Bedelia Read online

  “But it was acute indigestion. You know very well I’d been having dyspepsia for some time.”

  “That can be brought on artificially, too?”

  “Nonsense.”

  “There are a number of drugs that could have done it. Digitalis, for instance. And she had been giving you that sedative . . .”

  “A simple bromide that Loveman mixed for us.” Charlie had become peevish. “I don’t want to hear any more of your filthy suspicions. The doctor got his analysis, didn’t he? Didn’t it show? You know as well as I that I had an attack of acute indigestion, nothing more.”

  “I was here when you told your wife about it,” Ben reminded him. “You may remember that it was right after that that I mentioned Keene Barrett’s name for the first time. I did it with a purpose. I wanted her to know she wasn’t as safe as she supposed.”

  “Damn you!” cried Charlie, the cords rising in his neck and his voice tightening. “What right have you to speak of her in that fashion?”

  “It would have been greatly to her advantage to have had the analysis made and proved negative. Another attack would seem quite normal. And if it had been fatal, she’d have blamed poor old Meyers for faulty diagnosis and improper care.”

  “You’ve got no proof of anything.”

  “Did you notice,” Ben asked slyly, “how she acted when she first smelled the smoke of your Christmas cigars?”

  “What was there to notice?”

  “Odors are potent in stimulating the memory. McKelvey smoked that brand. They were specially made in Cuba for members of his club. She wouldn’t have reacted so violently to the smell of ordinary cigar smoke.”

  “Thanks for your thoughtful Christmas gift,” Charlie said.

  “You know there was never a Raoul Cochran in New Orleans?” Ben waited for Charlie to answer the question. Charlie looked as if he had not heard. “None of the artists had ever heard the name, nor any of the landlords in the French Quarter, and none of the stores that sell artists’ supplies.”

  “They lived quietly in a cheap flat. Probably they paid their rent in cash. They didn’t know many people.”

  “What about those parties they gave whenever they could afford a chicken and a bottle of claret? And what of the friends who insisted that his paintings be sold at auction so the dealer couldn’t cheat the poor widow? And where’s the dealer?”

  Charlie had no answer.

  “I know artists,” Ben said. “I’ve lived in colonies in summer, and have spent as much time as I could afford with painters. They’re alike in one thing . . . they’ll talk about their work to anyone who’ll listen, and most of them ask for credits from the fellows who sell brushes and canvas. How is it, then, that nobody there remembers a painter named Raoul Cochran and his pretty wife? For God’s sake, Charlie, wipe that red stuff off your face, it makes you look like a damn fool.”

  “Red stuff?”

  “Evidently you’ve been kissed.”

  Abashed, Charlie pulled out his handkerchief.

  “On the left side, just above your mouth.” Ben spoke testily. “There were no paintings with the signature of Cochran, no dealer, no friends, no credit at the stores, no trace anywhere of Raoul or Bedelia.”

  Charlie looked at the red stain on his handkerchief.

  “Neither the City Hall nor any hospital has a record of Cochran’s death.”

  Charlie managed to produce a frigid, disdainful voice. “I met a number of people who knew her.”

  “In Colorado Springs? They’d met her there, hadn’t they? Just as you did.”

  “Just the same, I don’t think there’s any connection.”

  “You may be right. I have no evidence that Annabel McKelvey, Chloe Jacobs, and Maurine Barrett are the same woman. But they had one trait in common. They photographed so badly that all of them, pretty woman, too, were more afraid of cameras than of pistols . . . or poison. Have you ever taken a picture of your wife?”

  Charlie could not answer. He had lost his expensive German Kodak when he was off on a jaunt in the mountains with Mrs. Bedelia Cochran. She had let him take several snapshots of her, and then his Kodak had, quite by accident, fallen off a cliff.

  “When I suggested that she sit for her portrait,” Ben said, “she hesitated at first and told me she was a bad model. Cochran had tried several times to paint her, but had to give up, she said. I begged her to let me try and finally she consented. In fact, we had quite a conspiracy about it, for she decided to give you her portrait for a birthday present, and insisted that she would pay me for it. I knew, of course, the portrait would never be finished.”

  The Kodak had been a gift from his mother and Charlie had always been careful with it. He could almost remember placing it with his coat and knapsack beside a rock at a safe distance from the edge before he went off to gather wood for their fire. Afterward Bedelia said that he had been absent-minded. She had noticed that he left the camera near the edge and had meant to speak of it, but disliked reproaching him.

  “These wives,” Ben continued, “had another trait in common. Annabel, Chloe, and Maurine were always sweet-tempered, docile, and patient. McKelvey, Jacobs, and Barrett were unusually happy husbands. I guess a woman who regards her marriage as temporary can afford to be easy-going with a man. She doesn’t have to worry about giving him a finger and having him take the whole hand. No wonder Mrs. Barrett thought her sister-in-law spoiled her husband.”

  Charlie went into the hall and looked up the stairs. He had heard something on the second floor. Or perhaps he had only imagined he heard his wife coughing. But when he climbed the stairs, he discovered that the bedroom door was closed tight. For this he was grateful. What if Bedelia had heard Ben’s story? Charlie was ashamed because he had listened to all of it and he despised himself for having lost the fight.

  He opened the door softly, crossed the bedroom on tiptoe. As his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he saw his wife’s features clearly, the proud little nose, the doll’s mouth, the curling lashes and the rounded chin. She slept as peacefully as a child.

  Downstairs again, facing Ben, he said, “Please don’t talk so loud. I don’t want anyone to hear what we’re saying.” He would not use his wife’s name nor even refer to her by a pronoun. Charlie was calmer now, and better able to handle his end of the argument. The visit to the bedroom and the sight of his wife’s innocent slumber had restored his faith. He had been tempted to abuse Ben, to scorch the man’s pride with fiery insult, but this, he saw now, would be no more effective than the use of his fists.

  “I can’t think of a single reason why I should believe you,” Charlie began. “You came to my house under false pretenses, you’ve been dishonest with me since the day we met, you’ve accepted our hospitality and pretended to be our friend while you were spying on us. Why should I believe you?”

  “Quite a shock, wasn’t it, when she heard me use Barrett’s name?”

  “Was it?” Charlie asked coldly.

  “Why did she break that ornament? It slipped out of her hands when she heard me say that Barrett was coming here.”

  “Might have been an accident.” Charlie managed a condescending smile.

  “Did she say anything about it afterward?”

  “Nothing. You’re the only one who’s ever mentioned Barrett’s name around here.” That was literal truth. Bedelia had not mentioned Barrett as her enemy; that was Ben Chaney’s role. He’ll hurt us. That’s all he cares about, to hurt us and ruin our lives. Her voice echoed in Charlie’s ears and he could see her shadowed eyes and furrowed brow as she leaned over the plate of untasted food.

  “When Barrett gets here, he’ll identify her if she is Maurine,” Ben said. He went into the hall and took his overcoat off the tree. “I didn’t like telling you this, but you asked for it. I’d planned to wait until we were sure.” He put on his mittens and wrapped the scarf around his neck.

  Charlie had nothing more to say and Ben left without a farewell. Some impulse sent Charlie to watc
h his visitor depart. He stood in the living-room window waiting while Ben fastened his snowshoes. It seemed to take him a long time to tie them on. Finally Charlie saw him push off, moving clumsily at first, and then finding his balance and gaining speed. Ben crossed the bridge and climbed the hill on the opposite side of the river. It was not yet four o’clock, but dusk had fallen. There was no wind and the world was utterly still except for Ben’s dark shape against the snow. The shape dwindled and disappeared over the top of the hill.

  Charlie turned from the window. In the dim room he saw the shapes of things, chairs, tables, the sofa and love-seat, and the spaces between these things, and he remembered how he and Bedelia had moved the furniture again and again until they were satisfied with the arrangement. Bedelia’s living in it had changed the old house. Her stamp was on everything, the wallpaper and upholstery fabrics, the mirrors and sconces; her workbasket had been left on the lowboy, and on the dining-room table bloomed the white narcissus she had grown in a pottery bowl.

  The silence was torn by a scream. Charlie thought the wind had risen to trumpet the coming of a new storm. In the second shriek he recognized his wife’s voice. Had Maurine Barrett cried out when they came to tell her that her husband’s body had been caught between the posts of the pier?

  He rushed up the stairs. His wife’s voice floated toward him through the darkness of the hall. “I had a nightmare, Charlie. I dreamed that you were dead.”

  5

  “WHY ARE YOU STARING AT ME LIKE THAT?”

  Bedelia sat high against the pillows. She had asked Charlie to bring her the pink bed sacque, and when she had tied the pink bow under her chin, combed her hair and touched up her lips, she was as rosy and pert as a schoolgirl. The room was dry and warm, and the scent of her cosmetics gave it the oversweet atmosphere of a hothouse.

  “You’re looking at me so strangely, Charlie. Are you angry, dear?”

  Charlie walked toward the bed. Bedelia held out her hand. He took it and she drew his hand to her face and rested her cheek against it. Ben’s facts receded into the distance. Charlie saw innocence in a pink jacket, heard rosy lips asking for his love, smelled her seductive perfume, touched a warm hand. His senses knew reality. The session with Ben became a dream. This woman was his wife, he knew her intimately, was not blind to her faults and weaknesses. He had been madly in love with her, dazzled by her charms, but he had not lost his head so completely that he had mistaken a vulgar adventuress for a sincere woman. And the woman Ben described had been far worse than an adventuress, she had been a hideous monster, a siren, a blood-sucker, Lucrezia Borgia and Lady Macbeth, all at once. Charlie was no fool. He might have been oversanguine, more trustful of strangers than a lot of people, but he had his standards of character and expected his friends to live up to these standards. Barrett’s wife had been mercenary. Mrs. Jacobs was a cold woman. Annabel McKelvey could not offer affection with such pretty impulsiveness.

  “I’m hungry,” Bedelia said.

  “I’ll fix you some supper. Won’t take ten minutes,” Charlie promised.

  He was glad to leave the bedroom. In her presence it was not possible to think clearly. He stamped down the stairs, telling himself in sound sentences that Ben Chaney had made a hideous mistake, that the black pearl was what Bedelia claimed, a five-dollar imitation. Last week Ben had made melodrama out of a case of common indigestion; now he was magnifying a molehill of coincidence into a mountain of evidence. A detective! Had Charlie known this at the start, he would never have become intimate with Ben Chaney. Perhaps he was a snob; the Philbricks had always been snobs, but they had successfully protected themselves against the humiliation suffered as a result of intimacy with inferiors. Would his mother have asked a detective to dinner? He could hear her answer, “One might as well dine with a burglar.” Let Barrett come! At the first glance the man from St. Paul would destroy Ben’s fine theories.

  While Charlie was slaying dragons on the staircase, a miracle took place. Light! Light after darkness! Could there have been a clearer symbol of hope? Of course, if he were to quarrel with Providence and seek scientific explanation of the miracle, it could be attributed to the workings of the Connecticut Light and Power Company whose linesmen had restrung the wires which the blizzard had disconnected. The sudden burst of light in the dark hall was due to Charlie’s own negligence in forgetting to turn back the switches which he had thoughtlessly turned on while the power was off.

  In his present mood Charlie preferred the miracle. Faith is nourished not by intelligence but by emotion, and emotion is the product of desire. By wishing hard enough you can make yourself believe almost anything. The Kodak had fallen off the cliff by accident. Charlie had a most reassuring vision, could see himself leaving it carelessly at the edge.

  He set about making tea. The kitchen reflected his wife’s soundest qualities. In every copper pot its bright miniature was repeated. Charlie sang as he made toast in Bedelia’s new electric machine, cooked a rarebit in her chafing dish. He felt superior to Ben’s nonsense, aloof as a god. His voice seemed to him only slightly inferior to Caruso’s. All at one time he had to keep his mind on the toast in the electric machine, the melting cheese in the chafing dish, the water in the kettle.

  The kitchen floor was spread with newspapers. Charlie had laid them there when he finished scrubbing the linoleum. That was Charlie all over, an architect, successful in his field, making good money, but not too proud to scrub the kitchen and spread newspapers on the floor. As he crossed from stove to table, the kettle in his hand, an item attracted him. He bent down to read it, forgot everything else, and there was havoc in the kitchen. The kettle tipped, the cover slid off, hot water spilled, the toast burned, and the rarebit thickened in the chafing dish.

  The newspaper item told of the conviction of a bachelor, forty-seven years old, elder in a New Hampshire church, for the murder of his spinster sister. Witnesses said the sister had tried to separate him from the piano teacher with whom he had been having an illicit affair for seventeen years. Charlie seldom read such stories. The sort of people who committed murder, or allowed themselves to become victims of murder, were to him as incomprehensible as savage Igorotes, and such crime as remote from his understandings as hara-kiri or child marriage. A medicine man who painted his skin and danced to exorcise devils seemed no farther off than a New Hampshire elder who could suffocate his sister with a green silk sofa pillow.

  Boiling water spread and darkened the newspaper. From the toaster came a charred smell. The cheese sauce bubbled angrily. There were switches to be turned off, plugs to be pulled, the floor to be mopped, fresh bread to be cut, new water boiled, cheese to be grated. Charlie worked defiantly. He sang loudly, rattled dishes, banged away with the pots. The medicine men dance to exorcise civil spirits. Charlie Horst tried to imitate Caruso. In fear of excess he spared the tea, shut off the current before the toast was brown, made a watery rarebit. Yet he continued to sing loudly as though the courage of his voice could thicken sauce, brown toast, strengthen tea, disperse the shadows on the stairs, and revive the faith that had seemed so firm when he started work in the bright kitchen.

  Maurine Barrett had been a good housekeeper, she had equipped her kitchen with all the latest conveniences, her egg-beaters and can-openers had been the most recent inventions, and when she went away, she had stored them carefully in her brother-in-law’s attic.

  “Charlie, dear, it’s delicious,” Bedelia said of the rarebit. “You’re a much better cook than I am.”

  “It’s a bad supper and you’re a gallant liar.”

  “No, you mustn’t say it’s bad. It’s delicious.” Bedelia smiled, dimpled; her dark eyes worshiped her husband, and the room was sweet with the scent of her perfume.

  THAT EVENING A bell rang. Charlie and Bedelia were startled. They had forgotten about the telephone. “We must be connected,” Charlie said.

  Bedelia nodded. She had a crochet hook in her mouth and could not speak.

  The operator was cal
ling to see if their line worked. The trunk wire had been disconnected, she said, and the telephone company was glad to inform its subscribers that service had been restored.

  Charlie was not as happy about the restoration of the telephone wire as he had been about the electric light. This was not a miracle but an omen. His house was again part of the world from which it had been separated by the storm. Next the snow shovels would come, and then there would never be peace in his home again.

  “So the phone’s connected,” Bedelia said.

  “Yes.” His voice was brusque. More than four hours had passed since Ben had left the house, and nothing had been said of his visit.

  Charlie pulled a chair close to the bedroom fire. Bedelia went on with her crocheting. From time to time she measured the unfinished slipper against the finished one.

  “When will the snow be cleared away?”

  He scraped his throat, tried to soften the hard tones. “I don’t know. Why are you worrying about it so much?”

  “It’s such fun to be alone with you, dear. I don’t want us ever to be rescued.”

  “We’d starve to death.”

  “We’ll live on biscuit. There’s plenty of flour. I’d rather live on biscuit with you, Charlie, than roast goose and oysters with anyone else.”

  He stared into the fire. A sudden wave of anger had risen in him, resentment at her airs and graces, the guilelessness and girlish prattle. His anger was futile, of course. When he turned and saw her, rosy in the lamplight, the pink bow tied under her chin, his resentment turned upon himself for allowing his faith to be shaken.

  “Don’t you believe me, Charlie?”

  “Believe what?”

  “That I love you better than anything in the world?”

  “Don’t be foolish.”

  “I don’t know what you mean by that. I don’t know whether you mean that I ought to know that you believe I love you and am foolish to be asking about it, or whether you don’t believe I love you more than anything else in the world.”