Джордж Хиггинс - The New Black Mask (No 4)

He grinned. Then, again becoming thoughtful, he raised another question.

“Why is your wife so opposed to divorce, d’you suppose? I know you’ll give her money as long as you have it to give, but—”

“Money doesn’t seem to have anything to do with it,” I said. “She was that way right from the beginning, when I didn’t have a cent and it didn’t look like I ever would have. I just don’t know.” I shook my head. “There was a little physical attraction between us at one time, very little. But that didn’t last, and we never had any other interests in common.”

“Well.” Claggett shrugged. “Bannerman was right about one thing. A woman doesn’t have to give a reason for not wanting a divorce.”

We talked about other matters for a few minutes, i.e., Mrs. Olmstead, my work for PXA, and the prospects for suing over the condemnation of my land. Then he went back to Bannerman again, wondering why the latter had caved in so quickly when he, Claggett, had threatened to call the Underwriters Bureau.

“Why didn’t he try to bluff it out, Britt? Just tell me to go ahead and check? He had nothing to lose by it, and I might have backed down.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Is it important?”

“We-el...” He hesitated, frowning. “Yes, I think it might be. And I think it bears on the reason for your wife’s not giving you a divorce. Don’t ask me why. It’s just a hunch. But...”

His voice died away. I looked at his troubled face, and again I felt that icy tingling at my spine — a warning of impending doom. And even as he was rising to leave, a pall seemed to descend on the decaying elegance of the ancient Rainstar mansion.

Claggett drove off toward town to get some money for my father-in-law, Bannerman following him in his rattletrap old vehicle. Kay came back into the house.

While she prepared dinner for the two of us, I cleaned up the mess Luther Bannerman had left and carried the dishes out into the kitchen. She glanced at me as I took clean silver and plates from the cupboard, asked if I was still mad at her. I said I never had been — I’d simply tried to set her straight on where we stood. Moreover, I said, I was grateful to her for the several jolts she had given my father-in-law.

She said that had been a pleasure. “But if you’re not mad, why do you look so funny, Britt? So kind of down-in-the-mouth?”

“Maybe it’s because of seeing him,” I said. “He always did depress me. On the other hand... ”

I left the sentence hanging, unable to explain why I felt as I did, the all-pervading gloom that had settled over me. Kay said she was sort of down-in-the-dumps herself, for some reason.

“Maybe it’s this dam old house,” she said. “Just staying inside here day after day. The ceilings are so high that you can hardly see them. The staircase goes up and up, and it’s always dark and shadowy. You feel like you’re climbing one of those mountains that are always covered with clouds. There are always a lot of funny noises, like someone was sneaking up behind you. And...”

I laughed, cutting her off. The house was home to me, and it had never struck me as being gloomy or depressing.

“We both need a good stiff drink,” I said. “Hold the dinner a few minutes, and I’ll do the honors.”

I couldn’t find any booze; Mrs. Olmstead apparently had finished it all off. But I dug up a bottle of pretty fair wine, and we had some before dinner and with it.

We ate and drank, and Kay asked how much Mrs. Olmstead had stolen from me. I said I would have to wait until tomorrow morning to find out.

“It really doesn’t bother me a hell of a lot,” I added. “If she hadn’t gotten it, my wife would have.”

“Oh, yes. She tore up the checks you sent your wife, didn’t she?”

“That’s right,” I said.

“Well, uh, look, Britt...” She paused delicately. “I’ve got some money saved. Quite a bit, actually. So if you’d like to—”

I said, “Thanks, I appreciate the offer. But I can get by all right.”

“Well, uh, yes. I suppose. But—” Another delicate pause. “How about your wife, Britt? How much do you think she’d want to give you a divorce?”

I told her to forget it. Connie had apparently made up her mind not to give me a divorce on any terms, and there was no use in discussing it.

“I don’t know why. Perhaps she has a reason, and I’m too stupid to see it. But—” I laughed suddenly, then quickly apologized. “I’m sorry, Kay. I just thought of a story my great-grandfather used to tell me. Would you care to hear it?”

“I’d love to,” she said, in a tone that gave the lie to her statement.

But I told it to her, anyway.

There was once a handsome young Indian chief who married a maiden from a neighboring tribe.

She was neither fair of figure or face, and her disposition was truly ugly. Never did she have a kind word to say to her husband. Never was he able to do anything that pleased her. She was simply a homely shrew, through and through. And the tribe’s other squaws and braves wondered why they remained together as husband and wife.

The days passed, and the months, and the years.

Finally, when the chief was a very old man, he died.

His wife laughed joyously at his funeral, having inherited his many ponies and buffalo hides and other such wealth. And this, his wealth, was her reason, of course, for marrying him and remaining with him for so many years.

Kay stared at me, frowning. I looked at her deadpan, and she shook her head bewilderedly.

“That’s the end of the story? What’s the point?”

“I just told you,” I said. “She married him and stuck with him for his dough. Or the Indian equivalent thereof.”

“But — but, dam it! Why did he marry her?”

“Because he was stupid,” I said. “His whole tribe was stupid.”

“Wha-aat?”

“Why, sure,” I said. “A lot of Indians are stupid. That’s why we wound up in the shape we’re in today.”

Kay jumped up and left the table.

I was sorry now that I had told her the story, but it hadn’t been a rib. My great-grandfather actually had told it to me, a bit of bitter fun-poking at Indians, their decline and fall. But there was wisdom in it for any race.

We all overlook the obvious.

Danger is so commonplace that we have become insensitive to it.

We wring the hand of Evil and are shocked at the loss of fingers.

I left the dining room, pausing in the hallway to glance into the kitchen. Kay was aware of me, I am sure, but she did not look up. So I went on down the hall to the vast reception area, crossed its gleaming parquet expanse, and started up the stairs.

It hadn’t occurred to me before, but what Kay had said was true. The upward climb was seemingly interminable and as shadowed as it was long. There were those strange sounds, also, like stealthy footsteps in pursuit, sounds where there should have been none. And, due to a trick of acoustics, no sounds where sounds should have been.

I reached the landing, breathing hard, almost leaping up the last several steps. I whirled around, tensed, heart pounding. But there was no one behind me. Nothing but shadows. Cautiously, I looked down over the brief balustrade that joined the top of the staircase to the wall of the landing.

The parquet floor below me was so distant that I would not have known that it was there had I not known that it was, so distant and so cloaked in darkness. I backed away hastily, feeling more than a little dizzy.

I went on to my room, cursing my runaway imagination. Calling down curses upon Kay for her unwitting planting of fear in my mind. Cops should know better than that, I thought. It didn’t bother cops to talk about darkness and shadows and funny noises, and people sneaking up behind other people. Cops were brave — which was not an adjective that could be applied to Britton Rainstar.