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Authors: John D. MacDonald
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sign it over.”
“Your husband had good reasons for setting it up the way he did.”
“Perhaps.”
“Do you have anyone to help you?” he asked impulsively. He knew at once he had put too much of what he felt in hisvoice. He tried to cover by saying, “There’ll be a lot of arrangements. I mean, it could be considered part of my job.”
He detected the faintly startled look in her eyes. Awareness made them awkward. “Thank you very much, Mr. Darrigan. I think Brad will help.”
“Can you get that woman over to stay with you tonight?”
“I’ll be all right.”
He left her and went back to the beach to his room. In the morning he would make whatever official statements were considered necessary. He lay in the darkness and thought of Dinah, of the way she was a promise of warmth, of integrity.
And, being what he was, he began to look for subterfuge in her attitude, for some evidence that her reactions had been part of a clever act. He ended by despising himself for having gone so far that he could instinctively trust no one.
In the morning he phoned the home office. He talked with Palmer, a vice-president. He said, “Mr. Palmer, I’m sending through the necessary reports approving payment on the claim.”
“It’s a bloody big one,” Palmer said disconsolately.
“I know that, sir,” Darrigan said. “No way out of it.”
“Well, I suppose you’ll be checking in then by, say, the day after tomorrow?”
“That should be about right.”
Darrigan spent the rest of the day going through motions. He signed the lengthy statement for the police. The Drynfellses were claiming that in the scuffle for the paper, Davisson had fallen and hit his head on a bumper guard. In panic they had hidden the body. It was dubious as to whether premeditation could be proved.
He dictated his report for the company files to a public stenographer, sent it off airmail. He turned the car in, packed his bag. He sat on the edge of his bed for a long time, smoking cigarettes, looking at the far wall.
The thought of heading north gave him a monstrous sense of loss. He argued with himself. Fool, she’s just a young, well-heeled widow. All that sort of thing was canceled out when Doris left you. What difference does it make that she should remind you of what you had once thought Doris was?
He looked into the future and saw a long string of hotelrooms, one after the other, like a child’s blocks aligned on a dark carpet.
If she doesn’t laugh in your face, and if your daydream should turn out to be true, they’ll nudge each other and talk about how Gil Darrigan fell into a soft spot.
She’ll laugh in your face.
He phoned at quarter of five and caught Palmer. “I’d like to stay down here and do what I can for the beneficiary, Mr. Palmer. A couple of weeks, maybe.”
“Isn’t that a bit unusual?”
“I have a vacation overdue, if you’d rather I didn’t do it on company time.”
“Better make it vacation, then.”
“Anything you say. Will you put it through for me?”
“Certainly, Gil.”
At dusk she came down the hall, looked through the screen at him. She was wearing black.
He felt like a kid trying to make his first date. “I thought I could stay around a few days and … help out. I don’t want you to think I—”
She swung the door open. “Somehow I knew you wouldn’t leave,” she said.
He stepped into the house, with a strange feeling of trumpets and banners. She hadn’t laughed. And he knew in that moment that during the years ahead, the good years ahead of them, she would always know what was in his heart, even before he would know it. And one day, perhaps within the year, she would turn all that warmth suddenly toward him, and it would be like coming in out of a cold and rainy night.
Death Writes the Answer
H
e held
the magazine up as though he were still reading it, but he watched her across the top of it, ready to drop his eyes to the story again should she look up.
For the moment
“Your husband had good reasons for setting it up the way he did.”
“Perhaps.”
“Do you have anyone to help you?” he asked impulsively. He knew at once he had put too much of what he felt in hisvoice. He tried to cover by saying, “There’ll be a lot of arrangements. I mean, it could be considered part of my job.”
He detected the faintly startled look in her eyes. Awareness made them awkward. “Thank you very much, Mr. Darrigan. I think Brad will help.”
“Can you get that woman over to stay with you tonight?”
“I’ll be all right.”
He left her and went back to the beach to his room. In the morning he would make whatever official statements were considered necessary. He lay in the darkness and thought of Dinah, of the way she was a promise of warmth, of integrity.
And, being what he was, he began to look for subterfuge in her attitude, for some evidence that her reactions had been part of a clever act. He ended by despising himself for having gone so far that he could instinctively trust no one.
In the morning he phoned the home office. He talked with Palmer, a vice-president. He said, “Mr. Palmer, I’m sending through the necessary reports approving payment on the claim.”
“It’s a bloody big one,” Palmer said disconsolately.
“I know that, sir,” Darrigan said. “No way out of it.”
“Well, I suppose you’ll be checking in then by, say, the day after tomorrow?”
“That should be about right.”
Darrigan spent the rest of the day going through motions. He signed the lengthy statement for the police. The Drynfellses were claiming that in the scuffle for the paper, Davisson had fallen and hit his head on a bumper guard. In panic they had hidden the body. It was dubious as to whether premeditation could be proved.
He dictated his report for the company files to a public stenographer, sent it off airmail. He turned the car in, packed his bag. He sat on the edge of his bed for a long time, smoking cigarettes, looking at the far wall.
The thought of heading north gave him a monstrous sense of loss. He argued with himself. Fool, she’s just a young, well-heeled widow. All that sort of thing was canceled out when Doris left you. What difference does it make that she should remind you of what you had once thought Doris was?
He looked into the future and saw a long string of hotelrooms, one after the other, like a child’s blocks aligned on a dark carpet.
If she doesn’t laugh in your face, and if your daydream should turn out to be true, they’ll nudge each other and talk about how Gil Darrigan fell into a soft spot.
She’ll laugh in your face.
He phoned at quarter of five and caught Palmer. “I’d like to stay down here and do what I can for the beneficiary, Mr. Palmer. A couple of weeks, maybe.”
“Isn’t that a bit unusual?”
“I have a vacation overdue, if you’d rather I didn’t do it on company time.”
“Better make it vacation, then.”
“Anything you say. Will you put it through for me?”
“Certainly, Gil.”
At dusk she came down the hall, looked through the screen at him. She was wearing black.
He felt like a kid trying to make his first date. “I thought I could stay around a few days and … help out. I don’t want you to think I—”
She swung the door open. “Somehow I knew you wouldn’t leave,” she said.
He stepped into the house, with a strange feeling of trumpets and banners. She hadn’t laughed. And he knew in that moment that during the years ahead, the good years ahead of them, she would always know what was in his heart, even before he would know it. And one day, perhaps within the year, she would turn all that warmth suddenly toward him, and it would be like coming in out of a cold and rainy night.
Death Writes the Answer
H
e held
the magazine up as though he were still reading it, but he watched her across the top of it, ready to drop his eyes to the story again should she look up.
For the moment
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