Ellery Queen’s Anthology. Volume 38, Fall/Winter 1979

Robert Edward Eckels The Last One To Know

When the husband says, “Tonight I have to go back to the office,” and then it develops that he has to work late “two, maybe three nights a week,” should the wife become suspicious?...

It was a big step for us, after all those years in the house, to move to an apartment, even a three-bedroom condominium only a few blocks inland from the lake. But we had both agreed — or said we did anyway — that it would be foolish to try to keep up that big old place just for the two of us now that the children were out on their own.

So an apartment seemed to be the answer. And actually once we made the move it wasn’t too bad. A lot of the furniture had to go, of course. But the things we really wanted we kept. The third bedroom became Paul’s study and was soon as cluttered with his books and papers as his den had been. And somehow the big walnut hutch with my good china and crystal was fitted into the dining area along with the old table and chairs.

We kept a lot of our old habits, too. Paul set up our portable grill on our little balcony, for example, so during nice weather we could continue our regular weekend cookouts.

I mention that in particular because, God help me, that’s where it all started.

It was an ordinary Saturday in late May. We had company, I remember — the Smallwoods, George and Sheila. I’d never been particularly close to her, but he and Paul had similar jobs in different branches of the same company and office politics dictated that we exchange visits three or four times a year.

Neither of the men had worked that day, of course, and now they were out on the balcony nursing their drinks and getting the cookout fire “ready.” Usually Paul has a great time poking and stirring the charcoal briquets until they’re well burned down and covered uniformly with a fine coat of gray white ash. But this particular evening when I stuck my head out to see when they’d be ready for the food, both of them were ignoring the fire and staring bemusedly at the building opposite.

Curious to see what had caught their attention, I padded quietly up beside Paul and looked, too. And there in the apartment obliquely across from us a girl stood just inside her own balcony doors doing stretching and bending exercises. She was a stunning girl, tall and dark and clad in a black leotard.

“Now I’ve seen everything,” I said. “The two of you ogling like moonstruck teen-agers.”

Paul started and looked embarrassed, but George wasn’t the least bit discomposed.

“We weren’t ogling, Myra,” he said. “We were admiring. And there’s no age limit on that.”

“Lucky for you,” I said, “because at the age you two are that’s about all you can do. Anyway, call me when the fire’s ready. If you can bring yourself to think about mundane things like that.” And, laughing and shaking my head, I went back into the apartment to share the joke with Sheila.

Paul finally got the fire burned down the way he wanted it, cooked the steaks, and the four of us settled down to eat. I forget what we talked about, but it wasn’t anything serious or important. And the Smallwoods made their excuses shortly afterward and left.

“We’ll have to do this sometime again soon,” Paul said after he’d closed the door behind them. “When they can stay longer.”

“We may not have the chance,” I said. “It’s only a matter of time before they break up.”

“What makes you say that? Did Sheila tell you something?”

“No,” I said. “But I saw the way they acted. Very strained and formal. And,” I added significantly, “she got very uptight when I told her about you two ‘admiring’ that girl. If she was as sure of George as I am of you, she’d have found it as funny as I did.”

Paul regarded me quizzically. “You really did think that was funny, didn’t you?” he said. “You know, Myra, I’m not at all sure that’s very flattering.”

Flattering or not, I still thought it was funny two days later and couldn’t resist needling Paul slightly when he came home that evening from work.

“I’m sorry to tell you this,” I said. “But I saw that girl you ‘admired’ so much on the phone today. And from the way she kept playing with the cord and smiling a little cat’s smile while she was talking, it had to be a man she was talking to. A special man, too, because afterwards she got out her ironing board and started to iron a party dress.”

Paul paused in the middle of taking off his coat. “What did you do, Myra,” he said, “spend all day spying on her?”

“No,” I said, “of course not. But she practically lives in front of those glass doors and never draws her drapes. And I’m out on our balcony a lot. You know how I am about fresh air. So I couldn’t help but see what she was doing.”

“I see,” Paul said. He finished taking off his coat, hung it up, and went into the living room, loosening his tie.

I followed him. “Anyway,” I said, “seeing her getting ready for her date gave me an idea. I’ve got a special man, too. So I got out my iron and ironed my party dress, figuring we could make a night of it, too.”

Paul hesitated and even before he spoke I knew it hadn’t worked. “Gee, Myra,” he said, “I wish we could. And maybe we can tomorrow. But tonight I have to go back to the office.”

“Go back to the office? In heaven’s name why? You haven’t worked overtime since your last promotion and that was years ago.”

“I know,” Paul said. “But workloads are building up, and the old man thinks the senior staff should set an example by putting in the same hours as the troops. I don’t like the idea, but unfortunately he’s the boss.”

“So you may be working other nights as well,” I said, trying not to sound desolate.

Paul nodded slowly. “Possibly,” he said. “It all depends on what happens tonight.”

On the optimistic assumption we wouldn’t be eating in, I hadn’t laid anything out for dinner. But I threw something together out of a couple of cans plus a frozen entree that didn’t turn out too badly — although from the way Paul gulped his down it might have been ashes.

He left almost as soon as he’d finished eating, giving me a peck on the cheek as he went out the door. “Don’t wait up,” he said. “God knows when I’ll be done.”

“Sure,” I said and closed the door after him. Then I turned back to the empty apartment. God, alone here all day and now all evening, too. It was almost too much to bear. Still, there it was, and I might as well make the best of it.

The first thing I did was turn off the air conditioner and start opening up the apartment. I felt better after I’d done that, less as if I were living in a closed-in shell sealed off from the rest of the world. Fortunately, too, there was a cool breeze coming in from the lake, and I stepped out onto the balcony to savor it.

Without my really willing it, my eyes slid over to the girl’s apartment. She still hadn’t drawn her drapes and I could see her clearly through the balcony doors, perched on the edge of a sofa so she wouldn’t wrinkle her dress, and leafing through a magazine while she waited for her date to call.

I smiled wryly into the night. Enjoy it while you can, dear, because it doesn’t last long. And when it’s over, there isn’t much to look forward to.

I rolled over in bed and rose on one elbow as Paul came in. He didn’t turn on the lights but began to undress quickly in the dark.

“Hi,” I said.

He made a startled movement. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said.

“I wasn’t really asleep,” I said. “What time is it?”

“Late,” Paul said and went on undressing.

“I tried to call you earlier,” I said. “Around nine. But nobody answered the phone.”

“That must have been while I was in the boss’s office,” he said. “Sorry. Why did you call?”

“I just wanted to talk,” I said. We were silent a moment. Then I said, “Will you have to work more nights?”

“I’m afraid so. Two, maybe three nights a week.”

“For how long?”

“For as long as it lasts. But not tomorrow, though. I said we had something planned and I couldn’t possibly get out of it.”

“Well, if that’s the way you feel about it, forget it.”

“That’s not the way I feel about it,” Paul said testily. “That’s the way I explained it.” He found his pajamas and started to put them on. “What did you do while I was gone?” he said.

“Nothing much,” I said. “I was right about that girl across the way, though. Her boy friend picked her up shortly after you left for the office.”

“Look, Myra,” Paul said, getting into bed, “do me a favor, will you? Forget about that girl. A joke’s a joke, but this one is beginning to wear a little thin.”

“Sure,” I said. I hesitated a moment, then moved closer to him. But he only groaned and rolled over on his side away from me. “God, I’m tired,” he said. And a few minutes later I heard his deep regular breathing.

After a while I slept myself.

The next morning the cleaning lady came in to do the heavy work. I could have done it myself, should have, in fact. But I’d always had her to help at the house, and sheer inertia kept me from letting her go now that I no longer needed her. In any case, she came and I went out on the balcony to be out of her way. And so it was that I came to see the girl across the way once more.

It was late when she rose — close to noon — and she padded out from her bedroom to stand just inside her balcony doors and stretch like a great cat. Even without makeup and with her hair in a disarray from the night’s sleep, there was just one word to describe her and that’s the one I used before — stunning. I couldn’t blame Paul for staring at her. If I’d have been a man, I wouldn’t have been content with just staring; I’d have gone over and met her.

The cleaning woman called me inside then. But I saw her later in the day. She looked as if she’d just come in from shopping, because she was dressed for the street and carried a long flat box that she placed on the coffee table in front of her sofa and began to unpack carefully. It looked also as if things between her and her boy friend were going to get interesting before long, because what she held up to admire was a long filmy negligee.

So, of course, that evening while I was waiting for Paul to finish dressing, I couldn’t resist going to the balcony and looking over at her. But the negligee was nowhere in evidence. She sat on the sofa again as she had the night before, but dressed this time in her bathrobe and with her hair in curlers.

What? I thought. No date tonight? Well, we can’t be winners all the time, honey, and tonight’s my night to howl.

But somehow the evening didn’t turn out the way I’d hoped. We went to what had been our favorite restaurant, but it had been years since we’d been there last and it wasn’t the same as we remembered. Or maybe we weren’t the same. Or maybe it was just that the evening wasn’t the spontaneous spur-of-the-moment affair I had intended. But whatever the reason, we didn’t really enjoy ourselves and came home early.

More than a little disappointed, I slipped off my dress, pulled my robe over my slip, and went out onto the balcony to catch the last of the lake breeze. After a few moments Paul came out to stand beside me.

“Sorry the evening was such a flop,” he said.

“It wasn’t anybody’s fault,” I said. “It just happened that way. And,” I added, nodding toward the other building where the dark-haired girl was visibly boredly watching TV, “at least I had a better evening than she did.”

“Myra,” Paul said, “I thought we agreed you weren’t going to keep dragging that up.”

“I’m not dragging anything up,” I said. “I just commented that she didn’t have a date tonight.” After a moment I added thoughtfully, “And that’s odd.”

“Myra!”

“Don’t ‘Myra’ me,” I said. “It is odd, because a girl that good-looking shouldn’t have any difficulty getting all the dates she wanted.”

“Maybe she just didn’t want one tonight,” Paul said.

“No,” I said, shaking my head, “that’s not it. Because she’s bored silly over there.”

“Well, whatever the reason then,” Paul said, taking my elbow firmly to lead me back into the apartment, “it’s still no business of yours. Now come to bed. I’ve got a big day ahead of me tomorrow.”

He was right, of course. It was no business of mine. But she’d piqued my curiosity, and I knew I wouldn’t be content until it was satisfied.

I didn’t see the girl at all the following day. I glanced over her way a couple of times, of course, but either she was out or our schedules didn’t mesh. That evening, though, as I was opening up the apartment again after Paul had gone, I noticed her lights were on and that the drapes covering her balcony doors were unpulled. I hesitated a fraction of a second, then, flicking off the lights behind me, stepped out onto the darkened balcony for a better view.

For a while nothing stirred in the other apartment, but then just when I least expected it she moved in from the side outside my line of vision and began to rearrange things on the coffee table.

It was hard to tell what she had planned for the evening because she was dressed in a long housecoat, which could mean anything — or nothing. I felt a stir of encouragement, though, when she suddenly broke off what she was doing and moved purposefully out of my line of vision again. Obviously, she’d gone to answer the door. So the housecoat had to mean that they intended to spend the night in.

I was proved right a few minutes later when she reappeared behind the balcony doors, mussed and rumpled and laughing. I craned forward, waiting for her lover to join her so I could get a good look at him. But then suddenly she reached up and abruptly drew the drapes together.

I took an involuntary step backward as if physically affronted. A couple of seconds later, though, I realized there couldn’t be anything personal in it. Looking out from the light, she couldn’t possibly have seen me in the dark. Still, it was curious that she’d picked that particular moment to shut off her apartment. And it made me more curious than ever to get to the bottom of things over there.

It took me another two weeks of patient observation, but then I had my answer. And, of course, something this good I had to pass onto someone. Which is why I told Paul.

It was on another Saturday. He was back out on the balcony, fiddling with the grill, and the girl across the way was back doing her stretching and bending exercises where the whole world could see.

“Admiring again?” I said, stepping out to join Paul.

He had the grace to blush. I smiled and moved over to the railing. “It’s taken a while,” I said. “But I’ve finally figured her out. She’s having an affair with a married man.”

I wasn’t prepared for the vehemence of Paul’s response. “For God’s sake, Myra,” he exclaimed, “how can you say a thing like that about someone you’ve never met and don’t know the first thing about?”

“Oh, I know quite a lot about her,” I said. “I’ve been watching her. And she has a very strange on-again off-again love life. Three, sometimes four evenings a week she’s given a terrific rush, but the rest of the time she’s left to herself. And,” I added significantly, “those dates are always on the same nights and never on a weekend. Now, how do you explain that those are the nights her boy friend has an excuse to be away from his family?”

“I wouldn’t even try to explain it,” Paul said, “because it’s none of my business. What is my business, though, is that you seem to be spending all your time spying on a neighbor.”

“That’s not true,” I said. “I was just curious and I did a little checking to satisfy that curiosity. But that’s all.”

“ ‘But that’s all,’ ” Paul said. He shook his head. “Seriously, Myra, I’ve been worried about you ever since we moved here. You’ve had entirely too much time on your hands. And that’s not healthy.”

“It would help,” I said bitterly, “if you spent a little more time around here yourself. For all I see of you I might as well not have a husband.”

He looked away. “If I could change things,” he said, “I would. But I can’t.”

I put my hand out to touch his arm. “I didn’t mean that,” I said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Paul still wouldn’t look at me. “Please, Myra,” he said, “just find something to get you out of the apartment once in a while. And keep your mind off that girl.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll find something. I promise.”

It’s funny how things work out. Because if I hadn’t made that promise to Paul it never would have occurred to me to call Sheila Smallwood. And if I hadn’t called Sheila, none of the rest would have happened, either.

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before,” I said to Sheila when I had her on the line. “But it’s foolish for both of us to sit home alone. So why don’t we take in a movie or something while Paul and George are working tonight?”

There was a long moment of silence from Sheila’s end of the line. Then: “I don’t know what you mean, Myra. George hasn’t worked nights in years. Has Paul?”

“Yes,” I said slowly. “I thought all the senior staff were.”

“Well, that’s the first I’ve heard of it,” Sheila said. “Although,” she added too hastily, “just because George isn’t working, that doesn’t mean others aren’t. And we can still get together if you like. Even if only to talk—”

“No,” I said, putting the phone down. “No.”

God, what a fool I’d been! But isn’t that what they say? The wife is always the last one to know?

More sick than angry, I mechanically went through the routine of opening up the balcony doors, then just sat out there and let the darkness settle around me.

Paul and another woman! Because, of course, what else could it be? Some chit of a girl probably, from the office or—

My attention was diverted despite myself by a sudden movement in the building across the way — the girl pulling her drapes closed to signal the arrival of her lover.

I started to look away, no longer interested. But then my eyes swung back to those closed drapes and I was caught by a sudden thought. Why was she always so careful to close them the moment her lover arrived? Was it modesty? Or was it that she knew someone was watching — someone who would recognize the lover and spoil their little game?

Because the lover was Paul.

No, I told myself, that was crazy. Things like that just didn’t happen. But even then other thoughts were crowding in: hadn’t the start of her affair coincided with the start of Paul’s working nights? Hadn’t she been stuck home alone the one night Paul had taken me out? And the other nights her lover had called, weren’t those also nights Paul had “worked?” I was sure they were.

Until at last I sat there faced with the awful realization that for the last month I’d been watching another woman carry on an affair with my husband.

That night I lay stiff and still, pretending sleep when Paul came in. The next morning, too, I waited until I was sure he was gone before getting up. Sooner or later I was going to have to face him, I knew. But not just yet, not until I had planned what I had to do next. Because a night of thinking it over — and over and over — had convinced me that the last thing I wanted was to lose Paul.

Not that things could ever be the same between us. But a divorce would leave me with nothing but an empty apartment and an emptier life. And that, above all, was what I didn’t want.

The big question, though, was how could I prevent it? There was always the chance, of course, that if I pretended not to have noticed anything, the affair would burn itself out. It was an awfully big maybe, though, and could I really sit here alone night after night knowing what was going on across the way? But what other choices did I have?

Not many, I’m afraid. I couldn’t compete with the girl on her own terms. Even in my heyday 20 years before I’d have been no match for her, and I didn’t have to look in a mirror to know that the years in between hadn’t been altogether kind. I didn’t dare risk an out-and-out confrontation with Paul, either. At this stage of the game, forced to make a choice, he was probably infatuated enough to choose her.

Bitterly I went to the balcony and stared across. The girl had risen early today and was out on her own balcony smoking a before-breakfast cigarette. Damn, damn, damn you, I thought, wishing her ugly or dead or both.

Almost as if the thought had reached across to her, she straightened with insolent grace, flipped away the cigarette, and strolled casually back into her apartment. Deliberately she left the drapes open and as I watched her move about it came to me. What I could do to beat her.

It was early that evening when I heard Paul come in. I got up from where I was sitting on the balcony and went back to our bedroom where he was in the process of unbuttoning his shirt.

“Hi,” he said. “I didn’t think you were home.” He finished unbuttoning the shirt and pulled it off. “I just have time to change and run right back. There are some people in from Washington and I have to have dinner with them and then go over the final specs for a new contract.” He broke off when he saw my face. “What’s the matter?” he said. “Is something wrong?”

I shook my head and forced myself to smile. “No,” I said. “I’m just disappointed. I’d hoped you’d be staying home tonight.”

Paul mumbled something and turned to pick out a fresh tie. I came over, as I always did, found one that matched his suit and handed it to him.

“Would you like to hear something funny?” I said. “I was watching that girl across the way this afternoon—”

“Myra!” Paul said. “You said you were going to stop that.”

“I know,” I said. “And I really intended to. But then her lover showed up and I couldn’t resist getting a peek at him.”

Paul paused with his tie half knotted. “Her lover?”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t her brother — not the way they carried on. But the funny part is that I must have been wrong about his being married. Actually he’s quite young. And good-looking, too.”

Paul didn’t say anything, so I went on, as if the idea had just occurred to me. “But then maybe I wasn’t wrong after all. Wouldn’t it be something if she had a married lover to pay her bills and then was two-timing him with this younger one?”

“Yes,” Paul said, and he pulled the knot in his tie tight with an abrupt, almost angry gesture.

After he had gone, I sat on the darkened balcony, waiting. Over across the way the girl waited, too. Then the by now familiar ritual began as she went to answer her door.

This time, though, it was quite a while before she came back into view, and there was now a tenseness and stiffness about her movements that had never been there before. She reached up to pull the drapes closed, then stopped abruptly in mid-act to turn and shout something back at her unseen companion. I couldn’t hear the words, of course. But I could see the expression on her face, and it was angry. Good. This was even better than I’d hoped for when I’d deliberately sowed seeds of suspicion in Paul’s mind.

Then as I watched, a hand lashed out from beyond the drapes to slap the girl savagely. She reeled back, stumbled, and fell toward the coffee table.

The story made quite a splash in the papers the next day: GIRL MURDERED IN LUXURY APARTMENT. I made a point of reading it to Paul at the table that evening.

“Good lord, Paul,” I said, “it’s that girl across the way! Look, here’s her picture. And it says that the back of her head was smashed in — either from striking the edge of the coffee table or from a blow from some kind of club.”

I looked up, pretending not to notice his white face and stricken expression. “I was right about her,” I said. “She was two-timing somebody and he found out and killed her. I think I ought to go to the police.”

“No,” Paul said sharply. “What I mean is,” he went on as I looked at him curiously, “you couldn’t really tell them anything. Like names or who the men are. The police might even think you were making it up.” He shook his head. “It’s just better not to get involved.”

I sighed. “I suppose you’re right,” I said and put the paper aside. “Do you have to work tonight?”

He shook his head again. “No. That’s all over.”

“I’m glad,” I said. “It’s good to have you back.”

Paul nodded and mumbled an excuse to go over to the liquor cabinet and pour himself his third stiff drink of the evening.

Poor Paul. I hope he isn’t going to turn into an alcoholic over this — especially since he has no real reason to. Because I sat there for a long time that night watching the girl’s apartment after she’d fallen. And I saw her get up again. From the way she staggered though, it was obvious she was alone and either hurt or at least groggy.

So it had been a simple matter, while Paul was off somewhere walking out his anger and frustration, to slip over to the other building, find the girl’s apartment, and just to make sure he was never tempted again, finish what he’d begun.