Cornell Woolrich - Nightwebs (A Collection of Stories)

He went ahead with his drink.

“Why? Gil, look at me. Why?”

He wouldn’t answer.

She reeled over to him, like someone about to pass out; her head fell against his chest. “D’you love me?”

“That’s the one thing in my life that’s on the level.”

“Then you’ve got to tell me. I’ve got to know. Did you do anything to him last night? ”

She buried her face against him, waiting. Silence.

“I can take it. I’ll stick with you. I’ll string along. But I’ve got to know, one way or the other.” She looked up. She began to shake him despairingly by the shoulders. “Gil, why don’t you answer me? Don’t stand there— That’s why you didn’t pay Verona’s debt, isn’t it? Because you’re afraid to have it known now that you have money on you — after he was here.”

“Yes, I am afraid,” he breathed almost inaudibly.

“Then you—” She sagged against him; he had to catch her under the arms or she would have gone down.

“No, wait. Pull yourself together a minute. Here, swallow this. Now... steady, hold onto the table. Yes, I did do something. I know what you’re thinking. No, not that. It’s bad enough, though. I’m worried. Stick with me, Jackie. I don’t want to get in trouble. I met him coming out of the house Saturday, wanting to cash that pin-money check, and I drove him in, like I told you. The bank was closed for the half day, of course, and I suggested getting it cashed at the hotel. I told him they knew me and I could get it done easier than he could, so I took it in for him and he waited outside in the car.

“I didn’t mean to put one over on him; it all came up sort of sudden. I knew I didn’t have a chance at that hotel desk, not even if the check had been signed by a millionaire, and I didn’t want him to come in with me and see them turn me down. Jack McGovern happened to come through the lobby just as I walked in, and on the spur of the moment I borrowed twenty-five from him as a personal loan without giving him the check. I didn’t mean anything by it. It was just that I was embarrassed to let him know I couldn’t even accommodate one of my own house guests for a measly twenty-five. You know how they talk around here. I went out and gave the twenty-five to Burroughs, and I kept the endorsed check in my pocket. I intended tearing it up, but I couldn’t very well do it in front of him. Then later I forgot about it.

“I tackled him last night after you went to bed, and he didn’t come through. He got crabby, caught on we’d just played him for a sucker, refused to finish out the visit, insisted on taking the next train back. I drove him in; I couldn’t very well let him walk at that hour. He got out at the station and I came on back without waiting.

“I started to do a slow burn. There I was, not only no better off than before we asked him out, but even more in the red, on account of the expense of the big house party we threw to impress him. Naturally I was sore, after all the false hopes we’d raised, after the way you’d put yourself out to be nice to him. I couldn’t sleep all night, stayed down here drinking and pacing back and forth, half nuts with worry. And then sometime after daylight I happened to stick my hand in my pocket for something and suddenly turned up his twenty-five-dollar endorsed check.

“It was a crazy thing to do, but I didn’t stop to think. I lifted it, added two zips to the figures, got in the car then and there, and drove all the way in to town. I cashed it at his own bank the minute the doors opened at nine. I knew he had twenty times that much on tap at all times, so it wouldn’t hurt him any.”

“But, Gil, didn’t you know what would happen, didn’t you know what he could do to you?”

“Yeah, I did, but I guess I had a vague idea in the back of my mind that if it came to a showdown and he threatened to get nasty with me about it — well, there were a couple of times he got a little too affectionate with you; you told me so yourself — I could threaten to get just as nasty with him about that. You know how scared he is of that wife of his.”

“Gil,” was all she said, “Gil.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty low.”

“As long as it’s not the other. But then what’s become of him? Where did he go?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you see him get on the train?”

“No, I just left him there at the station and turned around and drove back without waiting.”

She hesitated a moment before speaking. Then she said slowly: “What I’ve just heard hasn’t exactly been pleasant, but I told you I could take it, and I can, and I have. And I think — I know — I can stand the other, the worse thing, too, if you tell it to me now, right away, and get it over with. But now’s the time. This is your last chance, Gil. Don’t let me find out later, because later — it may be different, I may not still be able to feel the same way about it. You didn’t kill Burroughs last night, did you?”

He breathed deeply. His eyes looked into hers. “I never killed anyone in my life. And now, are you with me?”

She raised her head defiantly. “To the bitter end.”

“Bitter.” He smiled ruefully. “I don’t like that word.”

His name was Ward, he said. She wondered if that was customary on their parts, to give their names like that instead of their official standing. She wasn’t familiar with their technique, had never been interviewed before. And of course, she would be alone in the house when he happened to drop in. Still, on second thought, that might be better. Gil might have given a — well, a misleading impression, been keyed up, on account of that check business. This was Tuesday, the day after Burroughs had last been seen.

Her caller spared her any of that business of flaunting a badge in front of Leona; that was another consoling thing. He must have just given his name to Leona, because Leona went right back to the kitchen instead of stalling around outside the room so she could hear. Just people that came to try to collect money didn’t interest her any more; the novelty had worn off long ago.

Jackie Blaine said: “Sit down, Mr. Ward. My husband’s gone in to town—”

“I know that.” It came out as flat as a sheet of onion-skin paper, but for a minute it made her a little uneasy; it sounded as though they were already watching Gil’s movements.

“If there’s anything I can do—”

“There always is, don’t you think?”

He didn’t look so coarse, so hard-bitten, as she’d always imagined those men did. He looked — well, no different from any number of other young fellows they’d entertained out here, whom she’d danced with, golfed with, and almost invariably found herself putting in their places, in some dimly lighted corner, before the week-end was over. She knew how to handle the type well. But then she’d never parried life-and-death with them before. And maybe he just looked the type.

He said: “Mr. Homer Burroughs was here at your house from Friday until some time late Sunday night or early Monday morning.” There wasn’t the rising inflection of interrogation at the end of it.

“He was.”

“When did you last see him?”

“My husband drove him to the station in time for—”

“That isn’t what I asked you, Mrs. Blaine.”

She didn’t like that; he was trying to differentiate between Gil and herself. They were together in this, sink or swim. She answered it his way. “I said good night to Mr. Burroughs at ten to one Monday morning. My husband remained downstairs with him. My husband drove him—”

He didn’t want that part of it. “Then 1 A.M. Monday was the last time you saw him. When you left him, who else was in the house with him besides your husband, anyone?”