn't Don told you?”

“I wasn't here the whole time. Remember, dear, Cindy and I left before eight.” Don's hand fell upon Elaine's. “But you don't have to answer, you know. You've got a legal right to refuse.”

“Why shouldn't I answer? This is just as important to me as to anyone else.” But she could not go on. Her mind wandered. What had the detective asked? A feeling of weakness came over her. She got up and walked away from them.

Don started to speak, but Knight held up his hand. He knew how to handle women. “Naturally you're distressed. It must be painful, after your shock and the loss of a loved one, to recall unpleasant occasions.” He had gone to stand beside her, to soothe her with his sympathy. When she came back and slid into her chair docilely, he asked if there was anything she needed. A cigarette? Water? Another cup of coffee?

Elaine did not respond. Her nervousness was not, like Cindy's, loquacious. She attempted a wan smile.

“You can't believe your husband is gone? I know,” Knight said, and to Don, confidentially, “It is difficult to accommodate oneself to the idea that a dear one will not return.” He turned back to Elaine to say that he had suffered the loss of a sweetheart, a young lady just twenty years of age. “For months afterward, when I passed the corner where we used to meet, I'd look for her. Sometimes I'd think I saw her standing there.” Whether this was true or not, he had found the device of personal recollection
useful in drawing out the shy and reluctant.

Elaine's memories of her husband were too intimate to be shared with a stranger. It was true that she could not wholly believe that Fletcher would never stamp through the hall, never enter this room to demand attention and offer reassurance. He had not been the only one who had become dependent; every day, every hour, Fletcher's will, Fletcher's decisions, Fletcher's strength, had sustained her. Their lives had been too closely knit for the bond to be severed in a day.

The breakfast nook was now too sunny, heated like a greenhouse. Don suggested that they find a cooler place for their conversation. They chose the den. As soon as Elaine had seated herself, gingerly, upon a straight chair like a caller, she was sorry they had not gone into the living room. Fletcher had spent most of his time here: in that big chair, he had read the newspaper; at the game table, played solitaire; from the love seat, watched television. The lower shelves were filled with his paperback mystery novels.

Don had chosen to sit at the desk. “Well, sir, shall we go on? I'm sure, sweet,” he offered a small bow to Elaine, “You're anxious to have this over with.”

“You said yesterday that you lived in fear of your husband's taking his own life. That's true, isn't it?” To spare Elaine the bother of answering, Knight bobbed his own head. “And before that, last week, you spoke of it to Mr. Hustings?”

“Sergeant Knight asked me about it and I told him what you said,” Don put in hastily.

“It's true,” Elaine said.

“Didn't you also tell Mr. Hustings that your husband asked if you'd be afraid to put him out of his misery?”

“Did I?” How could she be sure of everything she had told Don? More vivid than the scene in the pavilion was the memory of a night when Fletcher had demanded an answer to the question. On the bloated convex surface of the TV they had watched—she and Fletcher hand in hand on the love seat—a drama in color. At the high point, when the actor had brought a velvet pillow from his invalid wife's favorite chair, the picture
had dissolved into an advertisement for kitchen soap. While a troupe of beguiling boys tracked over linoleum and a happy mother informed the audience that a brand-new, scientific discovery made mopping up a pleasure, Fletcher had asked if she would have as much courage as the husband in the television play. Elaine's wrist remembered the sweat and pressure of his hand.

“Yes, love, you did,” Don said with authority.

Meanwhile one of the lesser detectives had come in, excused himself for whispering, and conferred with Knight. It seemed that they wished to remove a few trivial household objects for examination. Everything would be returned and care would be taken so that nothing would be damaged. The detectives were given permission and went away. They left soon after. Knight stayed. He had settled himself on the love seat, cozily, like an old friend.

A new phase of the interrogation started. Questions concerned Elaine's relations with her husband. Elaine became fiercely loyal, refused to let the detective insinuate that Fletcher had caused her to suffer and rebel. Had he been alive, she could not have protected him with greater ardor. So there had been quarrels, insults, assault with pudding, broken dishes. In what family were there no arguments and misunderstandings? “Can you blame a sick man for being irritable at times?” Passion attacked smugness. “It was worse than just ordinary illness. His voice, it was terrible to hear, he couldn't bear listening to himself. He was desperate, he hated life.” Intensity was so great that her own throat closed, she could barely use her voice, and she felt as maimed and mute as Fletcher. Huskily, “But he wasn't deliberately cruel. Ever! It wasn't in his soul to hurt me. My husband was kind and generous and he loved me,” she argued as though those words alone answered all questions.

“Would you mind, Mrs. Strode, if I asked how you happened to get that bruise on your face?”

“She tripped in the kitchen and fell against the sink. The maid had used too much wax on the floor.”

“I see.” Knight's curtness was a declaration of disbelief.

“Perhaps you'll tell us the cause of that final quarrel on Monday night?”

“It's not necessary if you don't want to,” Don warned. It was not surprising that he counseled silence. To say that the quarrels and tragedy had been brought about by his need for a thousand dollars would ravel threadbare pride. In Don's world, where people tossed about the names of millionaires, where association with the rich sustained frail pretenders, one thousand dollars was a poor excuse for all that fuss. The rings on Elaine's fingers, the rug under their feet, the fittings of the kitchen, had cost far more. To make public Don's poverty would utterly destroy him and would affirm Fletcher's cruelty to his family. Small wonder that Don's soft eyes were fixed in doglike appeal upon Elaine's face.

“It was nothing, Sergeant Knight, just a trifle, the usual family fuss.”

“AND THIS SMALL thing, this trifle, an ordinary family fuss, drove your husband to suicide? You honestly believe that Mrs. Strode?”

“I told you, he was desperate!” She turned to Don for support. “You saw him those last few days, you know the state he was in. Tell him!”

“I've told him everything I know, dear.”

“I take it that Mrs. Strode is unwilling to tell us about the final argument.” Knight cajoled in the manner of a nurse who suggests punishment as an alternative to a treat.

“It's her right, if she doesn't want to answer certain questions.” Don spoke to Knight, but looked to Elaine for approval.

“All I'm trying to do is make him understand how much Fletcher wanted to die. How he suffered, what hell he went through.” Elaine was shaken. Tension raised her temperature, brought goose bumps on her arms, made her nipples thrust themselves in protest against the fabric of her dress. She needed to scream. “The last few days were just pure hell,” she managed to say edgily. “And weeks. And months. A man like Fletcher. You don't know.”

Don urged calm.

“I'm perfectly calm,” she snapped back, and challenged Knight, “All right, let's get on with the inquisition.”

“I'm sorry you take it in that spirit, Mrs. Strode. What I'm asking about are the matters we've discussed frankly. Perhaps if we'd get at details.” But instead of asking questions he sat back and waited. Silence was another of his devices. Often, by wearing out a person's patience, he had been rewarded by a revealing outburst. No laxative had a greater purgative effect than fear.

Don said, “Perhaps you'll understand Mr. Strode's disposition better if you read his diary. That may answer all the questions.”

Knight sucked his breath. “He kept a diary?”

“He was always writing in it, wasn't he Elaine?”

Elaine had been touched and pleased by Fletcher's enjoyment of her Christmas gift, amused by his tenacity in keeping it locked away. What secrets had the recluse to guard? No wife could suspect infidelity of a husband too sensitive to ask for a bill of fare. For a moment, reluctant to betray the secrets of his unhappiness—surely the diary must contain those—she held one of her statuesque poses.

“Well, Mrs. Strode?”

“It may be helpful to Sergeant Knight. Do you know where the keys are, Elaine?”

“Of course, of course,” she answered, thinking that the diary might solve their problem and keep them from poking into her secrets. She hurried off in a fury of eagerness to find confirmation in Fletcher's writings, to have her statements proved, to look into the mind of the dead. Zealous and confused, she stared straight at the key ring without finding it until Don and Knight came into the bedroom, and Don pointed it out to her. It was in the most obvious place, of course, with his wallet and coins and fountain pen, just as Fletcher had left them when he emptied his pockets.

Knight could not repress a smile. The case was building and in it were the elements of public interest: sick husband, young
and beautiful wife, cruelty, and best of all, wealth. Front-page notoriety was inevitable. Knight's mother often asked why he never got interesting cases in rich people's houses. “Curtis dear, you're so much smarter and more refined than those tough detectives they always have on the TV.” Knight continued to smile as he followed Elaine and Don back to the den.

She unlocked the desk drawer, found and handed him the diary. “I hope this will help you.”

“Have you read it?”

“No I haven't.”

The answer did not convince Knight. In his opinion all women spied and all married women were without honor. From an early age he had been instructed and warned by a mother who knew the nature of females. “Have you read it?” he asked Don.

Don scoffed at the question. He had only caught sight of the diary when Fletcher Strode had been writing in it. “He was always quick to hide it when you came into the room. That's why I feel it must be important.”

This Knight believed. He pocketed the diary, thanked Elaine for her cooperation, said that she'd be hearing from him shortly. He did not leave at once. From the living room window Elaine saw him in conversation with a couple of strange men. When at last the talk ended and Knight drove off and she turned from the window, she found the room barren. All the cushions had been removed. Bed pillows were gone, too, from her room and Fletcher's. The hamper in the hall had been ransacked, and from it the detectives had “borrowed” the linen she had stripped from Fletcher's bed shortly before three o'clock that morning.

THE MEN WHO had interviewed Sergeant Knight in the garden were reporters. Elaine would not talk to any of them. Don took over the painful duty, urged her to lie down and relax. Cindy hurried in to announce that the news was on the radio. According to the broadcast, the police suspected foul play in the alleged suicide of retired New York millionaire found dead in the bedroom of his Pacific Palisades mansion.

Ralph heard it on his car radio while he drove from the hospital. He was sour about it. Two members of the Homicide Squad had wasted over an hour of his morning. There was no doubt that the police believed, and hoped, that Fletcher Strode had been the victim of foul play. Ralph had sneered at the idea. The tendency to suicide was, he told them in technical language which always impresses officious laymen, common in post-laryngectomy patients. While he had not been Mr. Strode's doctor, Ralph had frequently visited the house and had observed the contradictions and vacillations that accompany a deep death wish. He had also given a lecture on the ease with which suffocation could be caused in a patient who breathed through an opening in the neck. A number of post-laryngectomy patients had, according to an authoritative paper on the subject, attempted suicide by obstructing the passage of air, but had failed to achieve death because the urge had ended when the struggle for breath began.