Ed Lacy - The Woman Aroused
“You take it too seriously,” I told him. “Doc find anything wrong with you?”
“Said I was suffering from some sort of nervous tension, something like combat fatigue. Odd thing was, he didn't realize he's a victim too, for he said it with a straight face, as though one could and did live in a vacuum. That's what this war of nerves, this strain in the air, has done to him—a fellow who was calm and crafty on the battlefront, now he walks around with his eyes shut. I really blew my top when he told me, Eddie, what are you worrying about? Suppose war does come—you're exempt with your wound.' Jesus, I felt as though my head was coming apart. A fellow I once respected talking like that. George, we've all gone off the beam.”
“Well he was right,” I said, feeling in the mood for an argument. “I don't pay much attention to the saber rattling because I'm over age. Now if I was younger—I'd worry plenty.”
He sat up. “You really mean that. This selfishness, this sickness, has infected you too.”
“Let me tell you the facts of life—we translate the law of self-preservation into... be selfish, take care of old number one. It's the way of our world, and don't shut your eyes to that.”
“Sure, if the world ran smoothly, if everybody had enough food, security, I'd say leave me alone, I'd say being selfish works. But we live in the midst of needless misery and want, and that's wrong... unnecessary!”
I smiled. “Be careful, you're talking like a Communist. The sand is probably crawling with the FBI.'
“Another symptom of our sickness—name calling. I don't give a damn if I'm called Red, Blue, or Black—I've seen suffering, horrible stupid suffering, and I can't live with it. Couldn't live with myself if I did. Maybe you can. You've never seen it and you're... you're...”
“I'm smug and comfortable,” I added. “Another fact: your Commie friends say a man's thinking is determined by his pocketbook. Very true. I'm comfortable, my status quo is fine. And the corollary: Communism doesn't scare me, under it I'd probably live much the same as I do now. I have no capital to lose. For all I know, Communism may be the next logical step in our industrial development. Back in the feudal days, the industrialists were looked upon as the dangerous wide-eyed radicals. As Joe says, everything is transit. But I'm not going to get myself in an uproar over Communism, or capitalism. Why do you?”
“Why do I what?”
I shrugged. “Stop it, Eddie. Why are you set to change the world single-handed? Your pension is about thirty bucks a week, you need only another year to finish your accounting, and you can take it under the GI Bill for free. You and Flo are the only kids. When your folks die, you'll come into a few thousand, and from Flo you'll inherit the house, and whatever she has socked away—which must be plenty. That's the future—but in the present, once you've graduated college, you could work a few hours a day, and with your pension, live very comfortably. Sounds a little hardboiled, but then I consider myself a realist, and facts are hard.”
“You're merely salving your conscience, rationalizing.”
“Could be. Aren't you doing the same with your weeping for poor humanity?”
“George, I can't stand by. Here's a little war yarn I never told you. You remember me before the war, an eager beaver at school, had a lot of the push that drives Flo. I was like that up till April 20, 1945. We liberated Auschwitz that day. It was sickening work, but easy in a way—little chance of running into a bullet. And there were the sick and the dying, the bloated stomachs of the starving—all that you probably saw in the newsreels. Outside the camp—the Nazis were getting ready to ship them someplace I suppose, we came upon a flat car piled with bodies, all looking like horrible skeletons in their ragged stripped uniforms. Skull heads, arms and legs covered with tight skin, caved-in cheeks, staring eyes. They were lying out in the cold like a stack of neatly piled wood... all dead. And then one of these skeletons raised himself. Somehow he was still alive. He looked at me, this pale dead-man, and all he did was smile... and die. The bodies didn't mean much to me till then. Why I damn near went crazy at the thought that here was a fellow like myself, starved of everything, even the ordinary kindness we never think about... and he gave me all he had left, a smile. I see that smile sometimes in my nightmares—the pathetic smile, as if he was forgiving me for all the craziness we've made in the world. Or maybe he was greeting me as another human. You talk about selfish; all right, I'm selfish as I can be... I don't want that to ever happen to another human on the face of this world... because that human might be me!”
“They say they have camps like that in Russia,” I said, enjoying baiting him—it was an easy lazy way of passing the time.
He looked at me with sad eyes. “You're like a witch doctor with magic words. Today when something goes wrong, we say the magic word—Russia. They say, they say... this I saw! If they have torture like that in the Soviet Union, then I'll fight them. Only so far I don't believe it because they haven't any reason for concentration camps. You yourself said you have nothing to lose under socialism and you're better off then...”
“Relax, Eddie, we're only batting the breeze. Flo tells me you live in a flea-bag room, spend all your time at meetings and picketing. Why don't you go back to school, reach a stage of personal comfort, then work for the good of others? Since we agree this is a selfish world.”
“George, you talk like a man from another world. How could I sit in a classroom, think of debits and credits, the hollow things, when I feel fascism in the air, see them getting set for more flatcars of humans shorn of everything, even a smile? Why I'd...” He set up, held his head in his hands. “Damn headache has returned again.”
I sat up. “My fault, I was egging you on. Let's forget talk. We'll take a swim to cool off, then go fishing. Blowfishes are the most amazing and stupidest creatures in the world. Even beat us humans.”
We didn't go in for any more heavy talk, fished and swam for the rest of the week, had a swell time. And then on the Friday before my week was up, I received a special delivery from Flo. There were two newspaper clippings in the envelope, nothing else. One was dated the same day, that Friday, and was merely a death notice, cold, impersonal, that read:
CONROY,—HENRY, beloved brother of Marion.
Services at Universal Chapel, 10 a.m.
Service private.
The other clipping bore a Wednesday dateline. It was a half column story about Hank falling out of a window of his fifth story apartment, as he was standing on a ladder, hanging some curtains. It said Hank must have lost his balance, crashed through the partly open window to his death. His wife, Lee Conroy, was using the basement washing machine at the time of the accident...
I put the clippings down and was full of strange thoughts. First (and quickly) a wild thought that I now had seven thousand dollars... if I wanted to keep the money. Then vague puzzled thoughts: What an odd way for poor Hank to the... he was always so careful. Why wasn't he being buried from a church? Why no mention of his wife in the obituary notice? And above all, why the rush to bury him?
These were tiny thoughts, the big one was the tempting idea that nobody knew I had Hank's money. It was a hideous thought, well mixed with my sincere sorrow over Hank's death... yet there wasn't any point in denying—especially to myself—that it was very much in my mind.
It was a fact.
Chapter 3
THERE WAS no reason why I should rush back to town—aside from the fact I think funerals are stupid anyway. I spent a curious week-end, full of secret elation that the money was mine, while my righteous self argued I must return the money. Nor did I overlook another point: I had no way of knowing whether Hank had told anybody else about the seven thousand. I was sure he hadn't, but I didn't really know.
On Monday, when I reached the office, I played Scoundrel in the second at Aqueduct, a four to one shot, and was both alarmed and pleased when he won. I wondered how much truth there was in my hunch. I decided I better quit stalling. I called Hank's sister and a maid told me, “Mrs. Keating has gone to the country for a week, on the advice of her doctor.” I gave her my name and felt better—it all fitted in nicely with my plans. First, I had a bit of work to catch up on at the office, a feature spread we were getting out on our Georgia dealers, and a speech to write for one of the vice-presidents—which we would later run as an article. Harvey couldn't write speeches, he always made the speaker sound too sharp and acid, not realizing that the purpose of an after-dinner speech is to say nothing in the mildest way possible. Secondly, I wanted more time to think things out about Hank's money, although I didn't know exactly what there was to think out.
Of course I could easily have gone directly to Hank's apartment, talked to his wife, but I had several phoney excuses for not doing that. He had said he didn't want her to get the money; that had started the entire mess. (Although he never said he wanted me to keep it as against giving it to his wife.) Then too, it was best I wait and see what was what. Suppose Hank had left a will, leaving the money to somebody besides his wife? If I gave her the seven grand I might be tied up in a law suit. They weren't good reasons, but they convinced me—which wasn't a difficult feat. So I waited—gave his sister another week to return from the country. The fact that lawyers hadn't called me made me feel happier—there probably wasn't a will.
Three weeks to the day after Hank was buried, I called his sister. I never cared much for Marion Keating. She was a short woman in her middle fifties, the type that spends her time hunting for better girdles, false breasts, hair dyes that are impossible, and a raft of make-up. She was sure she didn't look a day over thirty. (Although she would have happily settled for forty.) She had been on the edge of the society-social-blueblood swindle ever since she was 20 and married Edward F. Keating—Yale, badminton, sailing, and a comfortable amount of solid securities and stocks. The frantic keeping up with the Astors had left Marion looking worn and tired, and most boring. She moved and talked with jerky, nervous movements.
Mr. Keating was out—in fact I'd never seen him except when his picture appeared in the Sunday Times sport page many years ago. He had won a dinghy race, or something, and looked quite proud—and useless.
Her loud make-up made her weary, tired facial muscles stand out in sharp contrast, accented her age, but at first Marion acted as coy as a deb. After pouring me a drink and telling me about her week in the country, who had entertained her, or maybe it was the other way around, and the usual small talk, I was able to get in a few words. I told her what a shock Hank's passing had been and she suddenly pressed my hand between her two small damp thin ones, said, “George Jackson, my dear, I'm very glad you have come. The war—all those years—broke Hank's ties with the boys he knew. And somebody has to do something!”
“Yes? Do what?”
“That bitch murdered him!” Marion shrilled.
My mouth fell open like a ham comedian's.
“Oh I know her. Stayed in my house, right here, for over three weeks, and I locked my bedroom door every night. I thank God that Edward was in California, on business, during those weeks. He would have horsewhipped that... slut. George, nobody knows her wickedness, the slyness, the horrible cunning! She did it, she...”
“Hold up Marion, talk sense,” I said. “After all... well... murder. I thought Hank fell from a ladder, through the window, while hanging curtains?”
“A likely story! You knew Hank. Was he a drunk, or a very conservative, careful man? Falling through the window—he was pushed! Oh I know what I'm talking about—he told me he was trying to get rid of her. God knows what ever possessed him to marry that awful creature. The girls I could have had for him... with position and money. But you knew Hank, his high-sounding ideals. And he had to marry this whore, and now she's killed him. She wasn't satisfied driving him crazy, she had to push him out the window!”
Marion's voice was on a high, hysterical level. I wondered if she was tight, or perhaps slightly crazy. Still, she should be well past the change of life period and she didn't have enough sense to be-neurotic. I said, “I'm sure if there was even the smallest idea of murder, the police...”
“The police!” Marion actually screamed. “Those stupid, stupid, fools! She said she was down in the basement using the washing machine. Mind you, no one saw her down there, but the police believed her. George, if you only knew how impossible that sounds. Washing machine! That girl's a filthy slob. And as for work, she wouldn't move a finger to take off her shoes. I swear it, I saw her go to bed fully clothed, including her shoes. My God, if you ever saw her underwear... my poor brother!”
She turned on the tears and I wanted to leave but I had to find out about the will, if there was a will. “Marion, I don't know anything about all this. I've hardly seen Hank during the last eight years, only spoke to him on the phone once or twice when he returned. Surely the police wouldn't have believed this girl's story if they had any doubt of...?”
“The stupid police! They said there wasn't any motive. Motive! What do they know about this evil bitch. George, Hank has to be avenged, something has to be done!”
It was like a bad movie coming alive. There was such an unreal, melodramatic air about her ravings, I felt very uneasy. I waited a moment while she struggled with a handkerchief, then asked gently, “Hank leave a will, I mean, I suppose this girl will get everything... I mean, could that have been a motive?” I floundered rather badly.
Marion's eyes brightened, the tears stopped. “That's where I have her. Oh I have her good! Poor Hank, he never saved anything, and then all those years in the army. There isn't any will, he hasn't an estate. Not a cent. Even his GI insurance is in my name—he never changed it. He had a piece of property the family owns downtown, but that's in my name too. Before he went overseas, he changed the title. She hasn't a cent, and she'll starve to death before I give her a dime. I wouldn't even bury her—the murderess!”
