Реймонд Маршалл - The Paw in the Bottle

Benton sat down.

‘She liked coming here,’ he said, and looked up into the black Italian eyes. ‘No other place gave her more pleasure.’

Tie would have liked to have taken Segetti into his confidence; to have told him how lonely he was and that the grill-room was full of memories for him. But there was a fatal quality in Benton that made people dislike him. He saw now dislike in Segetti’s eyes, and a faint tinge of red rose out of his collar and flooded his face.

‘To hell with him!’ he thought, furious with himself. ‘I don’t want his pity.’

He ordered smoked salmon, which he didn’t eat, and a bottle of Blanche’s favourite brandy. He sat at the table brooding, unaware now of the curious glances that were shot at him. The brandy in the bottle sank rapidly. He knew he was getting a little drunk, but he didn’t care. The brandy released the bitter, hard core in him that stifled him.

Then suddenly he saw Wesley and Julie come in. He recognized Wesley immediately by the black-lensed glasses and the queer, half-hesitant walk. Julie he didn’t recognize. He saw only a good-looking girl in a flame-coloured evening gown, her glossy dark hair dressed to her shoulders. Round her white throat was a string of glittering diamonds. For a moment or so he paid her no attention. He stared at Wesley, scarcely believing his eyes. How could he do such a thing? he asked himself. How could he come with a woman to a public restaurant not five days after his wife had been brutally murdered? Was this why he hadn’t come to the factory? Had he suddenly gone off the rails and was living with this woman? Who was she?

He shifted his bloodshot eyes to stare at Julie. Where had he seen her before? Then suddenly he stiffened, leaned forward, his pale lips tightened. Julie! Blanche’s maid! He passed a hot, dry hand across his eyes, then stared again. There could be no doubt about it, although he scarcely knew her in the gown which he now thought he recognized. Blanche had had a gown like that. He remembered it well: the gown she had worn the night she had given herself to him for the first time: a gown that conjured up a complete picture of their association together. Surely it was not the same gown, he thought, sick with horror. And those diamonds! They were Blanche’s! Wesley had decked this servant in Blanche’s things! To Benton it was an unforgivable blasphemy against Blanche. He felt hot blood rush to his head. The lights of the restaurant seemed to grow dim and a suffocating band encircled his throat. He was on his feet now, a choking, murderous rage consuming him.

He became vaguely aware that someone was holding him by the arm and a soothing voice was asking if he were unwell. He threw off the restraining hand with an ugly oath and walked stiff-legged, his face white and twitching, his eyes burning, to Wesley’s table.

A sudden hush fell on the restaurant. People turned in their chairs to look at him. They watched him pause at Wesley’s table and point with a quivering finger at Julie.

‘Tell that dirty little bitch to take off your wife’s dress!’ Benton said in a cracked, hysterical voice. ‘How dare you, you damned housemaid!’

His hand shot out and made a grab at the diamond necklace but Julie struck his hand away and screamed. Wesley jumped to his feet. A young Army officer, dining at the next table, sprang forward and hit Benton savagely across his mouth with the back of his hand, sending him reeling back.

‘You drunken swine!’ the officer cried excitedly.

Two waiters had come up swiftly. They caught hold of Benton’s arms. Segetti, mentally wringing his hands, waved them to take Benton away. They began to drag him to the door.

‘Leave me alone!’ Benton shouted, struggling furiously. ‘Take your hands off me!’ Then his voice broke and he began to sob: great rasping sobs that sent a chill through those who heard him. He went limply now, muttering and sobbing, supported by the two embarrassed waiters. The glass doors swung behind him.

During the days that followed Blanche’s death, Julie achieved an ambition that had tormented her from early childhood. At last she had as much money as she wanted, a flat in the West End and a mink coat. It was unbelievable. If it hadn’t been for Wesley she would have been beside herself with joy. But Wesley worried her.

Julie considered all men were alike. They were different only in their approach. As far as she was concerned they wanted only one thing. She found Wesley attractive, and when he insisted on staying with her in the new flat she was prepared to accept him as a lover. But it came as a shock to her pride when Wesley made no attempt nor showed any desire to be intimate with her. He was friendly and kind but impersonal, and it worried her. With other men she had always known where she was and could anticipate each move, but with Wesley she was mystified and frustrated, and as the days passed she began to hate him, suspecting that he could not forget that she was his wife’s maid and that was the reason why he was so cold to her.

To punish him she demanded expensive presents, but instead of being annoyed he seemed pleased and urged her to greater extravagance. He took her to Asprey’s in New Bond Street and bought her a gold and enamelled toilet set. He bought her a gold cigarette-case and lighter. He took her to the Savoy for lunch, the Berkeley to dinner and to Ciro’s to dance. They went riding in the Row. They went to cinemas and theatres. But all the time she was aware of this impersonal barrier between them, and raged against it.

Since the night of the murder she hadn’t had a moment to think of Harry Gleb. Wesley saw to that. Her days and nights were fully occupied in reckless spending, visits to night clubs, theatres and cinemas. There was no radio in that flat and no newspapers were delivered. She had no means of learning of Harry’s remand or that Mrs. French and Dana hadn’t yet been caught. She was kept so busy that she didn’t even suspect that to all intents and purposes she was a prisoner. No news of the outside world reached her. No one telephoned nor wrote to her. Wesley never left her for a moment.

She was quick to realize, however, that Wesley was willing to give her anything she wanted, and for some days now she had been hankering after Blanche’s wardrobe.

She decided it was time to broach the subject.

Before doing so she took care to make herself look as lovely as she knew how. She was in pyjamas and a polka-spotted red and white silk dressing-gown that Wesley had given her the day before. She looked attractive and she knew it, but Wesley was unmoved. He sat in an arm-chair before the fire and studied her without interest.

‘What particular mischief are you up to now?’

She smiled and made to sit on his lap but he pushed her gently away.

‘Go and stand by the fire where I can see you.’

He was exasperating, she thought, but it was no use letting him see how angry he made her.

‘I want some clothes,’ she began. A cigarette hung from her carefully painted lips and she had her hands in her pockets, drawing the thin silk tight across her small buttocks. She squinted a little as the smoke of the cigarette drifted past her nose and she surveyed Wesley with calculating shrewdness.

‘But surely you have enough clothes for the present. Aren’t you ever contented, Julie? As soon as you have one thing you want something else.’

‘I don’t like the clothes you’ve bought me. I’ve been thinking. There are all those clothes at the flat. They fit me. Why shouldn’t I make use of them?’

Wesley stared at her fixedly. She expected opposition and was braced for it.

‘They are Blanche’s clothes.’

‘She doesn’t need them now; I do.’