Laura (Femmes Fatales) Page 13

  Mr. Carpenter: The poor child was quite distraught. You didn’t know her, McPherson, but she was one of the most feminine creatures I have ever met. Like my own mother, although she was a girl of very different background and breeding. Yet she always felt the need of turning to a man when anything distressed her. It was unfortunate that I happened to be the man of her choice. Women—I hope you don’t mind my saying this, McPherson, but I’m trying to be frank as possible—have more than once attached themselves to me quite without encouragement. As Miss Hunt herself remarked, Diane had not been bred among gentlefolk. What we considered merely good manners she took evidence of . . . shall we call it love? Her emotions were wild and undisciplined. Although she knew that I was engaged to marry Miss Hunt, she declared herself madly in love with me and, I must say, often embarrassed me with her declarations. Perhaps you’ve known young girls like this, McPherson, who love so violently that nothing exists for them except their passion and the man upon whom it is fixed.

  Lieutenant McPherson: You didn’t exactly discourage her, did you?

  Mr. Salsbury: The question is irrelevant. You needn’t answer it, Mr. Carpenter.

  Mr. Carpenter: I tried not to be unkind. She was young and very sensitive.

  Lieutenant McPherson: Did she say anything to you about having had lunch with Laura?

  Mr. Carpenter: She told me she was desperate. At first I thought her fears were nothing more than hysteria. “Don’t dramatize yourself,” I told her, but there was something about her voice, a wild, frightened tone, that distressed me. I knew her to be both impulsive and courageous. I was afraid she might . . . you know what I mean, McPherson. So I said I’d take her to dinner, as a sort of farewell, you understand. I meant to talk some sense into her. We agreed to meet at Montagnino’s.

  Lieutenant McPherson: Montagnino’s.

  Mr. Carpenter: I felt that Diane’s morale needed a stimulant. And since Miss Hunt had often mentioned Montagnino’s as a favorite restaurant, Diane considered the place quite glamorous. You have no idea of the child’s devotion to Miss Hunt.

  Lieutenant McPherson: You didn’t mention this to Laura, did you?

  Mr. Carpenter: It would only have distressed her. She had been quite unhappy about having been so rude to Diane, you know. Although I did intend to tell her about it later. And besides she was dining with Waldo Lydecker . . . or at least that’s what I thought.

  Lieutenant McPherson: When you had cocktails with Miss Hunt at the Tropicale Bar, what did you talk about?

  Mr. Carpenter: What did we talk about? Oh . . . well . . . our plans, of course. She seemed so cold and rather listless, but I attributed this to her nervous condition. I begged her to have a good rest and not to worry. Miss Hunt, you know, is a very intelligent young woman, but sometimes her emotions get the better of her, and she becomes almost hysterical about world conditions. She suffers a sort of guilt complex, and sometimes declares that we, innocent people of our sort, share the responsibility for the horror and suffering that one reads about in the newspapers. This, added to a certain cynicism about the work she does, gives her an emotional instability which, I thought, I might help to correct. And so I begged her not to read newspapers or listen to news broadcasts during this week of rest, and she was rather charming about it, unusually submissive and quiet. When we parted, she allowed me to kiss her, but there was little warmth in her response. I gave the taxi driver Waldo Lydecker’s address, since she had said nothing to me of a change in her plans. Then I went back to the hotel, changed my clothes, and went on down to Montagnino’s. I must tell you that I was disappointed in the place.

  Lieutenant McPherson: You’d never been there before?

  Mr. Carpenter: Mr. Lydecker had always taken Miss Hunt there. They were quite exclusive about it. We’d only known it by hearsay.

  Lieutenant McPherson: Did Diane tell you about having had lunch with Laura and bringing out the cigarette case?

  Mr. Carpenter: Yes, she did. And I was most unhappy.

  Lieutenant McPherson: Before or after the wedding?

  Mr. Salsbury: You needn’t answer that, Mr. Carpenter.

  Mr. Carpenter: You seem to think, McPherson, that there was something clandestine in my relationship with Diane.

  Lieutenant McPherson: There were only two ways for her to have got hold of that cigarette case. Either she stole it or you gave it to her.

  Mr. Carpenter: I admit that the incident looks very shabby, but if you knew the circumstances that brought about this . . . this . . . this gesture, I’m sure you’d understand.

  Lieutenant McPherson: Diane was desperate, I suppose.

  Mr. Carpenter: I don’t like your tone, McPherson. What you imply was not the situation.

  Lieutenant McPherson: I didn’t imply anything except that you had to be a big shot for Diane. Bigger than Laura. But if you want me to imply anything else, I can think of a couple of reasons why you might have given her that gold cigarette case.

  Mr. Salsbury: Personal and irrelevant details, Lieutenant.

  Mr. Carpenter: Thank you, Mr. Salsbury.

  Lieutenant McPherson: Okay, go on.

  Mr. Carpenter: At about ten o’clock we left the restaurant. I had expected her to have recovered by that time, but she was more nervous and upset than before. She seemed to be suffering some nameless terror, almost as if she were afraid of violence. Although she would not definitely name her fear, I could see that this hysteria was not entirely groundless. In the circumstances I couldn’t leave her alone, and so I promised to come up with her for a little while.

  Lieutenant McPherson: To Laura’s apartment?

  Mr. Carpenter: I confess that I didn’t quite enjoy the prospect, but in the circumstances I couldn’t talk to her in a public place. And since she obviously couldn’t come to my room in a hotel for men, and male guests were not allowed upstairs in her boarding house, it seemed the only practical arrangement. So we drove uptown to the apartment . . .

  Lieutenant McPherson: Where was she when you stopped in at Mosconi’s to buy the Bourbon?

  Mr. Carpenter: I ought to explain that, oughtn’t I?

  Lieutenant McPherson: It’d help.

  Mr. Carpenter: Diane was distressed and needed a stimulant. We felt a little queer about taking Miss Hunt’s liquor, and so I stopped at Mosconi’s . . .

  Lieutenant McPherson: Leaving Diane outside because Mosconi knew you as Laura’s friend.

  Mr. Carpenter: Not at all. Diane had to stop in the drugstore . . .

  Mr. Salsbury: You went right on to Miss Hunt’s apartment, didn’t you?

  Lieutenant McPherson: Where Diane took off her clothes and put on Laura’s silk robe.

  Mr. Carpenter: It was a very hot night, as you’ll remember.

  Lieutenant McPherson: There was a breeze in the bedroom, I suppose.

  Mr. Carpenter: We talked for three hours. Then the doorbell rang and . . .

  Lieutenant McPherson: Tell us exactly what happened. Don’t skip anything.

  Mr. Carpenter: We were both surprised, and Diane was frightened. But knowing Miss Hunt as I’ve known her, I’ve learned to be shocked at nothing. When her friends are upset about their marriages or love affairs or careers, they think nothing of disturbing her with their troubles. I told Diane to go to the door and explain that she was using the apartment while Laura was away.

  Lieutenant McPherson: You stayed in the bedroom, huh?

  Mr. Carpenter: Suppose one of Laura’s friends had found me there? Better to avoid gossip, wasn’t it?

  Lieutenant McPherson: Go on.

  Mr. Carpenter: The bell rang again. I heard Diane’s mules clattering on the bare boards between the rugs. Then there was a moment of silence, and the shot. You can imagine how I felt. By the time I reached her, the door had closed and she lay there on the floor. The room was dark, I saw only a vague light shape, her silk robe. I a
sked if she had been hurt. There was no answer. Then I stooped down to feel her heart.

  Lieutenant McPherson: Go on.

  Mr. Carpenter: It’s too hideous to talk about.

  Lieutenant McPherson: And then what did you do?

  Mr. Carpenter: My first instinct was to call the police.

  Lieutenant McPherson: Why didn’t you?

  Mr. Carpenter: Just as I was about to lift the receiver, I was struck by a paralyzing thought. My hand fell at my side. I just stood there. You must remember, McPherson, that I loved Laura dearly.

  Lieutenant McPherson: It wasn’t Laura who was shot.

  Mr. Carpenter: I owed her a certain loyalty. And in a way I felt some responsibility for this affair. I knew at once why Diane had been so terrified, after that display of bad manners Wednesday afternoon. As soon as I had put two and two together, I realized that I had one duty in regard to this tragedy. No matter how difficult it might be for me to control myself, I must keep out of it. My presence in this apartment would not only be extremely awkward, but would indubitably cast suspicion upon that one person whom I must protect. I can see now that it was extremely foolish for me to have acted upon this impulse, but there are times when a man is moved by something deeper than rational emotion.

  Lieutenant McPherson: Did it occur to you that, by leaving the apartment and withholding the truth, you were obstructing the processes of law?

  Mr. Carpenter: I had only one thought in mind: the safety of a person whose life was dearer to me than my own.

  Lieutenant McPherson: On Saturday morning, when our men came to the Framingham to tell you that Laura was dead, you seemed sincerely shocked.

  Mr. Carpenter: I must admit that I was not prepared for that interpretation.

  Lieutenant McPherson: But you had your alibi ready, and no matter who was dead, you stuck to your story.

  Mr. Carpenter: If I had become involved in the case, someone else would eventually have been suspected. This is what I hoped to avoid. But you must realize that my grief was real, both for Diane and the other person. I don’t believe I’ve slept a full two hours since this thing happened. It’s not like me to lie. I’m happiest when I can be completely frank with myself and the world.

  Lieutenant McPherson: Although you knew Laura was not dead, you evidently made no effort to get in touch with her. Why not?

  Mr. Carpenter: Wasn’t it better to let her pursue her own course? I felt that if she wanted me, she’d call upon me, knowing that I’d stand by her to the bitter end.

  Lieutenant McPherson: Why did you go and stay with Laura’s aunt?

  Mr. Carpenter: Since I was almost a member of the family, it was more or less my duty to attend to the unpleasant details. Mrs. Treadwell was very gracious, I must say, in suggesting that public curiosity made it uncomfortable for me at the hotel. After all, I was in mourning.

  Lieutenant McPherson: And you allowed Diane to be buried—or cremated—as Laura Hunt.

  Mr. Carpenter: I can’t tell you what I suffered during those terrible four days.

  Lieutenant McPherson: On the night that Laura came back, she phoned you at the Framingham, didn’t she? And you’d given instructions that they weren’t to give out your number . . .

  Mr. Carpenter: The reporters were making me quite uncomfortable, McPherson. I thought it best anyway not to have her telephoning her aunt’s house. When they phoned me on Wednesday night—or Thursday morning, it was—I knew at once. And although I don’t wish to seem ungrateful to my hostess, I knew Mrs. Treadwell to be an inquisitive woman. And since it would have been a shock for her to hear the voice of a person whose funeral she had just attended, I went out to a pay booth to telephone Miss Hunt.

  Lieutenant McPherson: Repeat that conversation as fully as you remember it.

  Mr. Carpenter: She said, “Shelby?” and I said, “Hello, my darling,” and she said, “Did you think I was dead, Shelby?” I asked her if she was all right.

  Lieutenant McPherson: Did you say you thought she had died?

  Mr. Carpenter: I asked if she was all right. She said that she felt terribly about poor Diane, and asked if I knew anyone who might have wished her to die. I knew then that Miss Hunt did not intend to give me her full confidence. Nor could I talk to her frankly on the telephone. But I knew there was one detail which might prove embarrassing—or downright dangerous—and I made up my mind to save her, if I could.

  Lieutenant McPherson: What was that detail?

  Mr. Carpenter: It’s right there on your desk, McPherson.

  Lieutenant McPherson: You knew she had the shotgun?

  Mr. Carpenter: I had given it to her. She frequently stayed alone in her country house. Those initials are my mother’s—Delilah Shelby Carpenter.

  Lieutenant McPherson: And that’s why you borrowed Mrs. Treadwell’s car and drove up to Wilton?

  Mr. Carpenter: Yes, that’s right. But when your man followed me in the cab, I didn’t dare go into the house. I stood in the garden for a while and I was considerably overcome because I couldn’t help remembering what that little cottage and garden had meant to us. When I returned to town and found you with Mrs. Treadwell, I was not completely untruthful in saying that it had been a sentimental pilgrimage. Later in the day you asked me to come up to the apartment. I was to be surprised at finding Miss Hunt alive and as you were going to study my reactions, McPherson, I decided to give you the show that you expected, for I still believed that there was a chance to save the situation.

  Lieutenant McPherson: But after I left, you talked it over with Laura. You told her exactly what you thought.

  Mr. Carpenter: Miss Hunt has admitted nothing.

  Mr. Salsbury: Lieutenant McPherson, my client has gone to considerable trouble and risked his personal safety in order to protect another person. He is not obliged to answer any question which might incriminate that person.

  Lieutenant McPherson: Okay, I’ve got it straight. I’ll get in touch with you if I need you, Carpenter. But don’t leave the city.

  Mr. Carpenter: Thank you so much for your understanding attitude, McPherson.

  PART FOUR

  Chapter 1

  Last week, when I thought I was to be married, I burned my girlhood behind me. And vowed never to keep another diary. The other night, when I came home and found Mark McPherson in my apartment, more intimate than my oldest friend, my first thought was gratitude for the destruction of those shameful pages. How inconsistent he would have thought me if he had read them! I can never keep a proper diary, simmer my life down to a line a day, nor make breakfast on the sixteenth of the month as important as falling in love on the seventeenth. It’s always when I start on a long journey or meet an exciting man or take a new job that I must sit for hours in a frenzy of recapitulation. The idea that I am an intelligent woman is pure myth. I can never grasp an abstraction except through emotion, and before I can begin to think with my head about any fact, I must see it as a solid thing on paper.

  At work, when I plan a campaign for Lady Lilith Face Powder or Jix Soap Flakes, my mind is orderly. I write dramatic headlines and follow them with sales arguments that have unity, coherence, and emphasis. But when I think about myself, my mind whirls like a merry-go-round. All the horses, the bright and the drab, dance around a shining, mirrored center whose dazzling rays and frivolous music make concentration impossible. I am trying to think clearly of all that has happened in the last few days, to remember the facts and set them upon the horses and send them out in neat parade like sales arguments for Jix or Lady Lilith. They disobey, they whirl and dance to the music, and all I remember is that a man who had heard me accused of murder was concerned about my getting enough sleep.

  “Sleep,” he said to me, “get some sleep.” As if sleep were something you could buy at the Five-and-Ten. After he’d been gone for a little while, he came back with a package from Schwartz’s drugst
ore. They were pills to make me sleep, but he would only leave me two because he knew how sick I was with fear and worry.

  “Do you believe I killed Diane?” I asked him again.

  “It doesn’t matter what I think.” His voice grated. “It isn’t my business to think; it’s only facts I want, facts.”

  Shelby watched. He looked more than ever like a beautiful tomcat, ready to leap. Shelby said: “Be careful, Laura. Don’t trust him.”

  “Yes,” he said, “I’m a cop, you mustn’t trust me. Anything you say might be used against you.” His lips were drawn hard over his teeth; he spoke without opening his mouth.

  “Are you going to arrest me?” I said.

  Shelby became very man-of-the-house, protector of frail womanhood. It was all pretense, his courage was as thin as tissue paper, he trembled inwardly. Shelby used phrases like “false arrest” and “circumstantial evidence”; you could tell he was proud of displaying technical knowledge like when he could explain to people about the rules of fencing and backgammon. Auntie Sue once told me I’d grow tired of a six-foot child. Auntie Sue said that when a woman feels the need for a man that way, she ought to have a baby. I kept thinking of Auntie Sue’s remarks while Shelby talked about circumstantial evidence and Mark walked around and around the room, looking at things, at my autographed baseball and my Mexican tray and the shelf where I keep my very favorite books.

  “She’ll get in touch with her lawyer,” Shelby said. “That’s what she’ll do.”

  Mark came back to me. “You mustn’t try to leave here, Laura.”

  “No, I won’t leave.”

  “He’s got a man outside. You couldn’t leave anyway,” Shelby said. “He’s having you watched.”

  Mark left without another word, without telling me to sleep again or good-bye.

  “I don’t like that fellow. He’s a sly one,” Shelby said as soon as the door had closed.

  “You said that before.”

  “You’re gullible, Laura. You trust people too easily.”