The Albatross Page 11

  But Audrey’s lids fell. Audrey shook her head. “I wish she didn’t hate me so. She was there, when Joan confessed.” Her eyes opened boldly. “I saved your life!” cried Audrey. “Esther?”

  “You didn’t! I did. Tom did.”

  Tom thought: We’ll never get anywhere this way.

  “And where are the police you called so nobly?” Esther cried. “And what makes you so sure that Joan is going to let you stay out of it?” She moved towards the door.

  Tom was quicker. He snatched the door open. Somebody was pinging the front doorbell. Joan was lying peacefully across the yellow chair. The hypodermic caught light, where it lay on the carpet. The policemen came in mumbling about delay.

  Tom said, looking down at Joan, “She’s got too much insulin. Do you know what to do?”

  “I know what to do,” said one “Sugar.”

  Tom said, “Do it then.” He said, “What was this about delay?”

  “We had a time finding you,” said the other one. “Address we got on the phone was a little off.”

  Tom watched them pick Joan up. He showed them her room. He showed them the kitchen. He heard one call a doctor. He listened to comments. Joan was a suicide. She had sugar in her pocket. He listened in a dream.

  Then Mueller walked in. The X-rays showed Caldwell’s skull to have been intact.

  Esther was standing near the little bedroom hall, silent, listening. “Is Joan dead?” she demanded as Tom and Mueller came towards her.

  “Mighty close to it,” Mueller said. “Gave it to herself.”

  “Audrey killed her.” Esther said.

  “Honey,” said Tom. “Audrey wasn’t near. She was on the phone. Then she followed us. You and I know she wasn’t near Joan.”

  “She doesn’t have to be near,” Esther said.

  “You don’t want to sound obsessed,” Tom spoke to her gently. “Just take it easy. We’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  “Will we?” said Esther.

  They went into the bedroom. Audrey was sitting on Esther’s bed. She leaned on her straight left arm, her eyes huge with alarm.

  “Joan got the insulin,” Tom told her, not harshly. “She may be dying.”

  Audrey fell back, fainting.

  “If they’d have got to her a little quicker,” Mueller said, as he and Tom shifted the black-clad body to lie at ease upon Esther’s bed.

  “She would go to Joan,” cried Esther. “It was her place. She wouldn’t let you go. But she didn’t go, did she?”

  Tom said, “Lay off, honey. For a minute. Please.”

  “Am I all wrong?” flamed Esther. “Is this an innocent saint? Do you believe she didn’t notice her sister kill her husband? Or notice her sister hide a letter—mail a letter. In a wheel-chair? Look at her!”

  Audrey’s hand lay like a petal on the bedspread. Audrey’s eyes were open.

  “She knew how to make Joan do whatever she wanted!” Esther fought on. “She made Joan try to kill me. And she helped in person. She threw the pepper.”

  “Es, did you see that?” Tom demanded.

  “No, but I know.”

  “Evidence,” said Mueller sadly.

  A policeman put his head in. “Sorry to tell you—the cripple’s passed away,” he said in proper accents.

  “Tom!” cried Esther. “Look at her! I can’t see well enough! Look! Quick! Is Audrey smiling?’

  Tom looked. He felt singed with horror.

  But Audrey wasn’t smiilng. Audrey said softly, “Ah Joan. Poor Joan. I suppose it is peace,” and the eyes closed and gentle tears came out of them.

  So Esther said wearily, “Now she can tell everything her own way. There’s nobody else to tell anything.”

  “Why does she hate me so?” mourned Audrey, lying on Esther’s bed, her face wet and pale. “I’m so sorry … it makes me sad. I don’t hate her … dear Esther.” Her lips went into her little sad forgiving smile.

  Tom had an idea. He went to the bed.

  Esther said, choked and furious, “So it’s going to rest on her character. Her sweet kind character. How kind is her kindness? Tom!”

  Her angry warning tone stopped him.

  “Don’t you see it isn’t loving kindness? Don’t you see it’s policy? Don’t you see her kindness is a racket? How kind was it for her to come here in those black dresses?”

  Tom moved again. He picked up Audrey’s hand and carried it to his face.

  He didn’t even see his wife turn on her heel and walk out of the bedroom.

  Tom looked around, harassed, and she was gone. But he was thinking. He said to Audrey gently, “Rest a while.” He caught Mueller’s arm and guided him out of the room. He said to Mueller, “No pepper in her hand. Can’t smell it.”

  “Was a shaker,” Mueller said, “So there wouldn’t be any. No pepper on the cripple’s hands, either. They’ll check for prints on the shaker.”

  “Prints?” said Tom sceptically. “We’re not going to get that kind of evidence.”

  Mueller squirmed. “Look, I got to question her about Caldwell.”

  “Wait, will you? Will you let me? Leave her alone a minute. I want to think.”

  Esther stood in her house. It was crowded, invaded, and hers not at all. Audrey lay on Esther’s bed. Esther, the victim, stood on her two strong feet, all alone. Audrey, the killer, lay frail, heartbroken, petted.

  Tom came up behind her, “Honey, why don’t you rest?”

  “Where am I to rest,” she said fiercely, “in this house?”

  “It’s your house. Look—” He was mild. He was abstracted.

  “Will Audrey leave it?” She searched his face. “That’s all I ask now. Will she go away from here? Tonight?”

  Tom was thinking, thinking.

  “Because if she doesn’t,” Esther said, “I will go and I will never come back.”

  Tom’s eyes and mind came to a focus. He touched her. “Don’t talk to me like that,” he said. “Sounds like a scenario.”

  Her face changed. He caught her and hugged her close. “We can’t get her on the pepper. None on her hands. Thing is to get her to tell us, as close to the truth as possible, about Courtney.”

  “You’ll never—” said Esther brokenly. Her fierce independent stance had broken.

  “Tell me, is she stupid?” he held her off. He was thinking. Now she began to think, too.

  “No, not stupid. Very clever,” said Esther. “Although she can’t think straight, you know.”

  “Good point,” he said with pleasure. “Listen, how could she have mailed the letter? Did she go out on Tuesday? Or put it in our mail box?”

  “No, and I was watching.” Esther leaned upon him.

  “Could she have sneaked out, after we went to bed?”

  “No. If she had, the postmark would be Wednesday.”

  “Right.” They were both thinking. “Then, could she have given the letter to some kid? Some tradesman?”

  “There wasn’t anybody.”

  “Joan could have done that, I suppose.”

  “Not Joan. Please understand. Joan was the really devoted one, who didn’t think of herself. Poor Joan.”

  “All right,” he said. “All right. I know. I got your message. No loving-kindness.”

  “Wait,” said Esther. “Somebody came with a tract. Audrey took it.”

  “Tuesday?”

  “Yes, Tuesday.”

  “I’ve got an idea.”

  “What—?”

  “I’m going in there and be kind to her,” Tom said.

  Mueller and Esther could see through the crack in the half-open door. The lamp was on, now, beside the bed. It shone on Audrey’s dishevelled head and on her face. Tom had put it on. Tom bent there. “Audrey.”

  The purple eyes opened and clung to his face.

  He said, “Look, I want to help you,” in a hushed way.

  Her lips parted.

  “Something came up. I thought I’d warn you.”

  “Oh?” Was there alarm
as her fingers curled on his?

  “But first, Audrey—I know you wouldn’t have hurt Esther. I think I understand why Joan—”

  “Do you really?” she murmured. “Dear Tom, forgive me?”

  “Didn’t Joan think … that you and I … might be very happy?” He aped her pauses.

  “I let her see too much,” said Audrey. “Forgive me? Forgive me?”

  She thinks I would betray my wife like this, Tom thought. Yep, this is the way.

  “I tried to save her,” Audrey wept.

  “I know. Audrey, you’d better tell me about Courtney.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Because, you see—about the letter—that was mailed with the cash in it—”

  “Oh?”

  “You see,” said Tom, “they found somebody and Audrey, there’s not much question who sent the money.”

  “Question?” she murmured.

  “You’re easy to identify,” he said. “Don’t you realize? Nobody else could be a woman in black.”

  “Oh?” said Audrey.

  Yes, she was clever enough. Whoever had paid the bill had known and was an accessory. Audrey could follow this.

  “I can imagine,” he went on carefully, “how you did it for Joan. And his death was an accident. If you tell me just how it happened … You see, they have proof that you knew.”

  “I always took care of her.” Audrey’s head turned convulsively. “Oh, Tom, you are so understanding. You will help me.”

  “If I know how … don’t worry.…”

  “It was Joan who did it,” said Audrey clinging to his hand. “She was so angry. She went at him in a rush and he fell.”

  “When was this?”

  “Sunday night. But Tom, he was breathing. He was lying there on the kitchen floor, unconscious. But I didn’t know he was hurt! How could I? He was breathing the way he so often snored.” She shuddered delicately. “We couldn’t lift him. How could we? I covered him. I didn’t want him to catch cold.”

  Values, thought Tom. He willed his hand to be warm and steady.

  “I thought he was drunk. I left him to sleep if off.”

  “On the floor?” He nodded as if this was natural.

  “Yes, and in the morning he was still there, still breathing. I took the quilt and folded it. I was a little angry, I’m sorry to say.”

  “No wonder,” he murmured.

  “Then the milkman was coming. I could hear him on the service porch. So I tried to rouse Court. It wouldn’t look nice at all.”

  Values, thought Tom. Yes, this is true.

  “And Court woke and smiled at me—he really did—but then he died. And I cried out, and Joan said to the milkman, ‘He fell! He fell!’ Well, the milkman thought it had just happened. He thought he’d heard the fall. And he even began to think he’d seen it. He wanted to have seen it, you know? So we—we let it go.”

  “I understand,” Tom said. He hoped Mueller could hear well.

  “Why should Joan suffer for just an accident? They might have put her in jail! She wasn’t guilty. She was so afflicted, anyhow. How can I be an accessory to an accident?”

  “And you didn’t mention me to the police, did you?” Tom kept on the serviceable face—the poker face. He held his voice sympathetic.

  “Oh no! I gave—I should say they found your card. But, of course, I didn’t say anything.

  “How could you? You knew about the X-rays.” He was smooth.

  “Yes, well I … Courtney said …”

  But she must have felt him stiffening.…

  “So I knew you could never be hurt!” she cried triumphantly. “And I haven’t hurt you, Tom, have I? I wouldn’t hurt you, for the world! I never blamed you in the least. I said so to everyone. I was as nice about it as I could be. And you weren’t blamed. Nobody took any blame. And that was right. It was Courtney’s fault in the first place. He had been drinking. I couldn’t help feeling … the way it all worked out … was justice.” Her eyes shone.

  “You gave the police a wrong address?”

  She was very still suddenly.

  “When Joan was dying? There isn’t any pepper on Joan’s hands.” Tom took his hands away.

  Slowly she turned her two hands and showed him her palms.

  “Your hands are clean?” His sarcasm was vicious. He stood. “Is that enough?” he called loudly.

  Mueller came around the bedroom door. “Helps,” he said mildly. “We can scare up this tract distributor. We can get after the milkman. She’s an accessory to her husband’s death, all right. Who knows if we’ve got enough?”

  Tom said like thunder, “Justice!”

  He came through the door ablaze. “Get her out of my house!” he shouted behind him.

  He opened his arms and Esther flew into them.

  The Gardners stood in the dinette looking out at the garden. Their shoulders were tight together. They neither spoke nor did they look behind.

  Joan had been gone a long time. They heard Audrey’s voice, for a little while, being fastidious about what she would take with her.

  Then she was gone.

  Men’s voices said words of farewell. Then the men were all gone.

  Esther felt him relax a little.

  He looked down at her. He said, “I was sure stupid.”

  She thought: But I understood perfectly. And if it had been any ordinary decent widow … and you caught her out at the last! So I can forgive you for everything. She did not say this.

  Her eyes that were bright, and only a little pink now, crinkled and she looked at him straight. She said, “You sure were stupid, stupid.”

  He wiggled his shoulders where the weight was gone. They turned together. The house seemed to settle snug around them.

  “Any dinner in this dump?” he said loudly. “I’m starving.”

  “You can cook,” said Esther saucily. “How’s about you barbecue a steak?”

  “Okay, slacker, but you got to make one of your goopy salads. Real goopy!”

  “Let’s take our shoes off. Let’s call up some people. Or let’s not.”

  He let out a kind of groan. “People, she says. Idiot!” He grabbed her tight and hugged her and swung her and went capering through the house and Esther, with her heels flying, squealed.

  Why not? They were at home.

  About the Author

  Edgar Award–winning Charlotte Armstrong (1905–1969) was one of the finest American authors of classic mystery and suspense. The daughter of an inventor, Armstrong was born in Vulcan, Michigan, and attended Barnard College, in New York City. After college she worked at the New York Times and the magazine Breath of the Avenue, before marrying and turning to literature in 1928. For a decade, she wrote plays and poetry, with work produced on Broadway and published in the New Yorker. In the early 1940s, she began writing suspense.

  Success came quickly. Her first novel, Lay On, MacDuff! (1942) was well received, spawning a three-book series. Over the next two decades, she wrote more than two dozen novels, winning critical acclaim and a dedicated fan base. The Unsuspected (1945) and Mischief (1950) were both made into films, and A Dram of Poison (1956) won the Edgar Award for best novel. She died in California in 1969.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by arrangement with Coward, McCann, Geoghegan, Inc.

  Copyright © 1957 by Jack and Charlotte Lewi Family Trust

  Cover design by Jason Gabbert

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-4258-1

  This 2016 edition published by MysteriousPress
.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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  CHARLOTTE ARMSTRONG

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