Флетчер Флора - Wake Up With a Stranger

It was two-thirty when Daniels came. She was aware at once that he was not at all what she would have imagined if she had imagined anything. He was slender, almost slight, dressed neatly in a gray suit with which he wore a white shirt and maroon knit tie and black shoes, and in the rich simplicity of the shop he seemed neither out of place nor ill at ease. He sat down with motion that seemed almost practiced, a suggestion of exceptional coordination and of strength in excess of its first impression. His hair was light brown, cut close to his head, and his eyes were brown and as light as his hair, having at times a yellowish cast.

“I’m afraid I upset you on the telephone this morning, Miss Buchanan,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“Not at all,” she said.

“Nevertheless, it must have been a shock to learn of Mr. Burns’ death in such a manner.”

“It was a shock, but it was not entirely unexpected. We all knew that he had a heart condition.”

“That’s been established. Two previous attacks, I believe.”

“I think so. He had one since I became associated with him.”

“I see. Well, it’s now certain that he died of another attack. Early Sunday morning, as nearly as it can be fixed. It’s probable that he simply dropped over without ever knowing what happened to him.”

“If it was necessary for him to die, I’m glad that it was that way.”

“Yes, I suppose it’s easier if it happens quickly. Sometimes I wonder, though, if I wouldn’t like to have a little time to die in. A little time at the end, I mean, to try to put things together and make some kind of sense of them.” The thin light of his smile flared briefly and went out. “Just an odd notion, of course.”

She thought herself that it was odd, especially coming from him, from whom she would not have expected it. It suggested that he had thought seriously about the matter and had developed already, though he was still young, a kind of prospectus for dying. Looking at him with an interest that was more than what he had originally evoked because of his role in her own situation, she wondered what kind of man he was — what books he read, what music he listened to, how and to whom he might make love.

When she made no response to his thoughts on dying, he said, “Did you know Mr. Burns well, Miss Buchanan?”

“Quite well, I think. I worked with him closely and enjoyed his confidence, if that’s what you mean.”

“You referred to yourself as his assistant. What does that mean, precisely?”

“I don’t know that it means anything very precise. I design gowns which are sold in this shop, and I managed the business when he was recovering from his second heart attack.”

“That’s certainly indicative of confidence, I’d say. Did you know him socially as well?”

“We occasionally had dinner together.”

“Nothing more than that?”

“I’m not quite sure what you are trying to get at. Are you making an implication I should resent?”

“I hope not. I’d only like to know if he ever spoke to you about his personal life.”

“It’s very likely, isn’t it? It would hardly have been natural if he hadn’t. Only a minute or two ago you were telling me yourself, though I’ve just met you, your personal feelings about dying.”

“So I was.” He paused and stared down at his feet for a moment. “Let me put it this way. Did Mr. Burns give the impression of being a happy man?”

“Happy? I don’t think I could say. I don’t even think I know what happiness is.”

“I’m very certain that I don’t, so far as that goes, but you’re equivocating, Miss Buchanan. Taking happiness to be merely a reasonably good adjustment to life, would you be willing to say that he was happy?”

“He was successful and adjusted and, if you insist on your term, I suppose he was happy.”

“From Mr. Burns’ housekeeper this morning, I gathered that his marriage was not successful. Is that so?”

“Are you prepared to credit the gossip of a cleaning woman about something like that?”

“Not at all. That’s why I’m asking for your opinion.”

“All right. His marriage was not successful, but it did not disturb him. He had reached a point where it no longer meant anything to him, one way or another. If you are thinking that he might have committed suicide because of it, you are certainly mistaken.”

“I don’t think he committed suicide. When I told you it was established that he died of a heart attack, I was telling you the truth.”

“In that case, why are you still concerned as a policeman? Why am I compelled to answer your questions?”

“You are not compelled to answer. You are not compelled to talk to me at all. Frankly, there is something in this that disturbs me, and I hope you will answer a few more questions voluntarily in order to help me clarify it for myself.”

“What is it that disturbs you?”

“Are you willing, then, to help?”

“I can’t think what could possibly concern you in Aaron’s death, since it’s established as natural, but I’ll help you if I can.”

“Thank you. Many men, when their marriages turn out badly, look for satisfaction elsewhere. With other women, or another woman. Did Mr. Burns do that?”

“I don’t think I’ll answer that question.”

“Your refusal to answer indicates that he did.”

“Nothing of the sort. It indicates that you are certainly prying into something that is none of your business.”

“Look, Miss Buchanan. I’m no moralist. At least I am not functioning as a moralist in this instance. Perhaps I had better tell you what I have in mind.”

“Perhaps you had.”

“All right. I strongly suspect that a woman spent the night, or part of it, with Mr. Burns. The night before his death. She may have left, of course, before his death, or she may not have, and I would like to know which way it was.”

“If she was there at all.”

“Of course. If she was there at all.”

“Why do you think she may have been?”

“It’s usually pretty apparent when two people have slept in a bed.”

“No cigarettes with lipstick on them?”

“No, nothing so obvious.” He smiled thinly. “Are you being sarcastic, Miss Buchanan?”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. I am probably being a bore, so I don’t really blame you. As a matter of fact, however, the absence of lipstick-stained stubs is a point in itself. A kind of negative one. If other signs indicate a woman’s presence, the missing stubs would seem to suggest that she may have left after his death, since she took the trouble to dispose of them. Sudden death during an assignation, even natural death, would make a nasty mess that any woman would prefer to avoid.”

“Perhaps she didn’t smoke. Perhaps she simply didn’t want the housekeeper to know she’d been there. Perhaps Aaron disposed of them after she was gone. If she was ever there.”

“You needn’t restate the condition every time, Miss Buchanan. It’s thoroughly understood. All the points you make are possible, of course, and you are clever to think of them so quickly. It took me a while longer. Now all I have is a bed which appears to have been slept in by two people.” He took a package of cigarettes from his pocket and, leaning forward, extended it toward her. “Do you smoke?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She took a cigarette and accepted his light and drew smoke deeply into her lungs. He thought, watching her, that she was a very attractive and clever young woman, to say nothing of being an extremely self-possessed one. She was, in fact, the very kind of young woman that he himself would like to have. When she held out the cigarette so that he could see clearly the vivid stain on the end that had been between her lips, he looked at it and up at her and smiled again his thin smile.