The Devil Loves Me

1

The organ blared, piped, and pealed, coaxing the bride to come into the aisle.

Here comes the bride, shouted the organ, stand by her side.

The ladies craned their necks delicately toward the back of the church and resumed their conversations.

“I fry mine in lard...”

“He’s not half good enough for you, I said...”

“Henry, sit up straight. This isn’t a sermon!”

The gentlemen tugged at their collars and thought, thank God it’s not me.

In the vestry the two elegant young men fumbled with their ascot ties and brushed off their pearl-gray spats.

“Nora’s late,” said the bridegroom.

“Weddings are sad...”

“Maybe she’s changed her mind.”

“... and uncivilized. I’d like a drink.”

“A drink would be fine.”

“I wonder if the minister keeps a little something in case a lady faints.”

“Very likely,” said the bridegroom.

“Let’s find a lady who’ll faint.”

“Too much trouble. You faint.”

“Might spoil my pants.”

The society editor of the Courier studied the church decorations with a blasé eye.

“Local Girl Plights Troth,” she wrote. “One of the most beautiful weddings of the autumn season took place this morning when Miss Nora Kathleen Shane, daughter of Mrs. Jennifer Shane and the late Mr. Patrick Shane, became the bride of Dr. Paul Richard Prye, of Detroit, son of the late Major and Mrs. George Prye. The bride looked beautiful in...”

“... you don’t chop the onion fine enough.”

“Henry, for God’s sake, if you can’t keep your eyes open...”

“Your life’ll be hell, I told her. You’ll see.”

The organ swelled again, desperately, it seemed, drowning the impatient little coughs and murmurings from the pews, the shifting of feet, and the rustle of silk. Stand by her side.

It was muted now, and doleful. Above it a high, thin wail came from the front of the church. It grew sharper, higher, now and then blending with the music. The organ stopped with a “Woooosh!” and the wail went on by itself.

At the sound of it the pews quickened into life. Striped pants clambered past blue taffeta. Mauve silk swooned and black crepe screamed.

Purple faille muttered triumphantly into the ear of agitated rose crepe: “What did I tell you, Jennifer? We should never have let Nora have anything to do with a man we know nothing about. A psychiatrist! Indeed! Is it any wonder I felt disaster in my bones?”

“Do be quiet, Aspasia,” Jennifer Shane said.

Mrs. Shane moved briskly into the aisle, a tall, stout, handsome woman with a confident smile and a general air of competence. She walked toward the vestibule, bestowing reassuring nods, holding her rose crepe off the floor with a black-gloved hand.

Miss Aspasia O’Shaughnessy leaned over and tapped her neighbor on the shoulder.

“I predicted this,” she said darkly.

The society editor of the Courier raised a bored brow. “You did? Well, well. Predicted what?”

“Disaster.”

“Really?”

“I frequently do.”

“I have an aunt like that,” said the society editor.

“I am an aunt.” Aspasia moved a little closer. “I am the brides aunt, as a matter of fact, her mother’s sister. I told Jennifer that nice girls don’t marry psychiatrists.”

“You’d be surprised what nice girls will marry,” said the society editor sadly. “This is my two-hundred-and-forty-ninth wedding and I should know.”

“Really.” Aspasia’s voice was cold, and she moved away and fixed her eyes glassily on the empty pulpit.

The society editor was quite unmoved by the snub. “It’s probably a faint,” she said. “A lot of people faint at weddings. Who’s the man coming out of the vestry? Bridegroom?”

“Quite,” Aspasia said distantly.

The society editor was interested. Very, very nice, she thought, watching Prye moving quickly up the far aisle. Tall. God, I like them tall. Dark, too, and just young enough and old enough. Thirty-three, perhaps?

“He’s handsome as hell,” she said to Aspasia. “What’s the bride like?”

“She’s lovely.” There was a faint quiver in Aspasia’s voice. “She’s very dark, with the most beautiful blue eyes.”

“Irish?”

“We are all Irish.”

At the end of the aisle Prye collided with Mrs. Shane. Without speaking he grasped her arm and hurried her out into the vestibule and closed the door.

A slim red-haired girl in a yellow bridesmaid’s dress stood just inside the door. She took a long, shuddering breath and prepared to emit another wail. Mrs. Shane stepped over and seized her by the hand.

“Dinah, stop that screaming! What’s going on here? What’s—”

Her words stopped abruptly as she looked past Dinah’s shoulder and saw the small figure huddled on the floor.

Dinah gulped and said, “It’s Jane. She’s... she’s having a fit!”

The girl on the floor was moving her arms convulsively, her face twisted as if she were choking and trying to speak.

Nora was on her knees beside her. “Jane, what are you trying to say? Jane!”

Prye pushed past Mrs. Shane, drew Nora to her feet, and took her place beside Jane. The lobby of the church had become very quiet except for the small, strangled sounds coming from the girl’s throat and the spasmodic thump of her heels hitting the floor as she writhed. Her eyes were half closed and glassy, and her face was contorting into grimaces as she tried to speak. Her skin had turned a vivid pink.

Prye felt her pulse and lifted one of her eyelids. Her eyes followed his movements, glazed with fear. Her limbs relaxed suddenly and her face grew still.

“She’s dead!” Dinah screamed.

Mrs. Shane turned on her. “Dinah, stop that and go away. Phone an ambulance, someone. The General Hospital’s just around the corner.”

Dinah gathered up her frock and walked down the steps that led into the street, lurching a little as if she were drunk.

Nora was saying hysterically, “She said she felt faint. I told her it was just nerves—”

“Maybe it is.” The words came from a short, chubby young man lounging against the wall. He was exquisitely pink and blond and exquisitely bored. “I’ve already sent for the ambulance, incidentally. Perhaps by the time it arrives Jane will have recovered. I seem to remember similar bids for attention on the part of my sister.”

“No, Duncan!” Nora cried. “This is— She looks as if she’s having a convulsion.”

Prye got to his feet, frowning. “She is having a convulsion. I think she’s been poisoned.”

Nora gave a little cry. Duncan Stevens swung round to face Prye. “You’re crazy, Prye.”

“Take it or leave it, Stevens.”

Duncan’s face grew pink. He looked like a fat, angry honey bear.

“She’ll have to be taken to the hospital,” Prye said. “I’ll notify the police.”

“The police?” Duncan repeated. His pale eyes were frightened. “Aren’t you taking just a little bit too much on yourself, Prye?”

“You may think so,” Prye said. “You may also go to hell.”

“Please,” Mrs. Shane said briskly. “There’s no need to quarrel. Poison does seem a bit farfetched, of course. Nora, don’t twist your veil. But if Paul thinks it’s poison, naturally it is.”

“Thank you,” Prye said dryly.

Nora was sitting on the floor holding Jane in her arms, loosening the girl’s clothes.

“I shall tell the minister,” said Mrs. Shane calmly.

From the pulpit the minister announced that there would be a slight delay and asked everyone to remain where he was. The audience began to murmur. The society editor of the Courier drew pictures on the back of her notebook. The minister climbed down from the pulpit. The vestryman rang up his wife and told her to grab her hat and come down to the church, something exciting had happened.

An ambulance shrieked to a stop outside the church and two white-coated interns shouldered their way through the waiting crowd into the vestibule. Prye helped them put Jane on the stretcher. He whispered something to one of the interns as he covered Jane with a blanket.

Prye turned to Stevens. “You’d better go along.”

“Why me?” Duncan said.

“It’s your sister, isn’t it?”

“Don’t be so goddam superior, Prye.”

“I’ll go, if you like.”

“I don’t like.” Duncan turned and followed the stretcher toward the door. As he passed Nora he said in a thick voice, “Where’s Dinah?”

Nora shook her head. “I don’t know.” She watched him as he went out. He was holding his silk hat to shield his face from the crowd on the steps of the church. Before the door closed again she heard someone yell, “Where’s the bride? We want the bride!” The shout was taken up by the crowd. “We want the bride! Here comes the bride!”

Nora leaned against the door, breathing hard. “We’ve got to get out of here before that mob—”

“I take it you’re standing me up?” Prye said.

“My bridesmaids are gone. Duncan has gone—”

“Take it easy. I’m still here. Is there another way out of this Godforsaken church?”

“Downstairs through the Sunday school.”

“Let s go.”

He gripped her arm hard. They went down into the basement through the Sunday school and the choir room where the black-and-white gowns hung like the skins of giant penguins.

“Got a coat?” Prye said.

“No.”

“Better take one of these. Wrap it around you and pin your dress up.”

“I won’t pin my dress up!” she cried. “I won’t! My wedding dress!”

She began to sob. Prye slapped her, waited a moment, and then kissed her. She stopped crying and blew her nose.

“You damn gorilla,” she said.

“Too true,” Prye said. “You’ve had a lucky, lucky escape.”

She had pinned up the dress and was wrapping the choir gown around her.

“Not pretty,” Prye said. “But less conspicuous. Lead the way.”

The staircase led out to a narrow paved alleyway which ran along the back of the church. Several cars were parked in single file along the alley.

“Recognize any of these?”

Nora pointed. “That’s Mother’s.”

They got in. “Nice of Mother to leave her keys in,” Prye said. “I hate stealing anything from a church larger than choir gowns.”

He swung the car along the back of the alley and came out on University Avenue. The sharp, damp autumn wind whipped the color into Nora’s face. Prye tossed her a package of cigarettes and she lit two and gave one to him. Her hands were quite steady.

Prye turned north on River Road. The rain had stopped and the trees glistened and shook off their bedraggled leaves. The leaves fell steadily, like huge dyed snowflakes.

“Confetti from heaven,” Nora said. “And if that’s not funny, nothing is.”

“Nothing is,” Prye agreed. “Tell me about Jane.”

“What about her?”

“How she acted this morning.”

“I didn’t see her until just before we left the house, about ten-thirty,” Nora said. “I noticed that she looked a bit pink but she’s always experimenting with new make-up so I didn’t say anything. Then when we were getting out of the car at the church she said she felt ill. Her voice was funny.”

The car stopped in front of an old rambling red brick house separated from its neighbors by tall hedges. Two Manitoba maples, still thick with rich red-brown leaves, flanked the house on either side. A flagstone walk led up to the massive stone steps of the veranda.

Nora unpinned her dress and removed the choir gown. She took Prye’s arm and they walked up the flagstones smiling stiffly, like a bride and groom stepping out of an old album. As they reached the top of the steps the front door opened to reveal a stout, middle-aged woman in a green-and-white uniform. Behind her stood a pretty young parlormaid and a short, handsome man in a white coat. They were all grinning and each held a bag of rice.

“My God,” Prye said. “The family retainers. This completes the farce.”

Nora’s hand tightened on his arm. “Mrs. Hogan will be furious. She’s been trying to marry me off since I was sixteen.”

Mrs. Hogan was at the moment incoherent with joy. Her round red face was beaming and the rice rattled in her bag like a happy machine gun. Nora looked at her and burst into tears.

Prye withdrew tactfully into the house. In the library he dialed police headquarters and talked for some time to Detective-Inspector Sands. Inspector Sands’ answering grunts indicated that he was mildly interested in Prye’s story and would appear in person at some future hour, weather permitting.

Prye hung up and called the General Hospital. A female voice informed him cheerfully that Miss Jane Stevens was doing as well as could be expected. No further information was available. So what if he was a doctor? Miss Stevens was still doing as well as could be expected, and good day to him.

Prye uttered a short, descriptive word which could be applied roughly to both Inspector Sands and the female voice and reached in his pocket for a cigarette.

“A match, sir?”

The door of the library had opened noiselessly and the young man in the white coat was standing just inside. He lit a match, applied it to Prye’s cigarette, and sat down casually in a chair.

“Make yourself at home, Jackson,” Prye said.

Jackson crossed his legs, smiling. “Thanks. I think I’m worthy to touch the hem of your pants. Maybe not those pants but your everyday ones. I’m a college graduate.”

“Always glad to meet an old Yale man,” Prye murmured politely.

“Harvard.”

Slightly pink, Prye said, “I’ve often wondered what happened to old Harvard men. Like wondering what happens to old razor blades. Perhaps you’d like a drink, Jackson?”

“Allow me.”

Jackson rose with exaggerated courtesy and went over to the cellarette. “Scotch or sherry, Dr. Prye?”

“Scotch.”

Jackson poured out two drinks, brought them over, and sat down again.

“Cozy?” Prye asked.

“Cozy enough,” Jackson said, twisting the glass in his hand. His smile had faded and he was looking at the floor as if it had done him a personal injury. His frown made him look even younger, Prye thought. He was probably not much more than twenty, and definitely not a servant.

“Just what are you, Jackson?”

“Houseboy,” Jackson said coolly. “A sort of hybrid, half butler, half footman, with a dash of parlormaid.”

“The Harvard touch, I suppose?”

“If you say so, sir.”

Prye set his glass on the mahogany desk and lit another cigarette. “I wish you wouldn’t call me sir, Jackson. In your mouth it’s practically an epithet.”

Jackson did not reply. He had finished his drink and was sitting staring into his empty glass.

“I heard what you said over the telephone,” he said suddenly. “Is it true about Miss Stevens?”

“The library door was shut while I was telephoning, Jackson.”

“I opened it. I saw Miss Shane weeping and I wanted to know what was up.”

“You’re interested in Miss Stevens?”

“She and her brother have been house guests for a week. Naturally I’m interested. I assure you Miss Stevens didn’t poison herself.”

There was a certain tenseness in his voice. Prye raised an eyebrow and said, “Really? How can you be sure?”

“I know Miss Stevens better than you do, Dr. Prye. You arrived only last night. I’ve been watching Duncan Stevens and his sister for a week.”

“Watching?”

Jackson flushed. “Observing, I mean. I consider Mr. Stevens an interesting psychological case. He is a smooth bully.”

“I think so,” Prye agreed.

“He is so smooth that Miss Stevens doesn’t know she’s being bullied. Miss Stevens’ I.Q. is not very high.”

“It hits the pit,” Prye said. “Undoubtedly.”

“Will she die?”

“I don’t know. I think not. I guessed the poison that was used, you see. The rest is up to the hospital.”

“What poison was it?”

Prye said, “It hasn’t been verified.”

“Even if she doesn’t die, it will be attempted homicide?”

Prye nodded.

“And who do you think attempted it?” Jackson said softly. “Miss Stevens is practically a stranger in Toronto, like yourself.” He paused, grinning. “I know less about you than I know about the others in this house.”

“This house?” Prye echoed.

“Miss Stevens hasn’t been out of the house since yesterday afternoon. Interested?”

“Very.”

Jackson’s voice was still soft. “Of course maybe it was a long-range poison and took a long time to work. Still, I can’t understand why it was arranged for the victim to collapse in a crowd of people containing a doctor.”

“Can’t you?”

“Unless,” Jackson said, “it was the wrong victim.” He got up, straightened his white coat, and smoothed his dark hair.

Prye said, “Wait a moment.”

Jackson turned around. “Yes sir.”

“How long have you been here, Jackson?”

“Two months.”

“Why?”

“Why? Fifty a month and full maintenance. That’s a fine reason. All my reasons are fine by virtue of their simplicity. I eat because I’m hungry and I sleep because I’m tired, and I work because I need some place to sleep and something to eat, sir.” He paused. “Is there anything else you require, sir? If there is, just ring and I shall appear instantaneously.”

“Don’t lurk behind doors,” Prye said. “I know someone who got a nasty black eye doing that.”

Jackson grinned. “I know just the thing for black eyes.” He went out, closing the door quietly behind him.

Prye finished his cigarette and then went upstairs to his room and changed from his morning clothes to a gray tweed lounge suit. The change was good for his morale. He felt less like a frustrated bridegroom and more like coping with a murderer.

“Murderer,” he said aloud. He went back into the clothes closet, removed a folded slip of paper from his morning coat, and walked down the hall to Nora’s room.

She said through the door, “Come in,” in a voice slushy with tears. He went in and found her sitting on a couch beside the window. She had changed into the dress he liked best, a gray wool affair with collar and belt of red linen. Her eyelids were still rather pink.

He kissed her. “Feeling better?”

She smiled slightly. “Mrs. Hogan is gunning for you, darling. She thinks you poisoned Jane to get out of marrying me. At least that was the implication.”

“It’s not so.”

“Here they come.”

“Police?”

“Mother and Aunt Aspasia and Dennis Williams.”

They both looked out of the window and watched a low-slung blue sedan disgorge its occupants on the driveway. Mrs. Shane, her black velvet bat askew on her bead, was in command. She was holding Aspasia’s arm firmly in one hand and with the other she was making vague but magnificent gestures to the driver of the car, a tall, deeply tanned young man who was to have been one of the ushers.

“My mother, right or wrong,” Nora said.

Prye was watching Williams. “He buys that tan in a bottle. I must warn Dinah.”

“Just because your own romance has broken up I suppose you want to make others suffer,” Nora said. “Besides, it’s not out of a bottle, it’s out of a jar and costs three dollars per ounce.”

Prye looked at her. “You are feeling better. Well enough to stand a third shock?”

“Shock?”

He took the folded paper from his vest pocket. “Ford found this in his pocket where the ring was. The ring is gone. So, I may add, is Ford.”

“Why?”

“I told him to hop back to Detroit. There was no sense in involving my best man in this mess.” He handed her the paper. “It was put in place of the ring to make sure I wouldn’t miss it. Read it. You might recognize the style.”

She unfolded the paper and stared at it blindly for a moment. Then the small, precise letters written in blue ink came into focus.

The note fluttered to the floor.

“Recognize the writing?” Prye said.

“No.”

“The style?”

“N-no.” Her voice was less confident.

A soft rap on the door sounded and Jackson came in very respectfully and said,

“The police are here, Miss Shane.”