The Unsuspected Read online

  "Yes, indeed. You see, it's going to be quite an interesting story."

  "I can see that it will be," conceded Francis.

  "You have already disappeared. It did look so queer that you weren't at the funeral. It only remains—"

  "To dispose of me?"

  "Exactly."

  Press spoke for the first time. "Look," he said. "Not here."

  Francis wanted to whoop with laughter. Was the fellow aroused at last, thinking of his cellar floor?

  "Oh, dear me, no. Certainly not here," Grandy reassured him. “My dear fellow, I shouldn't think of it"

  "Whatever you say," said Press. He had a bitter, harsh voice. His eyes were without hope and yet smoldering. Francis thought, He might help me. He's being compelled None of this is his idea.

  But Press said, "I suppose I've got to do it for you. Only not here," and the flat resignation in his voice was not encouraging.

  The woman made a movement. It was as clear as if she'd said it aloud. As if she'd said, "Let me. HI enjoy it."

  "Ah, well, in the eyes of the law we shall be equally responsible," said Grandy cheerfully. "And that, my dear Press, will be pleasant for you. We shall both be of the unsuspected, eh?" he chuckled. Press simply waited. "Is he perfectly secure here?" asked Grandy. They nodded. "Then I don't think we'll be in any hurry. I must get back. We must think it over, you know. Doubtless, something ingenious will occur to one of us." He turned to leave. His eyes went mockingly to Francis. "You don't ask for your bride?"

  Press was putting the gag back into Francis' mouth. It obscured any expression there might have been on Francis' face and prevented him from making an answer.

  "I'll take care of Mathilda," said Grandy smoothly, "when the time comes. Let me see—" He had no feeling, no sorrow. The soft regret that purred in his voice was only a habit, a trick in his throat. "You disappear. There will be Jane's story of what you said in my study. Then, of course, Mathilda's story of what you tried to do to her. The marriage hoax. She must tell that to everyone. She will tell it with great indignation. She will tell it so well. Oh, the wickedness of it! What a wicked, wicked fellow you are," crooned Grandy.

  "But you did not prevail. You were defeated. You ran away." Grandy nodded. "The girls will support me."

  Then the wooden door opened, closed. The light went out. Feet traveled toward the steps. Francis listened, hoping it was three pairs of feet. He didn't like the woman.

  Yes, he thought, the girls. Mathilda. What Mathilda would tell the police would be only the truth, all the truth she knew. And if Jane tried to tell the truth behind the truth, it would never prevail. Jane tried to tell the truth behind the truth, it would never prevail.

  Who was Jane to pull down Luther Grandison? She couldn't fight alone. There was no one to help her now.

  Mathilda would help destroy herself. She didn't know any better. He understood. She couldn't believe. It was too much to ask of her. Grandy had her in his web, had always had her, and he would keep her and do what he wanted to do, whatever it might be. Spider and fly. Poor courageous little fly. She had courage. She could fight. On the wrong side, but still one could admire. Eyes closed in the dark, he could see her face.

  He said under his breath, "Rosaleen, I tried. Listen, little one, I know what he did to you. I tried to punish him"

  It seemed to him that Rosaleen forgave him, because he couldn't see her face. It seemed to him that, graciously, her little ghost moved on. He might himself be with her soon, wherever she was. He hoped Grandy's ingenious way would be quick, at least. His hand throbbed and throbbed. The pain was monstrous. It loomed so large in the silent dark.

  And leave Mathilda to the mercy of Grandy who had no mercy. Francis thought what he would do if he were loose. And then tried not to think of such matters. Because he couldn't see any way to get loose. The ropes were still tight and firm. He couldn't move

  his wrists to speak of. The wounded arm was very weak. The muscles weren't responding. His ankles were numb. Trying to move would rub his skin off, accomplish nothing. The gag was in as firmly as before. He couldn't make a sound. The pounding of his heels on the cement was only a dull thud, could never be heard by the world, if there still was a world up there beyond that black oblong in the wall. Still night. No dawn.

  The whole situation was perfectly ridiculous. But ropes are ropes. They held. There was no miracle. Nothing happened during the night to loosen those bonds. When the light began to seep through the green leaves at last and touch the dirty glass, Francis was lying

  exactly as he had been lying, exactly as helpless, hopeless and lost.

  Oh, there was a tiny flicker of hope left, but really it was not sensible. The people going about their business up there in the world would have no suspicion. His helplessness and his plight would be unsuspected. So what he'd tried to do would be of no avail. The best he could do at the time, but it hadn't been good enough. No, no hope. Put it out. And pray for Mathilda. Pray for her.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  On Friday morning, Grandy s house had fallen into a normal rhythm. Life was going on. It was the reflection of Grandy's own mood, of course. His house and the people in it were susceptible to his moods and always reflected them. And Grandy had taken an interest in breakfast that morning. Grandy had parceled out the household chores in his usual gay fashion. Even Oliver had reached a state of calm and had gone off on errands.

  Jane, looking about twelve years old in blue-and-white-checked gingham, was swabbing the floor of Grandy's glittering bathroom. Mathilda herself, in a black skirt and a peasant blouse, was changing linen on the beds. Mirrors reflected them many times.

  Mathilda had a prevision of how life, going on, would fill in and smooth over the place where Althea had been. How it would always fill in the empty places, flowing, smoothing, covering. Grandy house was just the same. Although Althea was gone, Tyl had com back. Rosaleen was gone, but here was Jane. There would always be one girl or another reflected in the mirrors, changing the beds, mopping the floor. The changing of the beds would outlive them all. The little duties, the household chores, were immortal.

  The enigma of Francis was gone too. Because everything was clear now about Francis. Grandy had said so. Grandy had explained his theories at the breakfast table. Jane had agreed. Oliver had agreed. Mathilda had . . . agreed.

  She had a little headache this morning. She hadn't slept. She'd been listening in the night. Shed been waiting, in aimless tension, not knowing what she waited for. Briskly tucking in the sheets, Tyl realized that she still had the sensation of expectancy, of waiting for something, an anxiety that wouldn't rest, as if life could not take up, here and now, and go on, and fill in and cover over, with the inexorable wash of time. Although the whole house argued I against her and she argued against herself.

  Francis was gone. The enigma was explained as well as it ever would be explained. There would be no more to it. The tides of time would wash in every morning and blot and obliterate and smudge and wear down and blur. This day or two, so full of Francis, would recede, would decline in importance, would fade and blur and blend in with all other days of her life. It would be an incident, a queer happening. Once upon a time. Grandy would no doubt make one of his stories out of it. There might even be supernatural overtones before he got through. Mathilda shivered.

  Jane wrung out the mop and stood it up in her pail. "I'll help with that," she said, smiling.

  How pretty she is, Tyl thought. I wish I could be just sweet and willing, like Jane.

  They took hold of opposite ends of a blanket. Something was communicated through the length of woolen fabric. Tyl was aware suddenly that Jane was not as she appeared, neither sweet nor willing, not placid at all. Jane was strung up tight. Together, they spread the blanket, tucked it in, folded the sheet back over it, drew up and smoothed the spread.

  Tyl said, "Where did he go, Jane?"

  Jane said, "He went to the police.''

  Mathilda sat down on the edge of the f
reshly made bed. She looked into Jane's eyes and saw the real girl, saw the hidden fear and sensed the hidden strength.

  "Why?" she demanded.

  Jane said, "He had things to tell them. If he had got to them, we'd know it. He didn't get there."

  Mathilda blinked and groped back. "But you said he'd run away. You said— Grandy said—"

  Jane said carefully, "He may have run away. He probably did." She was remote and closed off suddenly. Mathilda didn't want her to be closed off. She wanted to talk. She wanted to know. She wanted the real Jane.

  "But you don't believe it," she whispered, "do you?"

  "Do you?”

  Something that seemed entirely outside of herself shook Mathilda's head for her, shook it in the negative sign. No, she thought, and she hadn't believed it at breakfast, either.

  Jane leaned against the bed, bent a little closer. "Can I talk to you and be sure you won't. . . repeat it?"

  Mathilda said, "Please."

  Jane's doll face didn't belong to a doll any more. He was in danger. He really was. He was getting too close. How am I going to make you understand?"

  "I wish you could," wailed Mathilda. "Because I don't understand anything at all. What danger? What do you think happened to him?"

  "I don't know," said Jane, "but something's got to be done. She sat down on the other edge of the bed with her back to Mathilda and covered her face with her hands. "What have I been waiting for?" she said in tones of surprise.

  "You're in love with him, aren't you?"

  Jane shook her head. Her face was still hidden.

  Mathilda said, "But I saw you. Out the window. There's something—"

  "What difference does that make?" said Jane fiercely. "Never mind what Francis is to me. Or anybody. Or what he was to Rosaleen. You don't know, and you'll never know, and he's nothing at all to you. Just nothing. But if he's dead now, it'll be because you were so dumb."

  "I?"

  "I didn't mean that." Jane gulped, turned her face and tried to smile. "I'm worried just about sick."

  "Why was I dumb? What do you mean?" Mathilda reached out to shake her.

  "I mean he needed your help."

  "Then why didn't he ask me or tell me? . . . Help for what?"

  "He did. He tried. But you can't see things the way they are. Francis didn't blame you."

  "What don't I see?"

  "Listen," Jane said, "I was in New York the other day, tracking down something that absolutely proves—"

  "Proves what?"

  Jane said, "No, I can't tell you."

  "Why not?"

  "You— Nobody could tell you."

  "What's the matter with me, that I can't be told? I'm listening, Jane. Please tell me."

  Jane was watching her, searching her face, trying to read it.

  Tyl said desperately, "You've got to tell me. I've got to understand, can't you see that? Jane, if you know what this is all about, please—" But Jane seemed to be withdrawing again. "What did you find in New York?" Mathilda begged. "What was it?"

  "A record."

  "A record?"

  "The record they took of a radio program."

  "Oh?"

  "Yes, I timed it"

  "Timed it?"

  "It was a question of time. The time was ten thirty-five.”

  "What time?"

  “'Burn tenderly.' "

  Mathilda said angrily and bluntly, "I don't understand a word you're saying. You're trying to confuse me. Start at the beginning, why don't you? What are you? Who is Francis?"

  "I'm a secretary," said Jane. She shrugged.

  "But what are you trying to do? You're in a plot, aren't you? Some kind of plot against—"

  Jane lifted her chin.

  Mathilda said, faltering, "It's against Grandy, isn't it?"

  Jane said, "Do you know that if you repeat any of this conversation, my life won't be worth a nickel? It's worth about ten cents, as it is.

  "Oh, nonsense!"

  "Is it nonsense?" said Jane. "Where's Fran, then? Why didn't he get to the police station where he was going? What stopped him? Where is he now? Why doesn't he tell us, send some word? Telephone?"

  "Because he—because the plot wouldn't work," answered Mathilda weakly.

  Jane said bitterly, "You never had a thought in your life. Your mind's been formed for you. You're all wrong about everyone. You don't see straight. It's not your fault. I guess it's your misfortune. You couldn't see Oliver and Althea dancing like puppets on the ends of their strings, could you? You thought they acted for themselves. They didn't any more than you do. Nobody does in this house. Oh, Francis understood. You mustn't think he didn't understand. But he told you there was danger, didn't he?"

  "He—"

  "And there was danger, and there is danger. He was worried sick about you. You're so blind. And he knew what the danger was." Mathilda was trembling. She was angry and scared. But Jane went on as if to herself, "There's one thing for me to do. There's that man. and I know his name and where he works. And Francis wasn't any helpless girl, you see? So there would have to be a man. That's what he meant." Jane's blue eyes took in Mathilda with a strange, absent look. "You'll spill these beans, of course. My fault. I ought to have known better. Fran warned me. But you looked for a minute as if you'd . . . hear me. But you can't hear me. It isn't your fault."

  Suddenly, Jane's voice quickened. "I am glad we talked. I was frozen up, too scared to move, just stuck, just letting things happen. Lord, you can't afford to wait! I guess it's worth any extra danger to get unstuck." Jane's face flamed with resolution. "I'd better get

  going" She came around the bed. She said, looking down, "Maybe it will work out all right for you sometime. I hope it will." She added gently, "Francis hoped it would, you know."

  Jane went out of the room and down the hall to her own.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Mathilda fled into the gray room. That which she had been trying not to think about had been spoken out—too plain for her to dodge it any more. She knew now the ridiculous reason, the preposterous—why, the utterly mad reason—for all Francis' lies. First, Francis was mixed up somehow with Rosaleen Wright.

  All of a sudden she knew how. Rosaleen had never been one to talk about herself or to confide romantic details. Yet Mathilda had always known that somewhere in the back of Rosaleen's life there was a man she planned to marry someday. Tyl sat down to brood, to think back. She could remember only an impression. This man was an old playmate. A childhood friend, a relative, even—some kind of cousin. It was no flaming romance, but one of those comfortable things. She could remember no name.

  Francis? Well, then, Francis thought Rosaleen hadn't killed herself. That was the whole thing. And Jane was in it, too, somehow or other. Certainly, Jane was in love with him. Of course she was. It was perfectly obvious that they were partners. Was Jane a kind of

  second-string sweetheart?

  "Never mind," Jane had said. "He's nothing to you." Nothing to me, thought Mathilda, and what am I to him? Someone to be used in his schemes? She felt herself in a little glow of anger. Schemes against Grandy. Of all people in the world, dear, kind, lovable

  Grandy, who wouldn't hurt a fly, wouldn't even hurt your feelings if he could help it.

  Surely she knew him best. All Grandy's ways, the splendid difference of the way he lived. An amateur of living, he called himself. Lover of life. Oh, he had taught them so much. He'd sent them to carefully chosen schools, but their real education had been in the summers with Grandy. And the world would be stale without him to teach them where its flavor lay.

  Why, they wanted to make him out a monster. They wanted to say he was wicked, scheming, unfeeling. Grandy? Grandy, who didn't care about money or any of the stupid material things, who loved, above all, beauty and good food and good talk and ideas. Who believed in the love of these things.

  The thought came like a stray. Grandy s fabulous bathroom had cost quite a penny. The love of some kinds of beauty was rat
her expensive. No, she wrenched at her thoughts. She was off the track. Love. Human love. Grandy believed in love. But he didn't know it

  when he saw it, said some cynical thing inside her head. He thought Oliver meant security to her. She rubbed her aching forehead.

  Someone knocked softly at her door.

  "Come in."

  Tyl, darling." And there he was.

  Mathilda looked up, startled. There he stood, Grandy himself, his white hair ruffled, as it almost always was, his rather large feet turned out just a little, like the frog footman. His fat little tummy on his thin frame, his big-knuckled hands, his beak of a nose and his sharp black eyes watching her.

  She saw him briefly, just in a flash, quite unadorned by her affection. She saw the man standing in her door. She knew he was alert and watchful, and she knew she was not sure, at that moment, of his love. Because she thought of a spider.