Murder Up My Sleeve

12

Alma’s eyes gave no indication that she had been crying. Watching her, Terry decided the manifestations of grief would come later. Just then she was in the position of one who had work to do and couldn’t take time out to indulge in emotions.

“Terry,” she said, “we’re depending on you. I just came from visiting Cynthia in jail.”

There was no outward curiosity upon the face of Yat T’oy as he shuffled into the room, bearing drinks.

Terry said, “How do things look for her, Alma?”

“In some ways rather bad.”

“Has she made any statements?”

“Not after she was arrested. She refused to say a word unless Renny Howland was there. Of course, she made a statement to the district attorney when she was first questioned.”

“In which she said she carried the painting away with her?”

Alma’s face showed a swift shadow of discouragement.

“Yes,” she said. “Oh, Terry, why didn’t I get in touch with you before we got into the mess! It looked like such an easy way out at the time, I didn’t figure what must inevitably follow.”

“Cheer up,” Terry told her. “I think we’ll come out all right yet.”

“Have you heard anything more?”

He shook his head.

“They’re going to do something with you, Terry?”

“I suppose so. But in the meantime they’re giving me the mental third degree of letting me wonder just when they’re going to strike.”

“They’ll arrest you?”

He nodded, smiled and said. “Sure. Why not?”

“Can they prove anything?”

“Not a thing,” he said cheerfully. “Inspector Malloy insists there have been some very remarkable coincidences connecting me with the case, So far, that’s all he can prove — merely remarkable coincidences.”

“So far, Terry?” she asked.

He nodded.

“But suppose... well... suppose he should be able to get some proof?”

“Then,” Terry said, “he would be confronted with something of a dilemma. He’d have two murderers instead of one, and he wouldn’t know just which was which. That’s why he’s concentrating on Cynthia first. If he can’t pin it on her, he’ll switch to me, but he knows how important it is to have public opinion with him in a murder case, so he’s holding Cynthia under suspicion at the present time and mentioning to newspaper men that one of her close friends is being kept under surveillance.”

“But, Terry,” she said, her eyes staring at him in steady appraisal, “how about this Juanita? She swears that she had the portrait Cynthia painted. She swears she was the woman who went down the stairs at two o’clock in the morning.”

Terry Clane clinked the ice in his glass and said, “So what?”

“And she claims someone stole the portrait from her.”

“Most interesting,” Terry remarked. “It’s a shame she hasn’t the portrait to back up her story.”

Alma lowered her voice.

“Terry,” she said, “you know and I know that she really did have that portrait.”

Terry said, “Personally, I wouldn’t put too much reliance on her statement. She’s too emotional and high-strung, and she has the devil of a temper. No telling what a woman like that would do.”

“Terry, you’re making fun of me. You know and I know...”

“Nothing,” he interrupted. “We can only surmise.”

He sipped his drink.

She shrugged her shoulders and said, “Well, if you won’t be frank with me, you won’t.”

“I’m always frank,” he told her.

“But baffling,” she charged. “Terry, don’t sit there grinning like a Cheshire Cat, this is serious. You’re taking it as too much of a joke.”

“Almost the same words that Inspector Malloy used,” Clane observed. “By the way, Cynthia’s lawyer rang me up and said he’d like to have me stop at his office this afternoon for a conference. What does he want? Do you know?”

“No. He told me to come, too. He said things looked pretty black, and we were all going to have to pull together to get Cynthia out of it.”

“Laying the foundation for a bigger retainer?” Terry asked.

“I don’t think so. Stubby Nash gave him a check. I don’t know how much it was, but I think it was ample.”

“How does Cynthia feel about that?”

“She doesn’t like it. She told me she was going to pay her own legal fees.”

“There’s just a chance,” Clane said musingly, “this lawyer might do more harm than good.”

“How do you mean, Terry?”

“Events,” Terry said slowly, “are like a jigsaw puzzle. Each piece fits into some other piece, and if the pieces don’t fit, the puzzle isn’t complete. If the police can’t get all the pieces they may not be able to put the puzzle together, but if they get too many pieces, and then put the whole thing together, they’ll be able to detect those which are spurious.”

Alma’s forehead showed lines of worry.

“I’ve been thinking of that, Terry, I wonder if you could talk with Howland when you see him this afternoon.”

He nodded slowly.

“Terry,” she said, “we’re in a position where we’ve all got to be frank. Cynthia needs you, and I need you. And, somehow, you’re both holding back because of me. I care so much for both of you... and I’m like a wall, standing between you.

“Terry, I want you to talk to me and tell me the truth. You’ve said things from time to time which didn’t sound so dreadfully important at the time. Lots of them impressed me as being unsound ideas. Lately I’ve realized how terribly right you were.”

He studied her and said, “Such as what, Alma?”

“You said once that the underlying relationship between the sexes was one of hostility. What did you mean by that Terry?”

“Just what I said. To the extent that sex enters into companionship, there’s an underlying hostility. Real, frank friendships can only be had when the sex element is either entirely absent or else taken for granted.”

“Isn’t that a cynical way of looking at life, Terry?” she asked.

“Perhaps.”

“Terry,” she said, “I came to tell you something.”

“What?”

“You’re fighting yourself.”

“I?” He raised his brows.

“Yes, you.”

He became facetious and said, “Well, it should be a good even money bet. Which do you think will win, Alma, myself or me?”

“Don’t kid me, Terry,” she said, “you know what I’m trying to say, and you’re afraid to have me say it.”

Slowly he set down his glass and said, “Go ahead, Alma... Perhaps you’re right.”

“You were in love with me when you went to China,” she said, not as one asking a question, but as one making a statement, with a note of calm certainty in her voice.

“Yes,” he said, dropping his hand to his glass and sliding the tips of his fingers up and down the moist surface.

“Why did you go, Terry?”

“You were married to Bob,” he said slowly, “and Bob was my best friend. Then there was that night in my apartment... and I found out that I loved you and... well, things like that can’t be lived down, ever.”

“Don’t be such a Sir Galahad, Terry. You know, or should know, that the old double standard has become pretty obsolete. The really intellectual people know that sometimes circumstances... the sudden rush of emotion... a few drinks... Oh, Terry, you’re making it hard for me to say.”

“Bob was my best friend,” he said. “I was madly in love with you. It’s all right for you to look back on it and think it was circumstances... I don’t know how you looked at it at the time, but I know how I felt about it.”

“And so you went to China,” she said softly.

“I went to China,” he agreed. “I sailed the next day and I didn’t let anyone know my address. I deliberately closed a chapter of my life.”

“And Bob died within six months... and there was a report that you were dead, and I never believed it, Terry. I kept your picture on my dressing-table for those long years. You were there with me... watching me... the last thing when I turned out the light at night, the first thing in the morning.”

“And Bob died without knowing?” he asked.

She nodded and said slowly, “All this was seven years ago, Terry. You went away just seven years ago.”

“And now,” he said, “I’m back, Alma.”

There was almost a sob in her voice, but she went bravely on, “No, Terry, you’re not back. Why pretend that you are? The Terry who went away never came back. He couldn’t, Terry, because he was such a strange, visionary Terry. He loved the wife of his friend — and he went into self-imposed exile. And he never came back. Another Terry came back. Those years did things to you, and they did things to me. You went away, Terry. You were in love with me, and I was in love with you. I thought it was my duty to be loyal to Bob. I fought against my feeling for you, just as you thought it was your duty to be loyal to him and fought against your feeling for me. But the fact remains that you went away.

“Bob died. I concentrated on my career. You concentrated on forgetting. You became an adventurer. I became a plodder... No, don’t interrupt, Terry, I’m a plodder, I know it. I’m a slave to my success.

“You told me once that the world levied a price for everything the world gave us, that the price of success was always more than the purchaser was prepared to pay. In some ways, Terry, you were right — that’s the worst of you, you’re always right.

“When you came back, it was a different Terry, one who had taught himself to adventure, to seek the thrill of new experiences. You found a different Alma, one who had become fairly successful. Some call me famous.

“For years, Terry, I’d been stifling all my impulses, concentrating every bit of my energy upon achieving success. I achieved it, and while I was achieving it, I was losing my ability to laugh, to live, and to love.

“I didn’t realize it consciously, but subconsciously I did. That’s why I encouraged Cynthia to play. I liked to watch her getting a kick out of life. I even went so far, Terry, as to get something of a martyr’s complex, thinking that girls like Cynthia who caught the masculine fancy always seemed to be able to play with life without getting their fingers burnt, but that always in the background must be some woman with a maternal instinct watching over them, standing between them and the blows which the world would strike.”

“Alma,” Terry said, getting to his feet, standing by his chair, staring across and down at her, “you’re unjust — unjust to yourself and...”

“Don’t, Terry!” she interrupted. “Don’t stop me now. I’ve got started and I must finish. You came back — Terry Clane, the adventurer. You’d sailed into the far ports, seen strange people, and had adventures — and liked them.

“You found Alma Renton a serious painter, rapidly winning international acclaim. And you found Cynthia, a happy, carefree play-girl, who, nevertheless, had enough sense of restraint and responsibility to be decent, who laughed at life because she refused to be crushed by it. And she appealed to the adventurer in you. But you were loyal, Terry, not to me, but to your memory of me. I still love you, but I love my career more. I’m too ploddingly methodical to appeal to you in the way Cynthia does. I think and plan and plod, while Cynthia lives and laughs and loves.

“I came to tell you, Terry, to quit fighting with yourself. I’m not a machine, I’m a woman. I want to have a home, a garden. I want to plan meals, I want a husband, I want children. But I know that I can never have them, Terry. Too long now I’ve concentrated every bit of energy I have towards perfecting my painting. Now it’s grown to be bigger than I am. It’s bigger than the woman in me, bigger than the maternal instinct, bigger than anything else in life.”

She ceased talking, and for a long moment Terry stood silent. Then he said slowly, “And so?”

“And so,” she said, “I want you to know that you mustn’t let any mistaken loyalty to me stand between you and Cynthia.”

“How much,” he said, “of what you have just said was said for yourself, and how much was said for Cynthia?”

She shook her head, jumped to her feet and said, “Terry, don’t cross-examine me. I’ve told you. I’ve told you the truth. Now I’ve got that off my chest, I must go. And you will go to see Howland, won’t you, Terry? It may mean a lot to Cynthia.”

She crossed to the door before he could stop her. Her hand reached for the knob, fumbled about in a groping search.

“Alma,” he said, reaching for her, “you’re crying. Come back here.”

As he took her shoulders in tender hands, the knob turned from the other side. She stepped back into his arms, keeping her tear-flooded eyes averted. The door opened.

Yat T’oy’s imperturbable eyes stared calmly at Terry.

“Embroidered Halo,” he said in Cantonese, “awaits you. I have taken her into your bedroom, that she may not know the painter woman is here. It is important that you go to her at once.”