Irving Wallace - The Prize

‘It’s not me-it’s not me-’

‘Will you deny what happened on the terrace?’

‘That’s true-and I’ll never forgive him-never-’

‘And the rest is true, too, and you know it,’ said Leah relentlessly, ‘and I know it, and I’ll believe it till the day I die.’

‘It’s still a lie! No man has ever touched me.’

‘Please. We’re not children.’

‘You are, with your foul mind. I’m not. If he said what he said-it’s true about the kissing-but if he said the other also, it could have been some other woman he’s having an affair with-it could be any of a thousand-’

‘It’s you, Emily Stratman.’

‘Believe what you want to, I don’t give a damn!’ Emily leaped to her feet, distraught and beyond restraint. ‘Now get out of here-get out of my room. What do I care what is in your sick mind?’

Leah rose slowly, the edges of her thin lips showing exultancy. ‘Of course, I shall leave. But first you’re going to hear why I came here at all.’

‘I don’t want to know! Get out!’

‘You’re going to know, and I’m going to tell you. I’ve watched you from the day we arrived here, watched you set your cap for my brother-in-law. I’m a woman, and I can tell when a woman makes up her mind-sets her sights-a handsome widower, tall, fascinating, free-a rich and famous author-a Nobel winner-well, why not? And how best to get him, this widower-the easy way, the way all crafty women trap and catch naïve men-by getting him below the belt, by giving their immoral, unclean bodies-’

Emily moaned at the shame of it, and began to sob piteously, eyes shut, shoulders shaking.

‘-and so you think you have him, but I’ll tell you what you have, Emily Stratman. If you want the truth or not, I’m going to tell you, and if you don’t believe me you can ask him. You’ve got a murderer, yes, a murderer-a man who killed his wife, my sister-because he was a drunkard. Did you know that? I bet he didn’t tell you that in bed. Ask him-ask him any time, see what he says. He killed Harriet. And that’s not all. He lives like a pig. He is a pig. He’s an alcoholic, drunk from morning to night, disgusting, every day drunk, every day and Sundays, drunk until he passes out. And as for being a writer? Ha! He’s a fake, a hoax, and everyone in Miller’s Dam knows it, but they don’t know it in Stockholm, and you can bet your right arm Andrew’s not telling them. He hasn’t written a word in three years, and he never will again. And he hasn’t got money, either. He’s got nothing but mortgages and debts, and when the prize money pays for those, he’ll be broke and drunk again. And sex-do you want to know about sex? Ask him about me, Leah Decker, ask him about when he was naked and I was naked, the two of us in his bed-see if he denies that either.’

Emily had stumbled to the chair, and sunk down into it, head in her arms, her body heaving, her sobs wretched. Leah regarded her without pity, and stalked towards her.

‘Why do I tell you all this?’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you why-because I’m all he has, and he’s all I have-because even though he killed my sister, even though he’s a wasted drunk, even though he hasn’t done a day’s work in years, even though he’s behaving disreputably every night in Stockholm-he’s still my charge, and I’m his guardian. He’s my responsibility and I’ve devoted my last three years to him, and I’ll devote the rest of my life if I have to, because it’s what my sister would want, and I loved her in life, and I love her in death. When he marries, it’ll be to me, if I’ll have him, and I’ll do it for my sister. But I’m not letting him-not now when he’s accomplished something, and even though he’ll never accomplish another thing-I’m not letting him throw himself away on some foreign Nazi chippy.’

She bent over Emily, shouting into her ear. ‘Do you hear me? If it is over my dead body-you are not going to get him!’

Slowly, Emily turned in the chair, hair tangled, eyes dulled, cheeks tear-blotched, gasping for breath, and then at last, she choked out her words.

‘I don’t want him-or anyone-no one… Please leave me alone-please-please-’

Leah Decker straightened to full height. She could leave now, and she left.

When Andrew Craig, dressed for the evening, buoyant with anticipation, arrived at the door of the Stratman suite, it was a few minutes after seven o’clock. He rapped, waiting to hear Emily’s quick step, but instead the door opened immediately, and there was Max Stratman buttoning his thick overcoat with his free hand.

‘ Ach , Mr. Craig-’

There was neither cordiality nor hostility in Stratman’s demeanour, only sadness, as if he had aged too much overnight. He did not invite Craig inside, which Craig thought was surprising, but Craig wrote this off as an oversight due to self-absorption.

Craig crossed the threshold. Stratman avoided his eyes and stuffed his woollen scarf inside his coat.

‘I should have telephoned you,’ he muttered. ‘Emily asked me to telephone you. She cannot go to dinner.’

‘Why not? What’s the matter?’

‘Since I have come back, she is lying on her bed in the dark room. She says she has a headache and wants to rest. I do not like the way she looks, but she has no fever.’

Perplexed, Craig scratched his forehead. ‘I wonder what-May I see her?’

‘She will not see you. What has happened, Mr. Craig? Did you two quarrel?’

‘Of course not. I haven’t seen her all day.’

Stratman lifted his shoulders and then dropped them, as if to surrender the mystery as unsolved. ‘Then I give up. She will not have a doctor, and I do not think she needs one. She will not even have me around. “Go out and have dinner, Uncle Max. I want to be by myself.” So I go out to dinner and let her be by herself.’

‘Well, I’d like to know what’s the matter,’ said Craig. ‘I’m going in to see her anyway.’

‘Officially, no admittance. But if unofficially someone goes to her, what can I do? I look the other way. Have success, Mr. Craig, but do not aggravate her.’

‘Why should I? Of course not. You can trust me.’

He waited until Max Stratman had gone, and then he tried to imagine what had gone wrong, and could think of nothing. He went into the sitting-room, sailed his hat towards the sofa, yanked off his overcoat and dropped it on a chair, and opened the bedroom door.

He had expected it to be entirely dark inside, but it was not. The lamp beside the bed, which gave off a poor jaundiced-looking light, made visible only a portion of the bed and only a shoulder and arm that belonged to Emily. She was in the shadow of the light, and when Craig advanced to the foot of the bed, he could see that she had propped up a pillow and was settled back against it. She was fully clothed, except for her shoes, and her arms were folded across her bosom and her legs crossed before her. She seemed to be staring straight ahead of her, at some fixed point on the wall, and her eyes did not shift to Craig when he came into her field of vision. In no way did she acknowledge him.

He studied her delicate face, and it had the appearance of fragile chinaware accidentally broken and recently repaired.

‘Emily-’ he said.

She neither looked at him nor spoke to him.

‘-your uncle said you weren’t well and couldn’t come to dinner.’

‘I heard,’ she said listlessly, and still did not acknowledge him.

‘He said you wouldn’t even see me. If you’re not sick, it makes no sense. Has something happened?’

There was a movement of her head, and she acknowledged his concern at last. ‘I’m too tired to talk to you. Some other year, maybe. I’d prefer to be alone.’

He did not like the hurt flatness of her voice. ‘I’m not leaving you alone, Emily, until I find out what’s wrong.’