Рекс Стаут - How Like a God

“It’s very modem, a fine piece of work,” you said. “Its name is William the Conqueror.”

She stood and stared at it solemnly. “It looks like you,” she chuckled. “I think it looks exactly like you.” She turned and looked at you appraisingly. “If you were really like that,” she said, “you wouldn’t be afraid of me.”

Startled and astonished, you exclaimed, “Good lord, I’m not afraid of you!”

“Oh yes you are. You think I’m wicked. All men do, just because I’m not ashamed of anything. That’s why they don’t mind if I’m not pretty.”

“Who told you that? Somebody told you that.”

She dismissed the question with a shake of her head.

She had taken all the flavor out of your irony, and you wished you had left it at home in its corner.

The next evening you came in and up the stairs, and let yourself into the front room, and at the first glance around you sat down on the nearest chair, with your hat and coat still on, stared incredulously, and roared with laughter. How you laughed! Millicent sat in the blue chair, reading, and on the table beside her stood William the Conqueror with a string of little yellow chrysanthemums around his neck!

“No, it’s too damn good!” you choked. “It isn’t possible! Erma darling come and look at it!”

Millicent, unmoved and unsmiling, merely said:

“I don’t think it’s so funny. I think they look nice there.”

You looked at her suspiciously and helplessly; the laughter was gone. But you felt no resentment, it was too vastly comic, even considered as a mere coincidence. Who could be more unlike than the brilliant cynical articulate Erma and this little dumb drab insect? Yet observe the parallel! What hidden centuries of preparation led up to that identical gesture?

When Erma returned from the Adirondacks the daily arrangement of your movements presented a little difficulty. You had always kept yourself pretty well at Erma’s disposal, when she was in town, for bridge, dinners, theatre, opera, concerts, dances. Of course there had been frequent and extended periods when you were, so to speak, on vacation, but their nature made it impractical for you to expect the convenience of a notice in advance. You had a telephone installed at Eighty-fifth Street and told Millicent that whenever possible you would let her know during the afternoon whether you would be able to come for dinner — not that it mattered particularly, since you always went to a restaurant.

Seemingly, she took it all quite cheerfully. You would telephone her from the booth in the cigar store on Broadway, not wanting to call from home or the office:

“I’m sorry, Mil, I can’t make it today or tomorrow, or Thursday either. I’m pretty sure I can Friday.”

“All right,” her voice would come.

“Won’t you miss me?” You would despise yourself for each word as you uttered it.

“Of course I will, but Grace will go to some shows with me. You might send up some more books.”

Before returning to the office you would go across the street to Donaldson’s and order a dozen novels sent, any novels.

The week preceding Christmas was filled with duties which couldn’t very well be avoided. Erma had a lot of new people on the string, and it seemed to you that she was becoming increasingly insistent on your presence and assistance. Certainly she was becoming curious about your tendency to find excuses to be away.

“Just when I begin to think you are at last explored you take on a new mystery,” she said. “You never objected to the Hallermans before. You always were able to tolerate bridge at least twice a week. You are developing a positive distaste for the theatre. Have you found a pretty mistress or are you learning to swim?”

“I already know how to swim,” you laughed.

“Then it’s a mistress!” she exclaimed. “And you took her to Pennsylvania and went berry-picking with her, and by now the only question is whether it will be a boy or a girl. Bravo!”

She came over to you, smiling.

“Please have it a girl, and call it Erma, and I’ll be godmother and give her a million dollars,” she said. “Seriously, Bill, I think it might buck you up to be a father; though,” she added, “I must say that the prospect doesn’t seem to be helping you any — you look more done in than ever.”

You shrugged your shoulders. “I’m worrying for fear it will be twins.”

“Then you aren’t going to tell me?”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“All right. But you aren’t very amusing lately, you know. It rather frightens me for my old age.”

You went off to the subway, bound for the office; but on arriving downtown you went first to the cigar store and telephoned Millicent. She answered in a sleepy voice; you had got her out of bed, as usual when you phoned in the morning.

“I’m sorry,” you said, “but I can’t make it today or tomorrow. And Wednesday there’s an all-night party at home, and Christmas Day we’re going out to Dick’s place on Long Island.”

“All right,” came her drowsy voice.

“I’m sorry about Christmas — I don’t know what you’ll do, all alone—”

“Oh it will be all right. Perhaps Grace and I will do something.”

Christmas morning, not having got to bed till after five, you turned out sleepily at eleven in response to the summons you had told Allen to give you, and hurriedly bathed and dressed and had orange juice and coffee. You were not expected at Dick’s until three and could drive it easily in two hours. Leaving a message for Erma that you would be back in time to leave at one o’clock, you left the house and took a taxi to Eighty-fifth Street. You hadn’t seen Millicent for three days. This was Christmas Day and she was all alone.

The present was in a large package beside you on the seat; you had been glad to get it out of the house. For Erma had unfortunately seen you bring it home the preceding afternoon; you had evaded her curiosity, which would have been considerably increased had she known that it contained a woman’s fur coat.

You had seen them so rarely in the daytime that the street and house seemed unfamiliar. Asking the taxi-driver to wait, for you expected to stay only a few minutes, and taking the bulky package under your arm, you ran up the stoop and up the two flights of stairs and let yourself in. The room was empty; you glanced around, called, “Hello, Merry Christmas” and, leaving the package on a chair, started for the passage leading to the rear room. You heard nothing, but all at once there she was, in her nightgown and bare feet, confronting you at the entrance to the passage.

“Merry Christmas,” she said, smiling. It was the smile that betrayed her; you had never seen her try so hard to smile. You continued straight ahead, as if to go with her or past her to the bedroom.

“Don’t go in there,” she said, putting out her hand. “Grace is still in bed.”

You grasped her by the arm and brushed past her, took two steps down the passage. From there you could see that there certainly was someone in your bed, against the right wall, hidden under the covers. A shifting of your glance showed you, on the floor at the bed’s foot, a pair of shoes that were assuredly not Grace’s; and, thrown across the chair by the dressing-table, a shirt and a pair of trousers. You took another step forward, then wheeled sharply and returned to the front room.

“If you had telephoned—” she began in a slow and quiet voice.

“Shut up!” you said. You were feeling nothing whatever about her; your sick rage was for your place. The temple, not the priestess, was violated.