Jean Backus - Ellery Queen. The Best of Suspense

I faded back into the doorway of a shop. Could it be possible she worked for my company? I had never seen her in the elevators or in the lobby. The company employed hundreds of people. It occupied the entire building. There were many divisions and sections. I suppose there were many people working there whom I didn’t know. That she should be one of them seemed a bad joke on me.

As she neared the bus stop, I saw that she carried a red umbrella. Had she worn red today because she knew it would rain and she wanted her costume to match her umbrella? Or had she an umbrella as well as scarf, shoes, and handbag to match every dress in her wardrobe?

Today’s red dress was tightly cinched with a red plastic belt. I had not noticed before how small her waist was, nor that she was very tall. Below the gleaming belt her haunches flared and filled the red cloth. The red shoes seemed even more hurtful than yesterday’s pink ones. I was impatient for the bus to appear.

At last it came, and she was among the first to get on. Have I said that the riders of this bus are extremely well-mannered? That among this small crowd of homeward-bound suburbanites, it is customary for the gentlemen to stand back and allow the ladies to board first? I consciously violated that rule. Pretending absorption in some deep mental problem, I elbowed my way to the door of the bus and chose a seat immediately behind her. There were a few shocked murmurs, but I ignored them. She was joined by the same woman who had shared her seat before.

It is truly amazing how much you can learn about a person simply by listening in on fragments of conversation. For instance, I learned that she was a widow.

“... when poor Raymond was alive...”

That she didn’t sleep well.

“... and those pills didn’t help a bit...”

That she lived with her invalid sister.

“... so I said, my sister needs that ramp for her wheel chair, so it’ll just have to stay...”

That she didn’t have a dog.

“... I’d like to, but she’s allergic to animal dander...”

And that she would be alone in the house over the weekend.

“... I have to take her back to the hospital on Saturday for another series of tests. It may take a week...”

And all the while I watched her red mouth swimming in the placid pudding of her face. Yes, she had changed her lipstick from pink to red. I noticed, too, that at close range her cheeks were covered with a fine down and there were patches of skin where the pores had coarsened. I wondered how she failed to notice my scrutiny, but she seemed oblivious.

About halfway home the rain started. It fell straight down at first, heavy blinding sheets of water. Lightning flickered on the hilltops and the streets were quickly swamped. The bus ground slowly on, its windshield wipers barely able to cope with the deluge. She scarcely noticed the storm, but continued chatting with her neighbor. Her voice, now that I was close enough to hear it, was jarring and nasal. She was so very different from my wife.

The rain had slackened off before we reached her stop, but it was still coming down in a fine slanting spray when we got off. She was safe beneath her red umbrella. I had no protection but my newspaper. It seemed ridiculous to hold it over my head. However I held it, the paper would be soaked before I got home. I tossed it into a trash can and followed her from the bus stop.

This time I followed quite close behind her. She was engrossed in managing her umbrella, her large red handbag, and a shopping bag from a downtown department store. (Had she shopped in that store today because its shopping bags were red?) Besides, it seemed to me that she was one of those semiconscious people, only becoming aware of others when they had a direct effect on herself. I had no meaning in her life.

I saw her go to the door of the green house, search in her red bag for a key. I passed by as she was struggling to close her umbrella, then heard the door slam shut as I walked on. By the time I reached the cocktail lounge I was drenched and shivering.

“Whiskey,” I said to the bartender and went straight to the men’s room. I toweled my head on the roller towel and then quite deliberately stood before the mirror. This time I did not look away, but examined my reflection closely as if by doing so I could force my features back into their usual aspect of gentleness and benevolence. I was able to manage a compromise — a mask of bland indifference.

A shot glass was waiting for me on the bar, with a water chaser. I drained it and gestured for another. Tonight I would not have the excuse of taking a walk on a fine evening.

“The bus was delayed. I got soaked, so I stopped for a drink.”

No use lying. My wife would smell the whiskey on my breath. When I left the cocktail lounge, I remembered to stop at the stationery store to buy another paper. The rain was only a fine mist now, but I tucked the paper under my jacket and went home.

After dinner, while my wife read the newspaper and I pretended to watch television, I thought about the woman on the bus. Why was it I never saw her in the mornings? Perhaps she took an earlier bus and had breakfast in a coffee shop downtown. Or maybe she took as late a bus as she could so as to spend more time with her invalid sister. How long had she been widowed? Did she have men friends? Did she perhaps go off on weekends with them? Did she have drawers full of underwear of many colors to match her dresses?

“Don’t you feel well? You look a bit off-color.”

“No, fine. I’m fine. I think I’ll go to bed.”

My wife had accepted my excuse, only frowned a little over my drinking, and had made me change out of my wet clothes.

“Would you like some hot tea with lemon?”

“Nothing. I’m just tired.”

The next evening was Friday. She wore brown, a sad color and one that made her look unhealthy. I’d had a bad day. The vice-president in charge of marketing had named my division as one suffering from antiquated methods, and I had been called on to justify my procedures. Business was bad all over and my results did not look good. Rumors flew in and out of cubicles all afternoon.

I still had not been able to find out where in the company she worked. I didn’t even know her name. When I followed her from the bus stop it was without the usual excitement, and my two drinks at the cocktail lounge seemed more a matter of habit than of need. I didn’t go into the men’s room. As I sat at the bar I thought about my retirement plans.

Years ago I had bought an old farmhouse on an isolated lake in the southeastern part of the state. We always spent our vacations there and many weekends, and I had tinkered it into passably modern condition. When I thought about the time when I would finally leave the company, it was always with the farmhouse in mind. There would be time to read — I had always promised myself that I would one day make up for my lack of a college education by reading all the world’s great literature. The fishing was good, and my wife could grow a vegetable garden.

When I got home I didn’t bother to make an excuse for my lateness. My wife didn’t demand any.

“Would you like to go to the farm this weekend?” she asked.

“No, I don’t think so. Maybe next week.”

On Saturday I took a walk. There didn’t seem to be anyone at home in the green house. No doubt she was with her sister at the hospital.

On Sunday I took the car. I drove past the house twice in the early afternoon. On my third circuit of the block I saw her coming down the drive with her hands full of gardening tools. She wore faded green slacks and a green smock. Her gardening gloves were green and her head was covered with a green scarf. I couldn’t see her shoes.

I parked the car around the corner and walked back. The street was deserted except for the two of us.