Рекс Стаут - How Like a God

“How far are we?” said Erma. “I’m getting tired. Come along to Scotland and we’ll ride around on ponies — we’re too old to walk.”

You were conscious of no particular emotion, except curiosity. It was not conceivable that Dick — and yet he had married Mary Alaire Carew Bellowes. This was rich— Oh this was juicy!

The next day was Saturday and Dick didn’t come in. In the evening you went to Eighty-fifth Street early, before dinner, and after you had glanced through the evening paper you found an opportunity to say casually, with your eye on her face:

“Have you seen Dick since that day at the office?”

She displayed not the slightest change of expression.

“Dick? You mean Mr. Carr?”

“Yes, I mean Dick Carr. Have you seen him?”

“Why yes, we saw him that evening at the theatre, don’t you remember?”

“No. It wasn’t me. You were probably with Mr. Peft or Mr. Gowan or Mr. Rockefeller.”

She chuckled. “I remember now, it was Grace. She thought he was very good-looking.”

“Well, have you seen him since? — Oh what’s the use. I just wondered how you would handle it. I saw you and Dick in a taxicab on Fifth Avenue last evening. I suppose you were on your way here?” you sneered, trying not to.

She was standing the way she so often does, her arms hanging at her sides, her head languidly erect. “I’m sorry you saw us,” she said. “I didn’t want you to know until it was all done.”

“Really!” You put the paper down and stared at her. “Really!”

“I think he is going to give me a lot of money,” she went on. “I’ve only seen him twice, and we don’t do anything you wouldn’t like. Even if I would he wouldn’t want to. He said he wouldn’t. He used to give me money a long time ago — when I knew you. He’s just sorry for me, and he’s so rich...”

“I thought you didn’t care for money.”

“I didn’t say that. I said I didn’t want money from you. I’d take all I could get from him. I think he’s going to give me one hundred thousand dollars. He says I could live on the interest.”

“Where were you going last night?”

“We ate dinner at a restaurant downtown to talk it over, and he was bringing me home. He didn’t come upstairs though.”

“What restaurant?”

“Why, I didn’t notice. He took me.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“At the corner of Broadway and Fulton Street.”

You got to your feet, shoved your hands into your pockets, and walked to the window and back again.

“I don’t believe a word of it,” you said.

She didn’t reply; but after a long pause, seeing that you weren’t going to speak again, she said, “It’s all true. I wouldn’t lie to you about Mr. Carr.”

Always before that, in your occasional conversations about him, she had called him Dick.

Of course, you got nothing more out of her. Late that night, walking home, as you often did, you considered the amazing fact that, while you might not have been greatly affected by an admission from her that Dick was sharing her favors with you, you were furiously humiliated by the idea of his making a princely gift that would mean financial independence for her.

Did you know that Dick had been here, in the apartment? No, you don’t know it even now for a certainty, though for a while you thought you did, that evening you found the inscription on the statue. That was June, late in June, just before Erma sailed for Scotland. You had been here before dinner, and for an hour or two afterward, before you noticed it; you saw it when you went over to take a book from the table. There it was, printed in big black sprawling letters on the rough unpolished marble of the column: BATTLING BILL.

“Who did that?” you demanded.

“I did, this morning, I just happened to think of it,” she replied.

You approached her chair. “Why?”

“One of the girls downstairs that’s studying art gave me the crayon. She said it was art crayon. I guess that’s what made me think of it, I wanted to use it on something.”

Still you thought it must have been Dick; she didn’t have wit enough. Was it Dick, had he been here? Probably; but just as probably not. There’s no telling—

With that trivial episode something seemed to break. You knew you must do something. Finally and inescapably you must do something. Go to Scotland with Erma? Huh! Go to Paul, in Rome; he was your son, tell him so; what was a son for? Bury yourself in his life — sure. It didn’t take long to dispose of that.

All right, but you must do something...

You were afraid to tell Millicent you were going to leave her and never see her again, afraid of the unconcerned disbelief you knew you would see in her face. You told her merely that you were going away alone and didn’t know when you would be back, but she must have remarked that your manner of saying it was odd. When you told Dick, briefly, that you needed a change and were leaving for an indefinite period he didn’t seem surprised, but was considerably concerned; and you didn’t even write to Jane, who was at the seashore with the children. Even if you had wanted to you couldn’t have replied definitely to Dick’s anxious questions, for beyond the first step you had no plans.

One evening around the middle of July you went to the Pennsylvania Station and got on a westbound train. You were running away, a beaten coward, but that didn’t trouble you. Where you going and what were you going to do? You were going — from nothing into nothing. You were running away from what would never be left behind — it was there with you, tenaciously and eternally; it was buried in your heart, in your flesh and bones.

There was no imaginable way out. You sat there in the train, ashamed and afraid, wondering in sober earnest if you were going mad.

The cat yowled again, and in the silence that followed he heard again the plop of the water dropping into the sink, as he stood in the middle of the hall under the dim wall light. Through force of habit rather than necessity he stood close under the light and looked at the key in his hand to make sure that it was the one with the two large teeth at the end, the other was for the street door downstairs. A sound came from the front room, the muffled sound of a chair being dragged across a rug; and he thought, she’s pulling it closer to the table, to read; that’s good, she’ll be sitting down.

He thought, what do you mean that’s good. What’s the difference? Go on in...

Go on in. Yes, she’ll be sitting down, and you’ll take off your coat and hat, and she’ll say, “You’re late, did you remember to bring some candy?” and you won’t answer, you’ll stand and look at her and presently say, “Mil, this time I’m going to get the truth out of you.”

In a vague sort of way that’s what you thought you’d say, and didn’t, the night you returned from your flight. She was there, alone, in the purple negligee, sewing on buttons and drinking lemonade.

“Hello,” she said, “you should have sent me a telegram, I might not have been here.”

That was two months ago, two months to a day. By the following morning nothing seemed to have changed; instead of ten weeks you might have been gone overnight. Yet there was a change. You couldn’t have put it into words, not indeed feeling it, except as a vague sense of a concluded fate. Hope was gone, and with it irony.

Another winter; in a month it will be Christmas again. You’d better get her another fur coat and bring it Christmas morning. You will at that. If you’re here. Erma says you look like hell and that you’ve got a disposition like the camel she rode that time at Ghardaia. She says you ought to go abroad for a year. Why not? Dick has mentioned it too, three or four times, though he seems to be embarrassed about it. Is he trying to get you out of the way? Not likely; that’s not like him. You should ask him about it, straight, and then you’d know; you should have asked him this morning, when he came in your office and then didn’t seem to know what he’d come for. He said something about Jane’s good judgment. Does Jane know?