The Chinese Doll

Chapter 19

  Sunday night

Louise:

The time has come for you and me to settle something; you and me and Elizabeth Saari.

I think the world of you, Louise, you know that. Despite what may have crept into my letters concerning Dr. Saari and despite everything that has happened the last few days, it’s you I love. Don’t ever forget that.

I believe you still hold for me some of that old affection. That you continue to love me as fully as you once did, I doubt. Your infrequent letters of the past week have revealed a new, growing something that was only a subtle undertone all the previous weeks.

Because I love you so much, and because you still hold for me a small measure of affection, I want to repay my debt to you.

Louise, you shouldn’t have sent me those roses.

Not during my very first morning in the hospital, not before I had time to write you, telling you where I was.

I’m sure you see that mistake now, darling. When I regained consciousness I had been in the hospital perhaps four or five hours. And yet, there were those flowers from you. Later on that day I sent you a telegram, mentioning the flowers and that I expected to be released the following day. Had your roses not been there I still would have wired you, giving you the news. My telegram should have been your first inkling of where I was and what had happened to me.

But you already knew it.

It was sometime after that, when Thompson and I were talking, that the significance of those flowers struck me. Dr. Saari helped, too. Quite innocently she asked me when I was going to cease playing with fire. My first impression was that she was referring to you; whereas she was speaking of the mess I had become involved in. Later, I realized the misimpression I gained from her words was nearer the truth.

Frankly, I started holding back on you. I suggested to Thompson that he trace the movements of our chief of police, who was supposedly in St. Louis attending the FBI school. I suggested that when he located the farmhouse, he trace the long distance calls made on that phone. I suggested he trace the long distance calls made to the caretaker’s cottage.

But I couldn’t put that information in my letters to you.

Thompson has already discovered the chief never arrived in St. Louis. Today, or tomorrow at the latest, he’s going to find the chief went directly to you. And he’s going to trace a large number of the long distance calls to your Capitol City phone. He’s going to discover the answers all lead to a political reporter in the state capitol.

To a reporter, who, two or three years ago and in some manner as yet unknown to me, found and seized the opportunity to slice herself a piece of very rich cake. It’s one of those things that happens almost every day, somewhere in the world. I am forced to compliment the clever reporter on her astute handling of the reins. If she hadn’t once been in love with a nosey, second-rate detective named Charles Horne she might still be in the driver’s seat.

It was pointed out to me that the smashing of the honest-to-God love between Leonore and Harry Evans, over a delicate thing like an unborn child, could only have been a woman’s trick. A man would have been more direct, would have used a simple and sure method, a bullet. I had mistakenly credited Elizabeth Saari for that womanly trick.

It was also pointed out to me that someone was aware of every move I made. I credit Dr. Saari for that observation.

Uncle Jack, the City Hall porter, lost his job after I mentioned in my letter to you that I used him as a contact man. My visit to Eleanor in the Croyden apartment was known only after I told you about it. Eleanor, you see, was in no personal danger that night at the farmhouse because you hadn’t yet received my letter in which she figured. But the next day she was shot in the shoulder and that elaborate double-cross set up.

And there is the matter of Ashley having my photograph. There are but two recent pictures of me in existence. Mother Hubbard has one on her mantelpiece. Where is the one I gave you, Louise?

Thompson is trying to reach me on the phone as I write this, wanting me to explain those time lapses. I’m not going to answer it now, not tonight. I don’t want to tell him tonight that I’ve been writing you letters, enabling you to keep up with my every move, but from six to twenty-four hours behind me.

If, that night at the farmhouse, you had known that I had talked to Eleanor the same afternoon, you might not have stopped the hoodlum from killing me. I don’t know. Perhaps the following day when you received my letter telling about it, you regretted countermanding the order. But you did spare me even though I was a danger to you. And I want to repay you for that.

If you are a clever girl, Louise, you will have never received these final letters. You will have packed and vanished when they first hinted the game was in its last stages.

If you aren’t as smart as I’ve believed, then this is all I can do for you. This will be put on the southbound train an hour or so from now, it will be a special delivery. If you are still in Capitol City you’ll be reading these lines shortly after sunrise. And I promise you, Louise, that Don Thompson won’t find me — anywhere — until noon, at least.

I owe you that much.

I owe it to you because you are my wife, and I love you. It does no good to say we should have tried harder to make a success of our marriage; and it’s equally useless for me to remind you that I never liked this experiment of five years’ separation to determine whether we should live together again, or call it quits and divorce. I’m only sorry that we were separated for those three years that can never be recaptured.

So long, darling. I offer you my apologies for being the man who pulled your house of cards down around you. We’ve had a lot of good times together.

And Louise... I hope they never catch you.