Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 47, No. 4. Whole No. 269, April 1966

Jean Potts The Inner Voices

An unusual and beautifully written story about a problem that faced a man’s wife, mistress, mother, and brother — and how they acted and reacted...

Estrella’s first impulse had been to cancel her usual birthday re-union this year; it would be too poignant without her favorite son, Byron. But then — as she pointed out, in her bravest tremolo — an Inner Voice had spoken. They must carry on, in spite of their aching hearts and the mute pathos of the one vacant chair. Dear Byron would not want it otherwise. He who could nevermore be with them in the flesh would be with them in spirit.

There she went, stealing her daughter-in-law’s lines again. Completely shameless. After all, Byron’s widow, nut his mother, was entitled to the starring role. But Mary Ethel could afford to be big about it. “Exactly my feeling,” she said in the sincere, spontaneous tones that had come across so well in her television interview. “I’m sure Byron wouldn’t want his mother’s sixtieth birthday to pass unnoticed.”

“Fifty-ninth,” said Estrella. “I knew you’d understand, my dear.”

Then she called Tennyson, who of course questioned the advisability. As the one son left to her, he took his responsibilities seriously. “Are you sure you’re up to it, Mother? We all know how hard this has hit you, in spite of the way you’ve borne up so wonderfully. Not that I’m trying to dictate or anything, you understand — I realize you’re the best judge—”

“Then I’ll see you on the fifteenth,” said Estrella, who was sometimes circumspect about overruling Tennyson’s objections and sometimes not, depending on how busy she was. “I can’t decide about inviting Carol. What do you think?”

“Carol? Oh. Well, Mother, I hardly know what to say. I mean—”

There was a pause. Then Estrella said gently, “Yes. I think Byron would want her to be with us.”

So it was settled. They would meet, but they would miss him.

Indeed they would; indeed they did; it was their own business how and for what reasons...

In one of the more moving passages of her forthcoming book, Mary Ethel described (with certain basic modifications) the incredulity that still seized her at times, oftenest on her return to the empty apartment, just before she turned her key in the lock. It can’t be true, she would think; when I open the door Byron will be there.

No doubt all widows had such heart-stopping moments, even those who had actually looked into their husbands’ dead faces. But Byron’s body had never been recovered from the Everglades swamp where his little plane had crashed six months before. He remained incorrigibly alive in Mary Ethel’s memory — and, sometimes, in her imagination.

This was one of the times, this glum February afternoon, the day before the scheduled birthday reunion. She had lunched, at delightful length, with her editors. It was spitting sleet; mindful of her new feather hat (what a grand piece of luck that black was so becoming to her), she dashed from the cab to the street door of the reconverted brownstone where she stayed on, and started up the stairs that led to her second-floor apartment.

Here it was, the familiar inner quaver, like the delicious self-induced shivers that children feel when they tell each other ghost stories. Only a dream, she thought: Byron was not dead. When she opened the door he would come toward her, smiling his doggedly hopeful smile. There you are, honey, he would say, and there she would be, thudded back into reality. Not Byron’s widow. His wife.

She unlocked the door and stepped into the dusky hall. Everything was just as she had left it. Of course. On her way to the living room she drew a tremulous sigh.

“There you are, honey,” he said. “How’s tricks?”

The parquet floor under her feet lurched and tipped upward like a ship in a heavy swell. Her hand groped for the wall and found it. Solid, real. No sound now but the click of sleet against the living-room windows. The room itself was already so dark, on this sunless day, that she could not distinguish swarming shadow from impossible substance.

He switched on the table lamp. There he stood, alert, nimble-looking, head tilted in the characteristic way. He risked a smile, but not a step toward her.

“I couldn’t get you on the phone,” he explained. “So I thought I’d drop by and leave a note in the mailbox. But I still had the door key, and... hey. Hey, Mary Ethel, you’re not going to faint, are you?”

She shook her head. Sat down, carefully, on the edge of the wing-back chair. Closed her eyes. Opened, them again. He was still there.

“The crash,” she whispered. “They told us you couldn’t possibly have survived.”

“I damn near didn’t.” He spoke with jaunty complacence. “Wouldn’t have, except these Indians came along and fished me out of the swamp. The last thing I remember is thinking, ‘This is it, boy, you’ve had it,’ and when I came to it was two months later and the alligators hadn’t eaten me, after all. By that time all I had to worry about was a bad case of malaria. Too mean to die, I guess.” He paused, but she made no comment. “Would you like a brandy?”

“Please,” she said. He had a pronounced limp, she noticed as he crossed to the liquor cabinet. He had always been thin; now he was like a contraption of wire coat hangers and twine, with a piece of parchment for a face. The malaria. Which hadn’t killed him, either. “You might at least have called from down there. Or written. You might have given me some warning.”

“Yes. I didn’t intend to shake you up like this. But somehow I—” He limped over with her brandy. “You look great, Mary Ethel,” he said shyly. “Beautiful.” He stayed there in front of her, carefully not touching her. “All right, I’ll tell you the truth. I didn’t call or write because I couldn’t make up my mind about whether to come back or not.”

“Not come back?”

“Not come back,” he repeated. “Let Byron Hawley stay as dead as everybody — including me, for a while there — thought he was. Who needed him? It makes you stop and think, a narrow squeak like that. I couldn’t help wondering, for instance, whether you— Well. You’ve got to admit, we weren’t doing so hot, you and I, when I took off on that last trip.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” she reminded him bitterly. “You were the one. You and that cheap little stenographer of yours. Carol. Don’t blame me for the way we were doing.”

“But I never would have gotten mixed up with Carol if — ah, skip it. We’ve been through this too many times already.”

“Yes, we have.” She resisted the temptation to add that, to Carol at least, it was now ancient history. Let him find out for himself. “I suppose you’ve seen her?”

“No,” he said shortly. “You’re the only one who knows I’m back.”

“You haven’t even seen your mother? Or Tennyson?” She felt an inner whirring, as if an antenna were beginning to vibrate. You’re the only one who knows I’m back. The only one that knows I’m alive.

“Not yet. I wanted to see you first. I suppose Tenny’s taken over at the office?”

She nodded. “I haven’t seen much of him lately. We’ve both been busy. Your mother’s having her birthday do tomorrow. You came back just in time.” No vacant chair, after all. “She’s very busy these days too, trying to get through to you in The Great Beyond. She and Dr. Mehallah. He’s her latest discovery.”

He gave a whoop of laughter. “No! Have they had any luck?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Mary Ethel, who saw nothing funny about Estrella’s fitful dabblings in the deeper mysteries. This time especially it was no laughing matter, as Byron would find out when — if — he talked to his mother. The whirring inside her grew and grew.

“What a pity for me to turn up now and spoil the fun!” The laughter faded from his eyes. “Brings us right back to what I was saying. I couldn’t help wondering whether you wouldn’t rather be my widow than my wife.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say!” Not so terrible, though, as the thing vibrating inside her. Her eyes darted away from his.

“Oh, I don’t know. I wasn’t too sold on Byron Hawley myself. What had he ever done except inherit his father’s business and get married and learn how to fly his own plane? The business ran itself. Probably still does, with Tenny in charge. The marriage was damn near on the rocks. Even the plane was smashed up... I kept thinking what a good chance it was to get rid of Byron Hawley, just shuck him off and start from scratch.”

She laughed scornfully. “What would you have used for money? Or didn’t you worry about that?”

“Not very much. I’m a good mechanic, an expert bartender, an inspired dishwasher. Besides, I had a sizable chunk of cash with me — still have most of it. No, what worried me was whether or not Byron Hawley was worth resurrecting.”

“And you decided he was.”

“Not exactly,” he said. “I decided I had to come back and find out for sure. Mary Ethel, look at me. Please—”

She struck out, in a panic, at his hand. But there was no escape from his unwavering gaze; slowly and relentlessly it forced her head up until he was looking into her eyes, until he was seeing what must be blazing in them. “Somebody else. Is that it? Some other guy?”

She began to laugh, in gusts like sobs. “No,” she gasped, “here, let me show you.” She crossed to the desk and came back with the advance copy of her book. How To Be a Widow. A Testament of Love and Courage.

Tick-tick-tick went the sleet against the window while he read the blurb. Which she knew by heart: the inspiring, true story of a young woman’s battle against sorrow and her victory over despair... The photograph of Mary Ethel on the dust jacket was artfully misty, a face seen through a blur of tears, shadowed with tragedy, lit with hard-won tranquility.

Byron’s own face remained blank as he studied it. He flicked through the pages, pausing here and there. Which part might he be reading now? The description of their idyllic life together? The heartbreaking memories that attacked without warning? (They had moved her editor to tears; he had said so, only today at lunch. Thick-skinned cynic that he was, he had said.)

Tick-tick, till at last he closed the book.

“Is it a best-seller?” he asked.

“It isn’t out yet officially. They’ve been giving it a big play—”

Her voice threatened to break. To have so much within her grasp — the recognition, the fame, rightfully hers, but denied her until now; and then to have it snatched away. Byron’s return will transform her and her book into a household joke. Even if the publishers withdrew it — and could they, with the release date only a week away? — word would get around. There would be snickering little innuendoes in the columns that were plugging it even now; all the publicity, so flattering, so thrilling, would boomerang into derision.

“Do I congratulate you?” said Byron. “Or do I apologize? Yes, I guess so. Excuse me for living.” He picked up his trench coat. “I didn’t realize you had such a nice career going as a professional widow.”

She faced him unabashed, too absorbed in hating him to mind the sneer in his voice. All right. A career. Why not? He himself admitted he had considered not coming back, had wondered if she might not rather be his widow than his wife. Well, now he knew.

Ah, but so did she. You’re the only one who knows I’m back. And there was no need for anyone else ever to know — if she were quick enough, bold enough, strong enough, clever enough, lucky enough. So many ifs. And so little time. Because it had to be now; she must act first and plan later. She must dare to take the chance while it was still hers.

“You’re leaving?” she asked in a voice muffled, in her own ears, by the thick beating of her heart, and as he started across the room she followed. The poker, she thought as she passed the fireplace, but already it was too late — he was glancing back.

Something in the hall, then. The bronze nymph on the table. Her hand closed over its smooth weight convulsively. One blow, struck from behind while he was opening the door. It might be enough — just the one blow. But it did not have to be. She foresaw that her arm, once released, would go on pounding like an automatic hammer; at this moment it was tensing with the force of those potential blows.

She had fallen a little too far behind. Now she must hurry so as to be close enough when he reached the door, just before he turned. Two more steps, and then, and then—

And then — too soon, before she was ready — he turned, so nimbly in spite of his limp, and his hand shot out and closed on her wrist. There was a flash of pain in her arm, a thump as the bronze nymph fell to the carpeted floor.

“Better luck next time,” he said.

He was smiling, but not in the doggedly hopeful way she remembered. Now his eyes were stony. Now he knew her.

Just before he slid through the door he added, “So long, Mary Ethel. See you at Mother’s reunion.”

“Not a manifestation?” Estrella repeated wistfully. “But we were so hoping for one. It would have meant so much to Dr. Mehallah—”

“Sorry to disappoint you.” Sorry, indeed! Byron was grinning all over his face. Now he planted a noisy, juicy smack in the slope of her neck. “There. Does that feel like a manifestation?”

She had to admit that it did not. And while spirits were sometimes prankish, she had never heard of one who smelled of brandy or left wet footprints on the rug. Byron in the flesh, no doubt about it, and of course she was overjoyed. Her son, her favorite son — which probably wasn’t fair; Tennyson was so much more agreeable, so restful, and she never had any trouble getting her own way with Tenny. Whereas Byron could be difficult.

“Sit down, dear.” She sat down herself, with the rattling, clashing sound effects that accompanied all her movements. The long strands of beads and multiplicity of bracelets were as much a part of her as her dimples or the fluttery voice and big blue eyes that gave her such a guileless look.

She wiped away her tears and fluffed her hair. “I’ll be all right in a minute. I just can’t quite — Indians, you said? You must tell me again — I want to hear the whole story. My poor boy! I suppose you’ve seen Mary Ethel?”

He did not answer at once, and when he did it was ambiguously. “That can wait.” Then he launched into the whole story she had asked for.

But as he talked, her mind kept straying to Dr. Mehallah. Would it be better to plunge in and get it over with — the element of surprise might work wonders — or to coast into it gradually? Byron would notice though; he wasn’t like Tenny. Either way, her Inner Voice informed her, he was going to be difficult. And then Mary Ethel. Did he mean seeing her could wait? Or — How To Be a Widow! ha! — did he mean talking about her could wait?

“So here I am,” he was finishing, “just in time for your birthday party. The bad penny that always turns up.”

“Nothing of the sort!” she cried — extra-heartily, on account of the pang of disappointment she had just felt: she would have to disinvite Dr. Mehallah to her party. It simply wouldn’t do, not with Byron here. “This is the most wonderful birthday present anybody ever dreamed of. Let me see, did you say you have seen Mary Ethel? Because if you haven’t—”

“First tell me what’s with this Dr. Whatshisname, the manifestations fellow. Was I supposed to rap on tables, or write on slates, or what?”

“Dr. Mehallah relies on his own powers in attaining the mystic state, not on any of the usual trappings,” said Estrella stiffly. Then she flashed her dimples at him. “Shame on you for making fun of me. I only did it because I missed you so. I would have given anything for a sign from you.”

She had grieved, really. Why, that first night she was beside herself. Tenny had to call the doctor to give her a sedative. Someone had suggested travel as a therapeutic agent, so she had signed up for a cruise, any cruise. And that was where she met Dr. Mehallah.

Strange, strange how fate had woven its pattern; she had felt from the first that Dr. Mehallah’s coffee-brown eyes were piercing to her very soul and drawing it out of her body, had heard in his high-pitched voice the cadence of unearthly music, had known beyond all question that in the furtherance of his work she had found her true mission in life. But how explain this to Byron? She sighed.

“Never mind, Mother. There must be plenty of other bone-fide spirits for Dr. Mehallah to concentrate on, now that I’m out of the running. No need to drop the guy on my account.”

Her temper snapped. That indulgent, superior smile of his! “I have no intention of dropping Dr. Mehallah. Ever. Naturally you wouldn’t understand what it means to me to be able to help a man of his gifts. Neither does Mary Ethel, not that it’s any of her business—”

He straightened up, alert now, a hound on the scent. “Help? What kind of help were you planning to give him?”

“I’m still planning it! And you can’t stop me!” But he could. She jumped to her feet, in clattering, chattering agitation. “Tenny’s agreed to it — oh, I know you’ve always belittled him, but at least he doesn’t close his mind the way some people I could mention; and another thing, he’s got a little feeling for his mother, and if your father were alive he’d be the first to say go ahead. So it’s three against one — four, counting Dr. Mehallah — so what right have you to stop us?”

“Stop you from doing what?”

“It’s not as if there weren’t other institutions for those delinquent boys every bit as good as Hawley Farm. Better, in fact, and bigger. Your father admitted himself that it’s only a drop in the bucket. Why, there’s only room for twenty. What’s the good of a place that small? It’s not worthwhile.”

“Dad thought it was,” said Byron, in an ominously mild voice. “So do quite a few other people. Mother, are you planning to turn Hawley Farm over to Dr. Mehallah?” He was on his feet now too; he actually took her by the shoulders and gave her a little shake.

“I have a right,” she wavered. “It’s in my name.”

“It’s in yours and Tenny’s and mine. And you may have conned Tenny into making hash of what Dad wanted, but you won’t con me. You know as well as I do that Dad would never in the world consent to any such deal. And neither will I. Believe me, if you hand over Hawley Farm to this phoney mystic of yours, it’ll—”

“He’s not! You take your hands off me!”

“—be over my dead body.”

The words throbbed,’ eerily amplified, echoing and re-echoing. Over his dead body She had thought that was how it was. Yes. She had believed she was safely beyond the reach of his voice that would not agree, his hand that would not sign, his will that would not bend to hers. Not of course that she had ever wished him dead—

She did now. For once in her life Estrella looked truth in the eye. It wasn’t fair for him to be alive when they said he couldn’t be. It was as if he had played a monstrous practical joke on her, pretending to give her freedom, only to pull her up sharp just when she was making the most of it. He was her favorite son — and she wished the swamp had swallowed him. She did not want him alive, with the power to block her.

She wanted him dead. Dead.

Horror-struck, she stared into his haggard face.

“Over my dead body,” he repeated, and released her — just let his hands drop and abandoned her. He picked up his trench coat and slung it over his shoulder. “Unfortunately, I’m still alive. I’ll be back for your party. Try to bear up until then.”

“Byron! Don’t leave me—” she wailed, and she burst into the more or less genuine sobs that had stood her in such good stead so many times in the past. But the door was already closing behind him. Her breath caught in a spasm of shock and fury. The nerve of him! To drop this bombshell on her and then simply walk away from the wreckage, simply stroll calmly off to — to whoever was next on his list. Mary Ethel? Or had he already seen her?

Oh, she didn’t know. She didn’t know what to do. She covered her face with her plump little hands and whimpered.

Once he recovered his power of speech, Tennyson said, with such vehemence that he hardly recognized his own voice, “No, not at a bar. Come on back to the office. We can talk there.”

“Okay,” said Byron cheerfully. He, Byron, didn’t sound any different. His greeting had been so nonchalant, and the way he had swung into step, so poised and ease, as if only a fusspot like Tenny would see anything momentous about this meeting — typical of him, typical. His limp (which women would like as not think romantic) was new, and he was skinny as a stray cat. Otherwise he was the same old Byron, and Tenny was the same old—

No. Absolutely not. He had changed, and Byron was, by gad, going to find it out. He was going to have to get used to playing second fiddle himself, for a change. Tenny lifted his solemn, fleshy face to the wind-driven sleet, squared shoulders, and inwardly pledged allegiance to the new man he had become, was now, and forever would be, world without end, amen.

“I figured you’d probably still be at the office,” Byron was saying. “You always were a great one for overtime.”

“And still am. More so, in fact. What I say is, a real executive can’t expect to stick to a nine-to-five schedule. He’s got to forget about watching the clock and concentrate on getting the job done. Personally, I find I accomplish more after five than during office hours. You don’t get the interruptions. No phone calls, et cetera. You can buckle right down and think a problem through.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Byron, whose own attitude toward his executive responsibilities had been light-hearted, to say the least. They would get around to that little matter, among others, before they were through.

The lobby of the office building was deserted except for the elevator starter, new since Byron’s time, so they were spared a goggle-eyed reunion scene. Tenny gave the man a preoccupied nod, as became the head of Hawley Enterprises; and after the self-service elevator had borne them smoothly upward, he led the way, keys in hand, past the switchboard where a night light glowed and into the hushed darkness of the President’s office.

To Tenny’s secret relief, Byron sat down on the green leather couch, leaving the chair behind the massive desk for its rightful owner. Not that Tenny would have insisted on making an issue of it; but this way the question did not arise.

Ensconced in the security of his big chair, Tenny felt in control of himself and of the situation. His legs stopped their nervous trembling, now that they were planted firmly under the desk, which stretched like a bulwark between him and his brother.

But then Byron reached over and slid open the right-hand door of the bookcase. “Ah! Glad to see you still file the bourbon in the same place. Join me?”

“Here, let me. I’m sorry, I should have offered—” Yes, he should have. It disturbed the balance, to have Byron pouring out the drinks as if he owned the place. It put Tenny at a subtle disadvantage. Why hadn’t he thought of it! Inwardly fuming, he sipped and listened, with half an ear, to Byron’s account of his hairbreadth escape. He was rather flippant about it. Trust Byron.-

Of course he was not dead. It seemed to Tenny that — without ever admitting it, least of all to himself — he had known it all along. For the past six months he had been waiting for some such moment as this; tonight when Byron fell into step beside him he had felt not so much the throb of astonishment as the thud of suspense ended.

He straightened his glasses and cleared his throat. “I’d like to query you on your plans,” Tenny announced. “Is it your intention to pick up where you left off here at the office?”

“I haven’t thought much about it. You seem to be doing okay.”

“I like to think so. It hasn’t been easy, let me assure you.” He let that sink in, and wound up significantly, “Under the circumstances.”

“Which circumstances would those be? I suppose I did leave a loose end or two, if that’s what you mean—”

“I mean that Carol — Miss York — found it impossible to continue covering up your little manipulations. And I’d like to go on record right here and now, Byron. You may be able to rationalize the fund juggling to your own satisfaction. But not to mine. Let me assure you. Not to mine. With Miss York’s assistance I was able to adjust the matter without its becoming common knowledge, and as far as I’m concerned there’s no necessity for ever mentioning it again. I simply wanted to go on record. One more point. If you have any idea of penalizing Carol — Miss York — for exposing what not even she, loyal as she was, could no longer hide, if you have any idea— Well. You will have me to deal with.” He leaned back, flushed with triumph.

“I see,” Byron said at last. No denial or defense. Just the mild, thoughtful statement, followed — as might have been expected — by the irrepressible grin. “How is Carol, anyway? Miss York?”

“Very well, thank you. As you may already have heard, Miss York has consented to be my wife.”

“You’re kidding. Carol and you?” Byron exploded into laughter.

And Tenny, having carried everything off so well (except for the drink business), with such dignity and force, now Tenny had to spoil it all by squeaking, “What’s so funny?” No other word for it. Squeaking. He couldn’t stop, either. “I fail to see — funny, is it? You think just because — shut up!”

He was on his feet, gripping the desk that was no longer a bulwark, quivering with rage and despair at this foolish, flustered, familiar fellow who was his old self — the self he had presumed was gone forever but of course was no more dead than Byron. They were inseparable, this old self and Byron — like Siamese twins; there was no getting rid of the one as long as the other lived.

“Sorry, Tenny.” Byron swallowed another guffaw. “I’m sorry — I think it’s very nice. Congratulations.”

“Thank you for nothing. I know what you’re thinking.”

It was the basic, galling thing between them, the root that had produced silly old Tenny in the first place. And why? What was there about Byron that drew women to him? Oh, he didn’t always come out ahead — Mary Ethel, for instance — but there had to be an exception to prove the rule.

All his life Tenny had bitterly watched the rule in operation: Byron could pick and choose, while he himself must scramble and scrabble for nothing better than a wallflower. If that. Why? It wasn’t as if Byron were tall, dark, and handsome. Far from it. He had never bothered much about clothes or the little gestures — corsages, jewelry, et cetera — that were supposed to be so important. Tenny had spent more lavishly, had sweat through dancing lessons, had observed all the fine points of etiquette — and it didn’t make a bit of difference; if he got a girl to date him it meant she was really from hunger.

Except Carol. No shortage of men in Carol’s life; and if that fact now and then cost Tenny an uneasy pang — well, that was the price you paid for winning such an attractive girl. But his heart contracted in sudden pain. Would he have won her, even as a secretary, if Byron had stayed on the scene? The gossip about her and Byron was only gossip, according to her; surely Tenny knew her better than to believe she would take up with a married man! He most assuredly did. And yet, and yet—

He could not help remembering that she had never so much as glanced his way while Byron was around, any more than he could suppress the thought of what she might do now that Byron was back. The thought that flared up, intolerable and uncontrollable as fire: one wave of Byron’s hand was all it would take to bring her running, one flick of his finger could flatten Tenny’s house of cards.

No wonder Byron had laughed. No wonder he sat there now, with that unconcerned air, as much as to say, There it is, Tenny my boy. What are you going to do about it?

Kill him. It clicked into Tenny’s mind, precise as a shot. He was supposed to be dead. Carol thought he was dead. Let her go on thinking so. Kill him and along with him his Siamese twin, the old silly Tenny.

For one dazzling moment it was that uncomplicated — no qualms, no fear of consequences to hold him back. With his hands planted on the desk, he leaned forward giddily, staring down at his brother’s bent head. Then he remembered the others. Mother. Mary Ethel. Even if by some fluke Byron had come here first and they still thought he was dead — even then, there was the elevator starter who had seen them come back together; there were all the little potential slip-ups gathering now in a gnatlike pestering swarm.

And there was Byron himself. He was looking straight up at Tenny now, no longer smiling or unconcerned. His eyes were inexpressibly sad and knowing, like a monkey’s. “Relax, Tenny. I’m not out to grab anything away from you. I don’t know why it is, we always wind up in some kind of a hassle. Well, time I shoved off.”

“Where are you — I suppose you’ve already seen Mary Ethel and Mother. You’d go to them first, I suppose.”

“Do you?” Byron cocked his head, grinning a little in the old way. “Why don’t you check with them, Tenny? You can’t take my word for anything. You know that. I’m dishonest.”

“It’s Carol, then. Isn’t it? I’m warning you, Byron, if you try to—”

“I just want to thank her for her loyalty, that’s all. And naturally wish her happiness. So long, Tenny. See you at Mother’s reunion.”

The door sighed shut behind him. Tenny’s knees buckled; but though he sagged in his chair, inert as a sack of flour, inside he still spluttered and raged. Every rankling word came back to him, every gesture, and always in the background was the contemptible squeak of his own voice. Except for that one exalted moment when he hadn’t cared who knew of what slip-ups he made. That one moment — lost forever, he had let it go by — when he could have done it, should have done it.

But Mother. Mary Ethel. The elevator starter.

He made a strangled sound and put his head down on the desk.

“Now wait a minute,” Carol said into the cream-colored telephone in her bedroom. “Sure you sound like him, but Byron Hawley’s dead. D-e-a-d. So you can’t be him. Or if you are you’ve got to do more than sound like him to prove it to me.”

“Okay. Remember last Decoration Day in Atlantic City? It rained so hard there wasn’t anything to do but—” He elaborated, in vivid detail.

“Oh, Byron, it is you!” Her heart leaped. Then it swooped. “Listen, where are you? I can meet you. Unless you’d rather come up here. I’ve got to see you. We can’t talk over the phone.”

“We can try.”

“Well, of course if you don’t want to see me—” She sat down on the avocado bedspread and reached for a cigarette. Her hand was trembling.

“I don’t think Tenny would approve. Do you?”

“So you’ve seen him.” She decided against the cigarette. Her hand, still trembling, began a little pleating project on her black net petticoat. Pleat, smooth. Pleat, smooth. “Listen, Byron, look at it from my point of view.”

“I am. It’s very educational.”

“Don’t be such a dog in the manger. After all, a girl’s got to think of her future. I never noticed you breaking your neck to make me any offers. I mean, any that were going to get me any further than a rainy week-end in Atlantic City. Tenny may not look like such a bargain—”

“No? From your point of view I’d say he was just about perfect. Especially now that he’s moved up into my old spot. I know, money isn’t everything, but Tenny has other assets. He’s so nice and unsuspecting. You can have your future, plus all the fun on the side that comes along.”

“I don’t have to take that from you,” she said icily. Pleat, smooth. Pleat, smooth. “And to think I bawled when they said you were dead! Oh Byron, please, if only I could see you I’m sure I could explain—”

“I know how persuasive you can be, dear. So I’m not taking any chances.”

“You mean you don’t trust yourself?” She stretched her legs and smiled.

“I don’t trust you, that’s for sure. How long had you been dipping into the till before I passed to my reward?”

She stopped smiling. She said, too quickly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on, Carol. You’re talking to me, not to Tenny. I’ve got to hand it to you, you saw your chance and grabbed it. It would have worked, too, if only I’d had the decency to stay d-e-a-d.”

“You think Tenny’s going to take your word instead of mine? You can’t prove it. Couldn’t even if it was true. Why, he’ll laugh in your face!”

“He wasn’t laughing when I left him,” said Byron.

“You rat! Wait. Just wait. Don’t think you can barge in like this and louse me up — out of spite, that’s all, nothing but spite—”

“Oh, I don’t know. I might just possibly want to clear my name.”

“Your name,” she screeched. “Your name is mud! And not just in my book, either. What about your precious wife? Oh, brother, would I like to listen in on that little reunion! Even your mother—”

She stopped for breath. Well, what was he waiting for? Why didn’t he say something? Silence. Not a word out of him.

“Byron? Byron, you there?”

“I’m here,” he said. He didn’t sound angry, or even upset. Just tired. “That’s the whole problem, isn’t it? I’m here. Okay, Carol. I’ll be seeing you. That is, if you’re going to Mother’s party.” And just like that, he hung up on her.

Presently she remembered to hang up too. But her hand remained curved around the phone, as if waiting for a signal. Call Tenny? Not now, not yet. She was too churned up, she needed time to pull herself together. And anyway, why hadn’t Tenny called her? Only one reason, she thought, and shivered. Proof. Byron must have some actual proof that had convinced Tenny.

She had been so sure, had figured out every possible angle except this impossible one: it had never crossed her mind that Byron might not be dead, that he might come back. The whole scheme grew out of his death. Depended on it. And collapsed without it.

Oh, she knew the fix she was in — she wasn’t one to kid herself. That was why she had latched onto Tenny while she had the chance. There weren’t going to be too many more chances — never mind how persuasive she might still be at moments. And now — she could forget about being Tenny’s secretary, let alone his wife. She’d be lucky if she stayed out of jail.

But to make a run for it now — even if she had any place to run to — would be to admit her guilt. And Tenny might not be absolutely convinced, after all. So he wasn’t laughing when Byron left him. Naturally not; Carol or no Carol, he would be seeing the end of his lovely little fling as a bigshot. Poor old Tenny. He might still call her. It was worth a gamble. Wasn’t it? Was it?

Yes, no, yes, no, in the same compulsive circle that kept her fingers busy with their pleat, smooth. Oh, if only she knew what Byron had on her! If only she knew where to find him...

I’d kill him, she thought with cold certainty. I wouldn’t care what it cost me. I’d kill him for this — and enjoy it.

No one expected Estrella’s birthday reunion to be anything less than an ordeal. But in the end no one was quite brave enough — or cowardly enough, who knew? — to risk staying away. By the same token, they had all decided against sounding out the others on the question of Byron’s return. There had been no inquiries, however tentative, no exchange of information. Each had hung back, waiting for someone else to take the first step — until now it was too late for anybody to budge. Byron alone could break the deadlock.

Itching with curiosity (Do the others know? How much do they know?), aching with anxiety, burning with their secret yet mutual knowledge, they sat in Estrella’s living room and waited for Byron to liberate them. They waited. And waited. And waited.

His name remained unmentionable, his chair vacant. (Not literally, since it was a buffet supper; Estrella was grateful for that one small favor.) All the same, the sense of vacancy clamped down on them like a mercilessly tightening vise. The bursts of desperate chatter, even Estrella’s, grew fewer and farther between. The silence itself lost its flavor of expectancy as one by one they abandoned waiting — he would not come now, he would never come — and turned into a speculation that was even more tense than the waiting.

There was a constant, furtive exchange of glances among them, each pair of eyes seeking to catch another pair unawares, instantly shifting to avoid being caught. The very air seemed to thrum with the question that obsessed them all: Why isn’t he here? And the answer: Because someone, someone else...

Not I, thought Estrella. I only wished, and only for that one moment, and I didn’t mean it then. Not really. Why, he’s my favorite son! Certainly not I. But then who? I never did trust Mary Ethel — you mark my words, I said, but he wouldn’t listen.

And Carol’s another. She’s got her hooks into Tenny now, but it used to be Byron — yes, she’s capable of anything. Even Tenny — the temper tantrums he used to have as a child. He’s always been jealous—

What am I thinking? What am I going to do about Dr. Mehallah?

Not I, thought Tenny, my conscience is perfectly clear. Which is more than can be said for some other people. Not mentioning any names. I knew she wouldn’t show up at the office today — that’s why I stayed home myself. And I had no intention whatever of escorting her here tonight. She could have saved her ridiculous story about, don’t bother, she’d be in the neighborhood anyway, et cetera. I can make excuses too. I’ll make one tonight when we both leave. If we ever do. I wish I could believe it was the fund juggling they quarreled about. Maybe he blamed her, threatened her. No, of course not. I know what it was, all right. He told her it was Mary Ethel he wanted, not her. That’s why she did it, the only reason.

Oh, Carol, Carol, you said you loved me!..

Not I, thought Carol, I didn’t even see him. That’s all that stopped me. Okay. But I didn’t see him. No skin off my nose who did. It gives me the creeps, though, not to know for sure.

The old lady’s not the sweet little featherbrain she’s cracked up to be. A whim of iron, if I ever saw one.

Mary Ethel would get my vote except I know good and well he’d head straight for her, the rat, the minute he hit town. Before he called me, that’s for sure. So she couldn’t have — wait a minute, they could have made a date for later.

Same thing goes for Tenny, I suppose. For all I know, that’s why he stayed away from the office today. He hated Byron enough. And now he hates me. I get the message, I know when I’m getting the old heave-ho. Well, I can take it. Damn, just when I thought I had it made.

Not I, thought Mary Ethel, I only tried and failed. As at least one of them must know, because one of them must have tried and succeeded. Don’t tell me he wouldn’t be here otherwise — he’d have been in his glory, watching everybody wriggle — and don’t tell me they didn’t have as much reason as I to want him dead. So who are they to be sneaking looks at me?

It could just as easily have been one of them. Any of them. Or... or all of them. Is that it? They’ve always hated me — they’d dearly love to hang it on me if they could. No one of them alone would have the nerve, but all of them together — a solid block of three against one, all telling the same story and sticking to it, backing each other up, planting evidence against me—

He must have told them I tried. That would give them the idea, the ready-made frame. And I’ve been away from my apartment since noon. Plenty of time and opportunity. They’re waiting now for me to go back there and find — whatever it is.

I won’t go back. I can’t. But if I don’t go back it will look even worse. No way out? There has to be, because I’m not guilty! I failed, I failed! I only tried and failed!

Once across the bridge and on the thruway, the big bus settled down to a steady, purposeful purr. Very soothing. Byron stretched his legs and leaned back comfortably, at peace with the world — the ex-Byron Hawley, traveling light and liking it.

He had fully intended to show up at his mother’s party, had in fact been on his way to it when all at once there was the bus station, the bus waiting for him, the space available, the irresistible urge to do everybody a favor and get rid of the old Byron Hawley once and for all.

No doubt about its being a favor to all of them — he had found that out for sure. There hadn’t been time for a telephone call before the bus left. And maybe that too was just as well, though of course some day he would probably, some day he might...

He yawned hugely. Then again he might not. The bus purred, lulling him to sleep.