Read Online The chuckling fingers by Mabel Seeley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mabel Seeley
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Admitting at last the dark doubt Bill had held against her.
Suffocation in my throat again, not fear this time, but tight, swelling anger. My hands took her shoulders, shaking her.
“Get your senses back! You know you didn’t cut up that robe! You didn’t tie the wire across the path or wreck the boat! Someone is—”
Stark dread loosened from her face. She gasped, “I do know. I know I didn’t. It’s only sometimes—”
When my hold of her loosened she sank until she sat upon the bed, but her eyes stayed on my face. “It’s been so awful,” she said tonelessly. “I haven’t known what to do.” All the defenses, all the evasions she’d kept against me yesterday were gone now.
I commanded, “Begin at the beginning and tell me.”
She said in the same dull voice, “It began on our honeymoon. In Bermuda. Bill went to a suitcase to get a pair of white shoes. When he took them out they were like “—her hand gestured toward the robe—“that. As if someone had cut the leather in strips with a knife. Bill was—he was furious. He likes his clothes. He likes everything he owns.”
“So he jumped to the conclusion you’d ruined his shoes.”
“Oh no. He thought it was a joke, because he was married. He thought someone at the wedding had done it.”
Something on which I could pounce. Awareness rose—no use having her tell me things unless I could see through them to the motive and the perpetrator.
“Then he hadn’t looked at those shoes since he left Duluth.”
She shook her head. “They were with some clothes he’d brought just for Bermuda.”
“Anyone could have tampered with that suitcase. Go on.”
“The next was worse.” Still no emotion in the voice. “We were dressing for dinner. Bill went to the closet to get a suit, a gray tweed suit. It was one he’d worn, even there in Bermuda. It had just come back from the cleaner’s. It had big holes all over.”
“That must have happened at the cleaner’s.” Strength was getting back into me and a grimness that was something new for me in grimness. “Don’t tell me Bill didn’t—”
“He had the hotel valet in—all the hotel servants were Negroes. This one said he’d hung the suit in the closet that morning while we were out; he said the suit was all right then.”
“Lying. If Bill let it go at that—”
“The valet looked frightened, and Bill kept asking questions. He found the valet had his own dry-cleaning shop on the side. Bill talked to the other two men who worked there; they both swore the suit was all right when it left the shop. But they looked frightened, too, and Bill didn’t believe them. The hotel manager made them pay Bill half the price of the suit. Then the next afternoon—”
Her voice dragged slower. “I’d been so happy. Those two things had happened but they hadn’t really touched me. I was sitting at the dressing table putting polish on my nails. Bill sat by me, fooling with the bottles in my toilet kit, smelling the cold cream and saying it was lard and perfume, smelling the nail polish and saying it was varnish. Then he took out another bottle and held it to his nose, and his face got—queer. He asked, ‘What’s in this one?’ and I couldn’t even remember seeing the bottle before. He pulled out his handkerchief and tipped the bottle so a little of the clear liquid ran out, and the handkerchief turned brown, and most of it disappeared.”
I said, “Jacqui,” and my voice had become clipped and mechanical too. “Acid. Someone must have put that bottle in the kit before you left. like the shoes.”
“But the suit—how did the acid get on the suit? Bill had been wearing it.”
“You know you didn’t put acid on any suit!”
“I said so, over and over, but Bill stayed white and—away from me. He went out of the hotel - he was gone for hours. When he came back he put his arms around me, asking if he’d done anything to hurt me or make me dislike him. He said I mustn’t take—ways
Suffocation in my throat again, not fear this time, but tight, swelling anger. My hands took her shoulders, shaking her.
“Get your senses back! You know you didn’t cut up that robe! You didn’t tie the wire across the path or wreck the boat! Someone is—”
Stark dread loosened from her face. She gasped, “I do know. I know I didn’t. It’s only sometimes—”
When my hold of her loosened she sank until she sat upon the bed, but her eyes stayed on my face. “It’s been so awful,” she said tonelessly. “I haven’t known what to do.” All the defenses, all the evasions she’d kept against me yesterday were gone now.
I commanded, “Begin at the beginning and tell me.”
She said in the same dull voice, “It began on our honeymoon. In Bermuda. Bill went to a suitcase to get a pair of white shoes. When he took them out they were like “—her hand gestured toward the robe—“that. As if someone had cut the leather in strips with a knife. Bill was—he was furious. He likes his clothes. He likes everything he owns.”
“So he jumped to the conclusion you’d ruined his shoes.”
“Oh no. He thought it was a joke, because he was married. He thought someone at the wedding had done it.”
Something on which I could pounce. Awareness rose—no use having her tell me things unless I could see through them to the motive and the perpetrator.
“Then he hadn’t looked at those shoes since he left Duluth.”
She shook her head. “They were with some clothes he’d brought just for Bermuda.”
“Anyone could have tampered with that suitcase. Go on.”
“The next was worse.” Still no emotion in the voice. “We were dressing for dinner. Bill went to the closet to get a suit, a gray tweed suit. It was one he’d worn, even there in Bermuda. It had just come back from the cleaner’s. It had big holes all over.”
“That must have happened at the cleaner’s.” Strength was getting back into me and a grimness that was something new for me in grimness. “Don’t tell me Bill didn’t—”
“He had the hotel valet in—all the hotel servants were Negroes. This one said he’d hung the suit in the closet that morning while we were out; he said the suit was all right then.”
“Lying. If Bill let it go at that—”
“The valet looked frightened, and Bill kept asking questions. He found the valet had his own dry-cleaning shop on the side. Bill talked to the other two men who worked there; they both swore the suit was all right when it left the shop. But they looked frightened, too, and Bill didn’t believe them. The hotel manager made them pay Bill half the price of the suit. Then the next afternoon—”
Her voice dragged slower. “I’d been so happy. Those two things had happened but they hadn’t really touched me. I was sitting at the dressing table putting polish on my nails. Bill sat by me, fooling with the bottles in my toilet kit, smelling the cold cream and saying it was lard and perfume, smelling the nail polish and saying it was varnish. Then he took out another bottle and held it to his nose, and his face got—queer. He asked, ‘What’s in this one?’ and I couldn’t even remember seeing the bottle before. He pulled out his handkerchief and tipped the bottle so a little of the clear liquid ran out, and the handkerchief turned brown, and most of it disappeared.”
I said, “Jacqui,” and my voice had become clipped and mechanical too. “Acid. Someone must have put that bottle in the kit before you left. like the shoes.”
“But the suit—how did the acid get on the suit? Bill had been wearing it.”
“You know you didn’t put acid on any suit!”
“I said so, over and over, but Bill stayed white and—away from me. He went out of the hotel - he was gone for hours. When he came back he put his arms around me, asking if he’d done anything to hurt me or make me dislike him. He said I mustn’t take—ways
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