Twenty Plus Two

Chapter 24

The door was suddenly opened and he plunged into the house. He had one quick glimpse of the room — dilapidated, bare, dusty, unswept. He did not see the person who had opened the door for him. He pitched to the floor on his face.

He was vaguely aware that someone moved to his side. A soft voice said, “Tom,” but it was an instant until the hands touched his face, before the electric impulse shocked his brain. He half turned his face and saw her kneeling beside him.

“You,” he said.

“You’re freezing,” she said. “There’s no stove here, nothing I can make a fire with—”

“It’s all right,” he said, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. “Just wanted to get in — I’ll be all right.”

“You’re blue — chilled to the bone. You’re trembling.” She half turned him so that he was almost on his back.

“I’ve a coat here,” she said. “It’s dry — it’ll warm you.” She took it off. It was a powder blue spring coat, woolen, but lightweight.

To put it on his soaked clothing would quickly make it as wet as the clothing he already wore. It would be useless for him, for her.

She said, “You’ll have to undress, Tom. Dry yourself.”

He was shaking violently now, as if with the ague. He tried to sit up and she had to help him. Bracing him up with one hand, she worked his coat off one shoulder, then the other.

He tried to undo his necktie and could not manage it. She did it for him. She unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it off.

She stooped, stepped behind him and worked smoothly, efficiently for an instant. Soft, warm silk was applied to his scarred chest, to his back, his face and hair.

He could not stop shaking, but she dried him reasonably well.

“It’s not enough,” she said. “You’ll have to take off the rest of your clothes.”

She slipped off his shoes, his socks. And then she held her light coat over his shoulders. He worked off his trousers, his shorts. She handed him the already soggy silk and he tried to dry himself. He did not do a good job of it and she dropped the coat over his shoulders, took the wadded silk from his hands. She squeezed it out, then massaged his legs with it. She removed the excess moisture and then tried to wrap the coat about him. It was inadequate, covered him only partially.

She said, “You’ve got to get warm, Tom!”

He nodded dumbly. He had the coat tightly about him, had his arms crossed over the front of it. But he could not stop shaking.

She took off the jacket of her suit, knelt beside him.

“Lie down,” she ordered.

He did as she asked. She twisted the suit coat about his feet and legs. It covered him to his knees. Her light coat almost reached the knees.

She sat down beside him, took his hands and opened the coat. She stretched out beside him. “Put your arms around me.”

He opened up the coat and put his arms around her. She moved close to him, eased the coat down. Underneath it, her arms went around him. Her body tightened against his.

He managed to say, “I came, Nikki—”

“I know,” she replied, “but don’t talk now — unless you have to.”

“This... this is all right?”

“You came,” she replied, “so you know it is all right.”

He was icy cold against her, but the warmth of her body gradually won mastery over the cold. He shivered and at times he gasped from the anguish of it, but gradually his shivering became less violent.

She kept her body tightly against his, her face to his, her smooth soft cheek against his cold, unshaven jaw.

He did not speak again and she did not have to. Then, gradually, the tenseness seeped out of his body. His body grew less rigid, as the coldness decreased.

He slept.

His arms relaxed about her, but her own held him close. She felt his breath on her face, warm. She knew he was sleeping. After long minutes she moved her face gently. Her lips touched his, remained lightly on them for a long moment.

“Sleep,” she said so softly it did not disturb him.

She did not move away from him for more than an hour. His body was warm then, relaxed. It was still raining outside, but without the intensity of the early hours.

She put his arms tenderly inside the coat, pulled it together over him and got quietly to her feet. She removed her shoes so the noise of her movements would not disturb him.

She took his clothes, one piece at a time and twisted every possible drop of moisture from them. She stretched out each piece on the floor, worried out the wrinkles as well as she could.

The piece of silk she had taken to dry him was the last to receive her attention.

In her stocking feet she walked to the window then.

It was an old house and had been deserted for a long time. Several of the window panes were broken. Those that remained were so dusty it was hard to see through them.

The rain continued. There would be no travelers on the road until the rain subsided and some of the water had run off.

She turned, leaned her back against the wall and watched him as he slept.

He slept for more than three hours and her eyes were seldom from him. She moved around the cabin now and then, picked up a piece of clothing and fanned it to help it dry faster before spreading it out again. Sometimes she sat on the floor near him and watched him.

When he finally moved she went swiftly to him, seated herself beside him.

A sigh escaped his lips and then his eyes opened.

“Nikki,” he said quietly.

“Yes, Tom.”

“I’m all right — not tired any more.” He did not try to sit up, however. The coat moved a little and one hand came out from under it. Her own hand went to meet it.

“Do you want to talk?” he asked.

“If you wish.”

“I think we should.”

Her hand was relaxed in his, firm. There was utter surrender in it. Not one tiny muscle resisted.

He said, “You know about me — how feel?”

“Of course. I... I knew when I got off the plane in Chicago. I didn’t look back when I started away, but with every step I took, I knew. I knew.”

He was silent a moment. Then, “A hand grenade exploded once less than six feet from me. It was like... like lightning bolts striking me from all sides at once. Before... before I slept I experienced something almost like it. Something exploded in my brain. I must know.”

“What, Tom?”

“Lie down.”

She lay down beside him. He released her hand and put both arms around her, one under her body. He drew her tightly to him.

Their mouths met and kissed. There was no wild passion in it, only understanding. Finally he moved his lips a fraction of an inch from hers.

He said. “It wasn’t a delusion. You are Helga.”

She said, “Oh, my dear, I have been waiting for you to say that. I’ve wanted to hear it. I couldn’t tell you — I couldn’t even hint. You had to know it yourself. You had to remember!”

“I didn’t want to remember. I buried the name Helga and the memory of her. I buried her in a corner of my heart, a corner so remote that I dared not look into it.”

“Yet you almost remembered, on the plane!”

“You knew me then?”

“I knew you the night before at The Tuilleries. You see, my dear, I did not try to forget. I tried to remember. When you left me, in 1944, I had nothing left to live for — except the memory of you. Without it I could not live — and I could not die.”

“You could not die,” said Alder, “because you were Doris Delaney?”

For a long moment she held her breath. Then she let it out, slowly. “When did you know?”

“Today... yesterday. Perhaps, I knew it a long time ago. After I left you in 1944, there were some very long nights on a couple of pretty dismal islands. Then I got wounded again—”

“Oh, my dear!” exclaimed Nikki.

“I worked it out while I was in the hospital. That you loved me, I knew. What your secret was I didn’t know. But there had to be one — and it had to be something so dreadful that it meant more than life to you — more than death. It had to be something that you could not tell, even to me. I remember once, when I was reading a magazine — a rehash about famous disappearances. There was quite a lot about you. I got to thinking about the case. Suppose — instead of all the other things that were suggested — suppose Doris Delaney had simply run away? What had she done that she dared not return?”

Nikki was silent a moment. “You know why I couldn’t die? Because I might have been identified after death. My fingerprints. I couldn’t die, for fear of what my death would do — to the living.”

“You thought of it, that night,” said Alder, “that night when you couldn’t answer my questions.”

“Oh, I wanted to tell you, my darling. I wanted to tell you so much. But you were not yet ready. Nor was I.”

“I was ready when I returned to Honolulu after the war. But it was too late. You were gone.”

“I went to the mainland a month after you left.”

“Do you want to tell me, now? We have the time. When the rain stops...”

“How much do you want to know?”

“As much as you want to tell me.”

“I must tell you all of it, but it will take so long.”

“Why don’t I go over it briefly once and we can talk about it and fill in? You know that I will hold nothing back from you.”

“I know.”

Briefly her lips touched his, then she began: “December, 1938. I had met him in the malt shop. I went alone and he was there. We talked and I was very grown up. I was only fifteen — no, I will not hide behind anything. I knew what I was doing.”

“But you had lived in a different world.”

“Yes, I had. He was very handsome, he was charming. He was utterly unlike any of the boys I had ever known. He was a man and the others were children. By comparison with, well, my regular dates at the dances, he was — wonderful. I met him twice in the malt shop and then it was the Christmas vacation. He knew that I would be at home, but I made a date to meet him at the malt shop. He suggested a visit to his friend’s home. He wanted to show me off. We got there and his friend was not there. That is how young I was. I have thought of it a thousand hours and I have justified it. I was a child. He kissed me and we smoked a cigarette. I was not aware of the cigarette either. My life had been a sheltered one.”

“Marijuana!”

“Yes. I let him kiss me — and I kissed him — as much as the cigarette releases inhibitions. But marijuana does not exhilarate enough so that you do not object to a hand on your thigh. I fought him, then, but he struck me with his fist and — and I was suddenly terribly frightened. I stopped struggling and — he had his way. He let me leave after an hour.”

“An hour?”

“He did things to me that none of the girls in our talks late at night had ever even hinted at. Things we did not know about. I did not tell my mother, or my father. That was my mistake. I was too old to tell them, and yet not old enough.

“I went back to school. No one knew. It was all right. Until February. I found that I was pregnant. He had been in the store twice in January. Once I would not go in when I saw him through the window. The second time I tried to pass it off as if there had been nothing. But in February I went there three times to find him. On the 13th he was there. I told him enough in a quick rush of words so that he knew. ‘What did I expect?’ he demanded.

“I told him. I did not know — but he probably did. Where I could get an abortion. He said there was a doctor in his house who could do it.

“I went with him.

“That was my second mistake. I went with him to his room and he said he would bring the doctor to me. It could be done quietly, quickly. He left me there. In ten minutes he returned with the other man.

“The friend looked at me and they began to talk. It was a moment or two before I realized what they were talking about.” Nikki paused for a moment, then went on inexorably, “He wanted a hundred dollars from his friend. The friend did not want to pay that much, so he... he tore my dress to expose me. He told his friend to... to feel my breasts. He did, and then paid the hundred dollars. I tried to run. He struck me savagely in the face. I was not unconscious, but I fell to the floor. He helped to hold me still while his... his friend, his customer.” Nikki’s voice at last began to show a warmth and Alder held her a little tighter. “I must tell you, Tom! You must know everything.”

“Yes, Nikki.”

“Would you rather call me Nikki?”

“It’s a name which has no memories.”

“Then call me Nikki always.”

She kissed him and went on with her story.

“My dear,” she said, “you know that we can cry only so much and then there are no tears left. Perhaps — some day again, but not yet. You must know that, even if I do not cry, I am close to you and love you. Now, please, my love, and then I will tell the rest of it.”

“He held me until his friend had finished and then he pressed me down to the floor and tried to have me himself. But he kept on his coat and I felt the revolver on his left side. I pretended passion and I got the revolver. I held it to his head and I... I shot him. I had to push him off quickly and I felt the blood on me. The friend was caught by surprise and when I pointed the gun at him, he begged for his life. I let him go.

“I realized that I had to run. I had no money, just some small change. I took the hundred dollars he had been paid by his friend. Twenty dollars more that I found in his pockets. That is what I had when I fled, one hundred and twenty dollars — and seventy-five cents of my own. In my panic, I left the gun there with my fingerprints on it. It was my most serious mistake.

“It was evening, late evening, before I was missed at school. I was then already out of New York. I took a subway to Yonkers, the train to White Plains. Then a bus to the Tarrytown ferry. In New Jersey, I found an old coat, which someone had forgotten. I put it on and rode in a bus to Binghamton. I got there at midnight.

“I bought an airplane ticket to Philadelphia. The next morning I spent all but ten dollars of my capital for a ticket to San Francisco. It was one of those old-fashioned unscheduled flights. The trip was a bad one for most of the way. Passengers were sick, frightened. No one talked to me. I was a girl in a dirty old coat, a swollen face.

“My father did not notify the police that day. Two days later, when the papers carried the story, I had dyed my hair.

“I met a girl in San Francisco. On the Fort Mason docks. She was older. It was she who took me to—” Nikki paused a moment.

“It is necessary now to tell you how I became a prostitute. You do not have to hold me tight, but I... I think I would like it if you did and I will go over it quickly this time and perhaps later, perhaps when I have learned to cry again, I will tell you all of it.”

He held her tightly, almost too tightly for she could not speak too well, so he loosened his arms slightly.

“The girl from the docks took me to the house on Pacific Street. The woman who ran it agreed to pay for the abortion if I would stay with her three months and pay it back out of the earnings — I had the abortion and the next day she brought in my first customer.

“I stayed the three months, Tom, and then I asked to go to Hawaii with four girls she was sending there. In the three months on Pacific Street I never left the house. I saw no one except the girls and — the customers. I kept my hair dyed, but I don’t think it would have been necessary. No one who read about Doris Delaney, or saw her picture in the papers would possibly think that the dark-haired whore in the five-dollar house was light blonde Doris Delaney.

“Honolulu was six thousand miles from New York, the other side of the world. No one knew, no one cared. I was the twenty-five-dollar girl in the house, sometimes even the fifty-dollar girl. Was I wrong, Tom? Could I have gone home after killing him? Could I have let my family learn? It would have broken their hearts. I know — running away also did it. But, somehow their memory of me would be cleaner. It was the lesser, to me, when I was sixteen. It was not the killing, Tom. I knew even then, that I could not be convicted of it... it was the disgrace, the details of how I had killed him and why. It would have killed my father. He never knew and when he died, I am sure it was better that he did not know. My mother.”

“I saw her yesterday morning, Nikki. She is you, Nikki, strong and so exactly like you. She has never stopped loving you. When I left, she knew that I would find you. I told her I would and she believed me.”

“I am glad, Tom.”

“She also told me something else that I will tell you later.”

“You don’t want to tell me now? It... it might help.”

He thought for a moment. “Yes, it will help. She said that she wished I had met you twenty-two years ago.”

“She knew that, Tom? She knew that we would have loved each other even then? I’m glad you told me. It is good that she knows we are right for each other...

“My dear, can I justify to myself why I became — what I became? I had killed a man — a vile creature. The circumstances were so foul. I had to find a hole, a dark hole where no one on earth could find me, where no one who knew the slightest thing about Doris Delaney would think of looking, where even if they suspected, they would not believe. I went into that deep, dark hole, Tom — and I stayed in it — until I met you. After that last night, in Honolulu, there was no one else.”

“You did not have to tell me that, Nikki.”

“Shall I talk about 1944? We both know what happened then and I want to tell you about now.”

“Yes, Nikki.”

“I came back to the mainland in ’44. I had fourteen thousand dollars and I had fought the tiger that all of us have to fight and I had defeated him. I was ready for the new, the permanent life I would lead for the rest of my life... without you. The quiet, the sheltered life — the existence that I could have as long as I lived. I met Walter and I married him. He loved me.”

“Walter will be hurt.”

“He will be hurt, Tom. But you and I cannot feel sorry for anyone else. We have had to be sorry for ourselves — too much and too long. We have lived our lives and we have no more tears. I married Walter and it was right. Walter is a good man. He asked for no more than I could give him. It was a good life, a haven, after the long, long years since 1938. We lived in our tight little circle and I seldom came out from inside that high fence. Sometimes, when Walter had to go on a trip, I would take one. I went to quiet places and I told Walter that I had visited the family I had created. The Kovacs family. Kovacs was the real name of Carrie Goddard a woman...”

Nikki clung to him a moment. Then she went on:

“I have not gone to motion picture theaters more than once or twice a year since we settled down behind our fence in Burlingame. But we have a television set and it has helped me through the long evenings when Walter was away. Walter enjoyed it when he was at home and I enjoyed it with him. But Walter was away when I saw the late show that night.

“It was a war picture made twelve years ago. Of course I knew of his name vaguely. The magazines I read sometimes had the name among other actors’ names. I had not seen a picture of him, however — and the name meant no more than any other actor’s.

“It was the old picture on the late show. The resemblance to the man I had killed in 1938 was striking. I knew it couldn’t be he, but I could not get it out of my mind.

“I found a more recent picture at a theater and studied it closely. I bought some of those motion picture magazines. I tried to reassure myself. It was not the same man. Nothing tied together — except the physical resemblance. But I had to be certain.

“From the motion picture magazines I learned what to do. I wrote a fan letter and I even enclosed a quarter for the picture. I wrote like a young girl and I used a post-office box.

“I got the picture autographed — by his fan mail secretary. I got a mimeographed letter and I sent a dollar to join the fan club. I received his fan magazine.”

“I read one the other night,” interrupted Alder.

“I read mine four times, every single word and I was still doubtful. Perhaps more doubtful than before. This was from someone close to him — a person who knew him well, his own employee. The other man had been twenty-five years old in 1938. He would now have been forty-seven. Yet the fan magazine said he was thirty-four. Also, the other man had lived in New York for ten years. He had come from North Dakota — he told me that in New York. The motion picture star was from West Texas. He knew ranch life. He had an outstanding war record. He had been a driller in the oil fields of Texas. He had been born and raised on a horse. Virtually every year of his life was accounted for — the thirty-four years of it.

“I received a second magazine the next month. There were more details of him. He was a writer of stories and the man I had known had left school at fifteen and was uncouth and ungrammatical. The thirteen-year difference in ages was too much, the devastatingly detailed accounts of his life were too different. It could not possibly be the same man.

“Yet I had to know — for sure. I worked it so that Linda invited me to Los Angeles, when Walter had to be there on business. That was the night at The Tuilleries. He was at the bar with you. I saw him at short range and I was not sure, perhaps because I could not still my heart because of you. His eyes met mine once when he was in the booth with the young blonde girl. There was no recognition in them. When we returned to the hotel I read the evening paper. I had not read the earlier papers, but now I learned that his fan secretary had been murdered. The paper mentioned the clipping about me. I was almost sure then — and that is why I flew to Chicago the next day — to come here — and find out for certain once and for all. You were on the plane. I learned enough from you to guess that you were going to New York — to search for Doris Delaney. I... I wanted so terribly to be found — by you. When I got off the plane, I telephoned to Linda.”

“I think I know the reason,” said Alder, “but I would like to have you tell me.”

“If she came to Chicago, she would get you back from New York. Alter talking to you on the plane, after being so near you that became more important to me than the other. Of course you know why I telephoned you last night. I had to hear your voice. I had to know absolutely how you felt. If what I thought was true — and I had to remove the last shred of uncertainty — if you came, that was it. You came, my dear, and it is over.”

“For us, yes, Nikki, we are together. But you have to know about him. Is he...”

“Tom, I am not certain. I thought you might know.”

“I believe he is. But, there is a shred of doubt, Nikki. There could be a mistake somewhere. A shocking, terrible mistake. We have to make 100 per cent certain. You want that absolute certainty as much as I do. I will tell you what I know and we will examine it together. You may fill in some pieces that are left, perhaps things you tell me will help me fill in some pieces.”

They talked and it was good. The rain lessened and when they had talked for a long time, the rain stopped. Alder’s clothing was partially dried, the lighter pieces, which he put on. He held Nikki again until the rain had stopped completely and his clothing was almost dry. It was late afternoon by that time.

They were both hungry, but it was not yet possible to leave the deserted cabin. Toward dusk, when the sky had completely cleared, Alder went outside and started the motor of Nikki’s car, which she had bought for cash in Bismarck. He warmed up the car, let the motor run long enough to dry it out, so that it would operate smoothly, when they finally essayed the rest of the trip.