Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 1, No. 1, May 1957 (British Edition)

Hard Way Out by Margaret Manners

I was not the marrying kind — in fact, all women made me afraid. Sybilla should have know she was signing her own death warrant when she led me into the trap!

Her presence alone would be enough to disturb me, but, adding insult to injury, Sybilla insists upon being devoted. I cannot believe that this horror has happened to me. I have come to the conclusion that there must be witchcraft in it, or something of the sort. I have never cared for women very much, anyway. I naturally distrust and fear the female of the species, but certainly delicate, pale blondes, with large green eyes, have never attracted me. I find the type basically upsetting.

How did it happen? I really cannot remember any of it very clearly.

Living on a more than adequate income, which I had the good fortune to inherit from my parents, and having no job to go to every day, makes it all the more trying. True, I have my collection of prints, my books and coins, the articles I write. Then, too, I have accomplished one thing — I have my retreat.

My “den,” as Sybilla calls it, is inviolate. She never crosses the threshold. But I can feel her patiently waiting for me to emerge, so that she can welcome me with one of her enveloping smiles. She is so discreetly long-suffering. She never complains about the long hours I spend by myself. It is in-sufferable — I cannot call my soul my own.

Even in my sanctum, she makes her presence felt. She gave me the desk I am using. I could hardly refuse it, and it is really a beautiful piece, not at all the sort of thing I should have expected her to choose, but she mercilessly studies my tastes.

A very expensive gift for Sybilla, whose own income is something less than adequate. Fortunately, the locks are excellent. I keep this journal in one of the drawers, and the key is always with me. Without this means of letting off steam, I think I might go beserk and start smashing things.

It was all very strange. I first met Sybilla at a party, and her long interested sidences flattered me. She is an extremely clever woman. Most of her sex cannot listen, can never keep quiet, Sybilla’s wide, absorbed gaze was very soothing. I drove her home. Home! A miserable furnished apartment, that hesitated between gentility and bohemianism, with a cooking arrangement in a cupboard.

Any woman who could prepare the meals Sybilla prepared in that cul-de-sac is a formidable adversary. Brave and chintzzy, it was, and utterly, utterly depressing. I suppose that I felt sorry for her. Anyway, there were a few concerts and drives in the country — and merely one or two kisses, which were prompted by curiosity. I very much wanted to learn if I attracted her.

It all culminated in a night I shall never forget, yet, ironically enough, can never quite remember. It was late, and there was a moon. An enchanting night — the acme of insipid sentimentality — so tritely romantic that it made one uncomfortable. One felt that the whole universe was trying to reproduce the final scene of a musical comedy and succeeding all too admirably. Over everything, hung a faint echo of papier mache. Sybilla, who was thirty-five, looked about eighteen.

Then I had a lapse that memory will not fill. The absurd words jumped into my brain from some hidden source. “Will you marry me?” I’m almost sure I didn’t say them. How could I have? My own voice — I would surely remember the sound of my own voice!

All I remember was my horror at hearing Sybilla say, “Of course I will, darling,” very gravely and seriously.

I was stunned. It was impossible. I had been tricked. But how?

She reached up confidently, obediently, and kissed me — the gesture of a woman who knows she has won. On the way down, I stumbled and staggered like a man who is ill. I wanted to say she had made a mistake, that it was quite out of the question.

As if she could read my mind, she took my hand and said, “I promise you won’t regret it. I’ll never be a nuisance.” And then she laughed, a little soprano trill of laughter that made my blood run cold. I was hooked, as the saying goes.

I squirmed on the hook, to be sure, but there is a quiet strength in these patient, understanding women that leaves mere man as weak as jelly. Like a man in a dream, I was married, and, like a man in a dream, I brought home my bride.

At first, I waited in fear and trembling, ready to defend myself against all furniture-moving, re-arranging, habit-breaking. But Sybilla was far too cunning for that. Her goal was deeper. She was after my innermost soul. There were no overt attempts to change anything. I was left feeling deflated — a soldier, who had spent himself accumulating ammunition against an enemy that never attacked.

She was subtlety itself. “You must let me know just what you like, my dear — I don’t want to make any mistakes.” She was much too wise to give me any cause for complaint.

From the start, I made a point of separate rooms. I had to preserve some semblance of human dignity. On the wedding night, I left her at her bedroom door, with, “You are tired, Sybilla — rest well.”

What control these creatures have! Her lips brushed my cheek. “How thoughtful, dear — goodnight,” she murmured. The door closed before I could depart. I felt idiotic.

Later on, in my room, I seemed to remember a look. Was it amusement, pain, wistful longing? I cannot bear to inflict pain. I capitulated and went to her room. Later I knew that I had made a grave mistake.

Her air of quiet domestic satisfaction at the breakfast table was insupportable. I locked myself in the “den” the rest of the day. It was the only defense I had. From the window, I could see her doing things in the garden and, once, I heard her singing.

At dinner I was cold and forbidding. The food was excellent. Is there nothing they will not stoop to? Even exploiting my weakness for souffles! After dinner, I complained of a headache, took a walk and retired early to my room. She was gently sympathetic, did not fuss to much. I was like a man beating against air, imprisoned by invisible walls.

At length, I have come to the end of my strength. I can bear it no longer. I have decided to act. I am writing this, not only as an outlet, but as a means of proving to myself that there is no other way. Writing demands a certain objectivity that thinking alone does not.

I have questioned her closely but casually, and have elicited the information that she could never go back to the life she lived before. I believe it — cooking in a cupboard! I know she would not accept money and divorce me. Sybilla never seems to care about money — she prefers to have me.

She put it one evening, quite simply and quietly. “You are my life, dear.” Then she went on calmly sewing. It appalled me.

I do not want to hurt her. The only possible solution seems to be that Sybilla should ‘cease upon the midnight with no pain, as the poet sings. It would be the kindest thing for her and I would be free of an intolerable existence.

I have made my plans. I have a supply of sleeping medicine on hand. I am a sensitive person, and, whenever I am nervous or upset, I cannot get to sleep without taking something. Lately, I have had to take it often.

I am allergic to most of the popular new remedies, so my doctor has had to fall back on an old standby that is very efficient. There is one drawback, though — the stuff is incredibly bitter.

But I have thought of a way. I have introduced the nightcap cocktail, my own invention, a drink before bedtime. And what odd mixtures I roguishly concoct and proffer for her approval. They have been getting more and more exotic, and, while Sybilla says she likes them, I think that is only to please me. No matter, as long as she drinks them. I have been saving the best for the last. It will disguise anything and will, I am sure numb the tastebuds for hours afterwards...

It will be soon. To-day I discovered Sybilla in a serious act of disobedience. She has flouted my authority. Hitherto, she has been too clever for me, but I know now that my instincts were all too sound. I am really glad to have this final proof of her perfidy. It is true that a man cannot call his mind or soul his own, with such a woman in the house.

Yesterday, I went to the city to see an editor of one of the periodicals I write for. It was a business trip. There was no reason why I should take Sybilla. Besides, I needed to get away alone, to assert myself. I told her that I would stay in town overnight at a hotel and come back late to-day.

Instead, I returned this morning — and I caught her. As I walked into the house, she was just coming out of my den!

She was frowning, and, when she saw me watching her, she turned quite pale, then blushed. I said nothing. I just looked at her.

I had to admire her. Her voice faltered, but only for an instant, as she said, “I thought I ought to see if the drapes in the den needed cleaning, Horace.”

I fingered the desk drawer-key in my pocket. What a blessing that I am always careful, and never forget to lock that drawer!

I did not return her smile. “Mrs. Tibbet will take care of such things, my dear, as she always has,” I told her coldly.

Mrs. Tibbet is old and wiry, with whiskers on her chin. She is unlovely, but clean, indefatigable and taciturn. She comes in every day and leaves after the dishes are done in the evenings. She has served me thus for years.

Sybilla tried again. “I thought perhaps you might like me to... since you don’t like your den disturbed.”

The inference being, of course, that I would prefer her in my sanctum, poking about, instead of the ignorant Mrs. Tibbet, who has no interest in anything literary and can barely read!

I made myself quite clear, saying, “We’ll leave things as they are. I’m used to Mrs. Tibbet, and she is completely trustworthy. Besides, I have no wish to offend her.”

Sybilla’s hand was in the pocket of her dress, and I could see that she was clenching it tightly. Then she asked me something that astonished me. “What was your mother like, Horace?”

“She was a fine woman,” I said, and then — God knows why — I blurted out. “She managed me!”

“But I don’t, you know.” Sybilla said.

For the first time, I felt that I was really reading the expression in her eyes — a mixture of patience and pity. It is, I know, a woman’s way when in the wrong, to pity the man who is in the right!

I went into the den. Of course, the first thing I did was to unlock the drawer. Everything was as I had left it — and the drawer was locked. Sybilla may be a witch, but I doubt that even she can open a lock by incantation.

I am horribly shaken. I cannot believe that I have done it at last. The night has not yet passed, but I feel as if I have aged years in these few hours.

Before bedtime, I made the cocktails, one for her and one for me. I was careful about hers. I gave her enough to put her to sleep forever, but not so much that the possibility of an accidental overdose would be incredible. Afterward, I planned to remove all traces of the cocktail and substitute for it a glass rinsed out with a little of the sleeping medicine. I would tell the doctor, quite frankly, that she had been in the habit of borrowing it lately, as she had not been sleeping well.

Sybilla drank every drop. There was a cold hand on my heart, as I watched her. But I had to go through with it. I could not afford to weaken now — it was too late. The mixture did all I had hoped for — there was not a shudder, not a grimace. She did say, which I thought rather odd, “This one should have an oriental name.”

I asked her why.

“An aroma of rose petals,” she said. “How did you manage that?”

I smiled wisely — but it certainly was an odd remark.

I persuaded her to go to her room immediately. I was suddenly filled with compassion. I wanted her to drop of pleasantly in bed. No horrors...

I went into my room, to wait. That hour was a lifetime I could not live through again. I began to think that I had been a fool, that I would never get away with it. I saw myself being tried, I heard the jury bring in the verdict of guilty.

Then I grew calmer — there was no palpable reason, no motive. I had married her, presumably, because I wanted to. I had the money, not she. Why should a man rid himself of a wife whom he can hardly have had time to tire, and whose death would not materially enrich him? I can’t find the answer to that, myself. It would sound silly to say I was afraid.

And so, having waited longer than was necessary to allow Sybilla to fall into her deep sleep, I went back to put that glass I had prepared beside her bed. I looped the belt of my bathrobe around it, to protect it from my fingerprints.

I opened the door. Her light was on. Sybilla was sitting up in bed, reading!

We stared at each other. There is a little table in the hall, just outside her door. I had barely enough presence of mind to put the glass down on it. My voice sounded cracked and strained. “Not asleep yet?”

“No, Horace — but how sweet of you, dear! Do come in.”

I couldn’t understand it. She must, I thought, be one of those rare people who react slowly. I stood there like a fool.

It was she who offered me a way out with, “You look ill — is anything the matter, dear?” Her voice was full of wifely concern.

Of course, I looked ill. Actually, at that moment, I was ill! I murmured something about the cocktail having disagreed with me, and asked for one of her indigestion tablets. Before I could stop her, she rose out of bed to get it for me. I was horrified lest the effort caused her to fall on her face, but nothing untoward happened.

“Would you like me to come and sit with you until you fall asleep?” she asked gently.

Briefly. I was stunned.

“No!” I almost shouted it. Then I added that I preferred to be alone when I was feeling unwell.

She nodded and smiled affectionately. “My unyielding bachelor,” she said and touched my forehead with her lips. “Go back to bed, dear. You’re in a cold sweat!”

Of course, I was in a cold sweat! Anyone in my position would have been.

I remembered to pick up the glass from the hall table and brought it back to my room with me. I must take care of it early in the morning. I can’t return for it now — I can’t! What a night! I shan’t sleep a wink.

Sybilla is dead... Sybilla is dead!

How can I pick up this narrative now — this narrative, that belonged to a different man, and continue it? For I am a different man. I have re-read what I wrote years ago, and I can scarcely believe that it was my brain, my hand, that conceived and put down those words.

I am suffering from shock. Even though I expected it, death is always a tremendous shock. It is so final, so complete — one can never go back. It has been a long time, and these pages look strange to me, yet I feel forced to finish them. It would not be right to leave them as they are.

I can shut my eyes and go back to that night, like a man outside of myself, see that man that I was and register all his thoughts, those thoughts that are no longer mine...

When dawn broke, I went back to Sybilla’s room. She was in a deep sleep — but her breathing was as natural and even as a child’s. How long it took — I was amazed. Just as I lifted her hand to press it around the glass, she awoke and sat up in bed!

“Why, Horace, dear, what is it?” she asked me.

I thought I was going to faint.

Sybilla was all solicitude. I told her I hadn’t slept and, in order to explain the glass in my hand, said that I was going to take a sleeping draft. I had come in to tell her that I would not be down for breakfast, and did not want to be disturbed.

Apparently, the dose had had no effect upon her whatsoever. She looked bright and well-rested. Her respiration was normal.

I went back to my room in a daze. I would have to pretend to sleep until the afternoon. I was tired, absolutely exhausted, spiritually and mentally, but I knew I could not sleep. I decided to do just what I had said I would do. I went to the bathroom, took down the jar of crystals and mixed my regular dose. Since the stuff is so bitter, I always tossed it off in one gulp, like straight whisky.

It almost paralyzed me. But, although it was revoltingly unpleasant, it was not bitter. It was sickly, heavily scented, like perfume.

No wonder, Sybilla hadn’t... But, at that moment, my stomach muscles rebelled, and I returned the nauseating mixture I had just swallowed.

I heard her voice at my elbow then. I had been making so much noise that I hadn’t heard the door, or her footsteps, through the bedroom.

She filled a glass with water. “Rinse out your mouth immediately,” she said.

When I could do so, I looked at her. She seemed very much upset. Her words tumbled out, humble, worried, apologetic. “I’m so sorry, Horace! But I had just waked up and didn’t think to tell you — then I just didn’t remember. Sorry, I was too late.”

My God! I thought. She’s poisoned me!

“It was silly of me,” she went on, “but you do get so annoyed if I touch your things. The other morning, I was tidying up in here and — well — I had an accident. The bottle didn’t break, but the top flew off, and the crystals spilled all over the place. I had to sweep them up and throw them away. I didn’t want you to notice. I was going to get the doctor to give me a prescription, so that I could replace it, but mean-while...”

“What is it?” I gasped. “What have I taken?”

“Oh, it can’t hurt you, dear — just my bath salts. They were the only thing I had that looked enough like the other stuff. It was just temporary, of course. I didn’t think you’d take any before I... I’m so sorry.”

I had to get out of the house. So, murmuring something about a walk and fresh air, I dressed and left.

My head was in a turmoil. Was it possible. Could a bottle fall in a tiled bathroom and not break? Would the top fly off, so that all the crystals spilled? Unlikely, certainly — but could I be sure it was impossible? If not that, then she must have deliberately — but how had she known that just at that time...? No, it must have been as she said. She might have thought I wouldn’t notice the substitution. It was true that I invariably made a scene if anything of mine was touched.

It was at once plausible and improbable.

The answer was awaiting me, when I returned to the house. I went into the sitting room. Sybilla was the picture of distaff bliss, with a sewing basket beside her. But she was not sewing, she was reading, or rather, turning the pages of a book.

Her voice was anxious, a little nervous, as she asked — “Are you feeling better? Would you like some breakfast after all?”

I had to begin somewhere. I asked her what she was reading.

“Just a thriller,” she replied.

“Trash.” I said.

She blushed. “I suppose so, but it’s rather clever — you know, psychological?”

I waited.

She went on. “I was reading a book the other day on psychology. I learned a lot. You know, children will often fight their parents, fight what is good for them, fight what they really want because they resent the power the adult has over them. They will say and do the most dreadful things. Wish their father was dead — act it out, killing a doll, or just pretending, even having a funeral. The Parents have to understand that the child really loves them but he has to get it out of his system.”

“Claptrap!” I told her. “Nonsense! Children like that should be spanked.”

She looked a little worried. “Perhaps, a little, sometimes — but mostly they should be loved — loved and understood. You know, Horace, I’m not very good at explaining things, but I do understand.”

What was she trying to tell me?

“These thrillers,” she went on, like someone who is desperately trying to make conversation. “Trash, as you say, but clever. This one had quite a good idea. A man thinks someone is trying to kill him, and he finds evidence of these intentions in a diary. He makes a photostatic copy and deposits it in his lawyer’s safe with instructions that it is to be given to the District Attorney in the event of his death. Then he lets the would-be murderer know what he has done.”

I was literally choking, but I had to speak. “It’s a worn-out device,” I said. “Been used dozens of times.”

“But effective, I think, Horace.”

Then I saw the key lying on top of her open sewing basket. I knew every convolution, every notch of that key! I remembered the day I had gone to town and returned to find her in the den.

Sybilla’s voice came from a long way off. “Oh, yes, dear, I intended to tell you. If ever you lose the key to your desk — there were two, you know. I kept this one for you, just in case.”

I saw it all. She had been reading my journal. She had removed it and had a photostat made. She knew! The bath salts — oriental rose petals, indeed!

I saw that she had let me know that we were to go on as if nothing had happened. She considered my plan a child’s fantasy, one that I must get out of my system...

That was when I began to change. Not immediately, but it happened. After all, for some reason I had married her, and Sybilla seemed convinced that, despite myself, I had wanted to.

We were married just over ten years. Sybilla has just died, quietly in bed, after a long illness. I miss her — miss her as I never missed anyone.

I admit that, at first, it was the thought of that sealed envelope in the lawyer’s safe, To be opened in the event of my death. I had to be sure that Sybilla didn’t die. I worried if she sat in a draft. It became second nature to me to look after her and watch over her. There was nothing else to do. We had to live together.

I began to appreciate her cooking, her intelligent comments, her comeliness, her quietness — the way she had of always being there when I wanted her, or of disappearing when I wanted to be alone. Sybilla was a perfect wife.

Just before the end I thought of the lawyer’s safe. It was a selfish thought. I had nothing to fear. The cause of Sybilla’s death was clear. But to have that horrible thing read by any human eye — to have it whispered about...

I bent over her, “Sybilla. Can you sign a request so that — the papers with the lawyer?”

She looked at me once and smiled. “Darling!” she said, and that was all...

There was nothing in the lawyer’s safe, nothing but a few family papers. There had never been anything. Was it all coincidence? An accident? The bath salts? The key? I hope so. But I think she knew and did not care. It was not herself she wanted to save, but me.