Brett Halliday - The Uncomplaining Corpses

When Leora Thrip stopped talking, Shayne waited patiently for her to begin again. He gave his entire attention to lighting a fresh cigarette. Phyllis shifted her position, crossed her knees, rested an elbow on them and cupped her chin in her hand. Her eyes were a little wetter, enhancing the pity in their depths. The silence was becoming embarrassing. Shayne took up his teacup in both hands, took a deep sip. Over the rim of the cup he saw the woman’s hands relax and lie limp in her lap, and she continued:

“I’ve tried not to blame Arnold during the years we’ve been married. I’ve stifled the bitterness I couldn’t help feeling. I won’t say he doesn’t love me-in his way. It’s difficult to tell about a man who doesn’t-who is impotent. I was young when I married him. Whatever happened to him was not his fault, for he was the father of two children when I married him. I wanted to mother them, but they’ve hated me since the day I came into their home.

“Arnold loves me in so far as he’s capable. He’s too passive for hate, but from the first he has resented my having all the money I wanted of my own, and he has resented the terms of my father’s estate. My father’s will positively forbade the turning over of my estate or money to the man I married. I couldn’t have helped Arnold-even if I had wanted to.”

Phyllis took advantage of a brief pause in the woman’s story and turned on the dim light of a lamp in a far corner of the room. She dragged her chair a little closer to Shayne’s when she came back. Shayne moved heavily, sat up with both hands gripping the chair arms. He started to speak, but sank back again when Leora Thrip shuddered and said:

“Arnold Thrip is a good man.” There was an unmistakable emphasis of repugnance on the adjective. “I believe more good men have sent women’s souls to hell than all the criminals in existence.” Her eyes were raised defiantly, nickering from Shayne to Phyllis.

“Why, it would be better if he beat you occasionally,” Phyllis burst out impulsively, and when her words fell upon heavy silence, she added hastily, “I mean if he were normal-and all.”

The sun was sinking and darkness coming on. A humid breeze poured in from the east windows. Clouds were banked against the sky. Mrs. Thrip stared out the window for a moment, then resumed her story briskly:

“It all began three years ago, when I was thirty-nine. Thirty-nine wasted years behind me and nothing before me.”

During the brief pause in which Mrs. Thrip apparently carefully considered the continuity of her story, Shayne glanced aside at Phyllis. Her eyes were very bright. Shayne grinned and Mrs. Thrip said:

“I met Carl Meldrum in Atlantic City at a house party. Carl’s first gesture was-well, he touched my hair as if he thought it beautiful. After that he-he flattered me-made love to me. I accepted his attentions gratefully and I felt innocent of any wrongdoing. What Carl wanted of me was something that Arnold had never wanted. Something he hadn’t-well, the power to possess. I couldn’t feel any guilt over the thought of giving Carl what Arnold neither wanted nor had the-” She caught her lip as if conscious of the repetition.

Shayne straightened. Phyllis reached her hand out and rested it on his knobby knee. He put his big hand over hers and squeezed it.

“Carl was fascinating in so many little ways. He made me feel young again. I was swept off my feet. There was so little time left for love.”

For an instant her face was transformed into a miracle of youthfulness. She lowered her eyes shyly when a flush spread over her cheeks. Then her mouth drooped and she went on in an undertone which Phyllis and Shayne strained forward to hear:

“I went into the affair with Carl deliberately. I didn’t believe I could hurt Arnold. I respected Arnold, but-” She checked herself again. Her voice was sharper when she went on:

“But I soon discovered that Carl was evil. You-understand what I mean. What began as a glorious adventure ended in-in shame, before anything irrevocable had happened. I broke with Carl and did not see him until two months ago. Dorothy-our daughter-brought him to our home one evening and introduced him to her father and me. He’s living at the Palace Hotel on the beach.”

Mrs. Thrip rested her head on the back of the gold chair as if her story was finished. Shayne emptied his cup of cognac and looked into her tortured eyes. Phyllis got up quietly, turned the light up, and brought the bottle of cognac from the bar. She refilled Michael’s cup. Leora Thrip was staring out the window, her hands folded in her lap.

“A remarkable story,” Shayne said. “You were braver than any woman I know to have told it, Mrs. Thrip.”

“It was necessary to make you understand,” she said quietly. She straightened, caressed her purse with the palm of her hand. “But there’s more. Dorothy-that’s Arnold’s daughter-is twenty-five years old. I don’t understand her, though I’ve tried since Arnold and I were first married. How does a trapped animal feel? I was trapped. I’m not sure that Carl knew I was Dorothy’s stepmother before he met me at the house. He hadn’t known me as Mrs. Thrip in Atlantic City. But I think he knew. I think he had found out who I was and deliberately set himself to get his hands on Dorothy. You see, Carl hated me too, in the end, because I refused to be compromised and give him an advantage over me-and my money.

“Even though Dorothy has always hated me, I tried to save her from herself-and from Carl Meldrum. I warned her against him, telling her, of course, that my knowledge of his character had come to me indirectly. She-told me I was an old fool with sex repressions and had better read Freud.

“I decided to have it out with Carl. I begged him to leave Dorothy alone. He laughed at me and hinted that he might be persuaded to do so-for a price. I don’t know what he has told Dorothy about me. I’m sure he has told her something-probably a distorted account of our former meeting.

“Then the letters began coming. The letters my husband told you about this afternoon. Their vague hints were not clear enough to tell him what actually lay behind them, but I knew at once they were from Carl.

“Arnold wanted me to pay the money demanded in the letters. When I refused he was inclined to scoff at the entire matter. But I think he has become suspicious lately that there is more than he first thought. Perhaps Dorothy has told him something. I don’t know. I don’t know how much Dorothy knows. I don’t know how much my husband suspects.” She made a quick gesture of despair with her hands, clasped them together tightly.

“I am deathly afraid Carl will carry out the threats in the letters. He is subject to violent moods-and three nights ago I heard him stop outside my door as he went away from Dorothy’s room. He stood there a long time-then went away.” The high note of hysteria in her voice broke off suddenly. She was staring down at her empty teacup.

Phyllis refilled it without saying a word. Mrs. Thrip murmured, “Thank you,” and raised the cup to her lips.

Shayne frowned, marveling at the stuff some women are made of. After her long recital she was sipping tea as though she enjoyed it, as though she had come for nothing more important! He took a gulp of cognac from his own cup and asked, “Did Carl Meldrum really love you in the beginning?”

“I think he did. I-am afraid he still wants me, in one way anyhow-perhaps because I refused what he wanted most.” Red came up in her cheeks, but she looked at Shayne levelly.

“Yet you think you’re in danger from him?”

“Yes. Oh, yes, I’m sure of it. You don’t know Carl Meldrum, Mr. Shayne. You wouldn’t understand him. No normal man could. He has a twisted mind. He would enjoy hurting the person he loves. You can see the daily torment I live in-and I know it is a source of exquisite pleasure for him to see me writhe when he looks at me with that smile of secrecy in the presence of my family. I must have help, Mr. Shayne. I–I’m afraid to go to sleep at night.”