Wake Up With a Stranger (8 page)

“I don’t know. There is something I particularly want to speak with him about, and he assured me Saturday night that he would be here this morning.”

“It’s only around ten, darling. Probably he’ll be here soon.”

“His wife’s not at home, you know.”

“Yes, I know. That hypochondriac bitch is gone off to Florida again, and don’t I hate her guts because she’s there instead of me.” Gussie stared at Donna intently. “But why mention his wife? What’s the significance?”

“Nothing, I guess. I was just thinking that he’s all alone in the house. Do you suppose anything could have happened to him?”

“Like another heart attack?”

“Yes.”

Gussie’s face expressed a kind of undirected anger at the filthiness of things in general.

“Damn it, darling, let’s not start anticipating anything. If he’s not here in another hour, we can call his house or something.”

Donna returned to her room and sat down to the sketch, but she no longer tried to work. The promotion of deception, especially her easy accomplishment of it, filled her with self-disgust and actually made her physically ill. After a few minutes, she got up and went out and opened the door to Aaron’s office so that she could hear the phone in there if it began to ring. Then she returned and sat down again and stared at the sketch without seeing it, and waited and waited for the ringing to begin. Surely Mrs. Cassidy — was that her name? — had arrived long ago at the house to discover Aaron in the hall, and if she had discovered him, which she surely had, what had she done about it? What would one do naturally in such an event? It was quite likely that she had first called a doctor, even though Aaron was obviously dead and had been dead for a long time and had no need of a doctor, simply because calling a doctor was what one would instinctively think of and do. The doctor would come and would in turn call the police. The police would come, and all this would take time, of course, but surely there had been time enough. Surely they were there now, or had been there, and why in God’s name didn’t one of them call the shop, which would seem a reasonable thing to do.

Sitting and waiting and visualizing the probable sequence of events, she felt her tension increasing to an intolerable degree. She wanted desperately to get up and do something to relieve it — to run or scream or destroy something with her hands, or best of all to call Aaron’s home number at once and get it over with — but she knew that it would not be wise to display an anxiety out of proportion to its cause. So she forced herself to sit and wait with apparent calm until most of another hour had passed. At ten minutes to eleven, Gussie came into the room, and it was she who assumed in the end the position of suggesting some kind of action.

“Damn it, Donna,” she said, “you’ve started me worrying. I think I’ll call Aaron’s house. Not that it’ll do any good, so far as I can see. If he’s there alone, and something’s happened to him, he won’t be able to answer.”

“A cleaning woman comes in some days. She might be there this morning.”

“That’s right. I’d forgotten about her. Do you think I should call?”

“No.” Donna stood up. “I’ll call, Gussie. I was just thinking about doing it when you came in.”

She went out of the room and into Aaron’s office. Gussie followed and stood in the doorway, watching her as she dialed the number. At the other end of the line, the telephone rang in three long bursts, and at the completion of the third burst the receiver was picked up and a man’s voice came through.

“Hello,” the voice said.

“Hello.” There was a painful constriction in Donna’s throat, and she could not understand how her own voice slipped so easily through it. “Is this Aaron Burns’ residence?”

“Yes.”

“Is Mr. Burns there?”

“He’s here, but he can’t come to the phone. Who’s calling, please?”

“This is Donna Buchanan, Mr. Burns’ assistant.”

“Assistant?”

“At the shop.”

“Would you care to tell me what you want with Mr. Burns?”

“I don’t think so. At least, not unless you would first care to tell me who you are.”

“Sorry. My name’s Daniels. I’m a policeman.”

“Policeman! What’s the matter? Has something happened to Mr. Burns?”

“I’m afraid so. As a matter of fact, he’s dead.”

“Dead? Mr. Burns is dead?”

“Right, Miss Buchanan. He’s dead.”

“Why are the police there?”

“He was alone when he died, Miss Buchanan. The cleaning woman found him when she arrived for work this morning. It’s required that the police make a routine investigation of such matters.”

“I see. Was it his heart?”

“I wouldn’t know, Miss Buchanan. I’m a policeman, not a doctor. What makes you think it might have been his heart?”

“Because he’s had heart attacks before. The cleaning woman should be able to tell you that.”

“She has done so, as a matter of fact. To be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Burns’ doctor said it was his heart, and it probably was, but it isn’t official yet.”

“Thank you for being frank.”

“Have I offended you? If I have, I’m sorry. I realize that this must be quite a shock to you.”

“Thank you for being sorry.”

“Well, I don’t seem to be doing very well with you, Miss Buchanan. Perhaps I’d have better luck if I spoke with you in person. Would you agree to see me for a few minutes?”

“You mean you want me to come out to the house?”

“That won’t be necessary. I’d be happy to call at the shop.”

“All right.”

“Thank you, Miss Buchanan. Some time this afternoon. Probably about two o’clock.”

Now that it was over, she felt drained and spent and suddenly chilled, and she put her head in her hands and began to shiver. Gussie moved over quickly from the door to put an arm around her shoulders, and the scent of Gussie was an odd and offensive mixture of perfume and smoke and medicated lozenges.

“So he’s dead,” Gussie said quietly. “We all knew it would happen sooner or later, darling. For God’s sake, don’t fall apart on me.”

“I’m all right,” Donna said. “I’m perfectly all right.”

It was two-thirty when Daniels came. She was aware at once that he was not at all what she would have imagined if she had imagined anything. He was slender, almost slight, dressed neatly in a gray suit with which he wore a white shirt and maroon knit tie and black shoes, and in the rich simplicity of the shop he seemed neither out of place nor ill at ease. He sat down with motion that seemed almost practiced, a suggestion of exceptional coordination and of strength in excess of its first impression. His hair was light brown, cut close to his head, and his eyes were brown and as light as his hair, having at times a yellowish cast.

“I’m afraid I upset you on the telephone this morning, Miss Buchanan,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“Not at all,” she said.

“Nevertheless, it must have been a shock to learn of Mr. Burns’ death in such a manner.”

“It was a shock, but it was not entirely unexpected. We all knew that he had a heart condition.”

“That’s been established. Two previous attacks, I believe.”

“I think so. He had one since I became associated with him.”

“I see. Well, it’s now certain that he died of another attack. Early Sunday morning, as nearly as it can be fixed. It’s probable that he simply dropped over without ever knowing what happened to him.”

“If it was necessary for him to die, I’m glad that it was that way.”

“Yes, I suppose it’s easier if it happens quickly. Sometimes I wonder, though, if I wouldn’t like to have a little time to die in. A little time at the end, I mean, to try to put things together and make some kind of sense of them.” The thin light of his smile flared briefly and went out. “Just an odd notion, of course.”

She thought herself that it was odd, especially coming from him, from whom she would not have expected it. It suggested that he had thought seriously about the matter and had developed already, though he was still young, a kind of prospectus for dying. Looking at him with an interest that was more than what he had originally evoked because of his role in her own situation, she wondered what kind of man he was — what books he read, what music he listened to, how and to whom he might make love.

When she made no response to his thoughts on dying, he said, “Did you know Mr. Burns well, Miss Buchanan?”

“Quite well, I think. I worked with him closely and enjoyed his confidence, if that’s what you mean.”

“You referred to yourself as his assistant. What does that mean, precisely?”

“I don’t know that it means anything very precise. I design gowns which are sold in this shop, and I managed the business when he was recovering from his second heart attack.”

“That’s certainly indicative of confidence, I’d say. Did you know him socially as well?”

“We occasionally had dinner together.”

“Nothing more than that?”

“I’m not quite sure what you are trying to get at. Are you making an implication I should resent?”

“I hope not. I’d only like to know if he ever spoke to you about his personal life.”

“It’s very likely, isn’t it? It would hardly have been natural if he hadn’t. Only a minute or two ago you were telling me yourself, though I’ve just met you, your personal feelings about dying.”

“So I was.” He paused and stared down at his feet for a moment. “Let me put it this way. Did Mr. Burns give the impression of being a happy man?”

“Happy? I don’t think I could say. I don’t even think I know what happiness is.”

“I’m very certain that I don’t, so far as that goes, but you’re equivocating, Miss Buchanan. Taking happiness to be merely a reasonably good adjustment to life, would you be willing to say that he was happy?”

“He was successful and adjusted and, if you insist on your term, I suppose he was happy.”

“From Mr. Burns’ housekeeper this morning, I gathered that his marriage was not successful. Is that so?”

“Are you prepared to credit the gossip of a cleaning woman about something like that?”

“Not at all. That’s why I’m asking for your opinion.”

“All right. His marriage was not successful, but it did not disturb him. He had reached a point where it no longer meant anything to him, one way or another. If you are thinking that he might have committed suicide because of it, you are certainly mistaken.”

“I don’t think he committed suicide. When I told you it was established that he died of a heart attack, I was telling you the truth.”

“In that case, why are you still concerned as a policeman? Why am I compelled to answer your questions?”

“You are not compelled to answer. You are not compelled to talk to me at all. Frankly, there is something in this that disturbs me, and I hope you will answer a few more questions voluntarily in order to help me clarify it for myself.”

“What is it that disturbs you?”

“Are you willing, then, to help?”

“I can’t think what could possibly concern you in Aaron’s death, since it’s established as natural, but I’ll help you if I can.”

“Thank you. Many men, when their marriages turn out badly, look for satisfaction elsewhere. With other women, or another woman. Did Mr. Burns do that?”

“I don’t think I’ll answer that question.”

“Your refusal to answer indicates that he did.”

“Nothing of the sort. It indicates that you are certainly prying into something that is none of your business.”

“Look, Miss Buchanan. I’m no moralist. At least I am not functioning as a moralist in this instance. Perhaps I had better tell you what I have in mind.”

“Perhaps you had.”

“All right. I strongly suspect that a woman spent the night, or part of it, with Mr. Burns. The night before his death. She may have left, of course, before his death, or she may not have, and I would like to know which way it was.”

“If she was there at all.”

“Of course. If she was there at all.”

“Why do you think she may have been?”

“It’s usually pretty apparent when two people have slept in a bed.”

“No cigarettes with lipstick on them?”

“No, nothing so obvious.” He smiled thinly. “Are you being sarcastic, Miss Buchanan?”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. I am probably being a bore, so I don’t really blame you. As a matter of fact, however, the absence of lipstick-stained stubs is a point in itself. A kind of negative one. If other signs indicate a woman’s presence, the missing stubs would seem to suggest that she may have left after his death, since she took the trouble to dispose of them. Sudden death during an assignation, even natural death, would make a nasty mess that any woman would prefer to avoid.”

“Perhaps she didn’t smoke. Perhaps she simply didn’t want the housekeeper to know she’d been there. Perhaps Aaron disposed of them after she was gone. If she was ever there.”

“You needn’t restate the condition every time, Miss Buchanan. It’s thoroughly understood. All the points you make are possible, of course, and you are clever to think of them so quickly. It took me a while longer. Now all I have is a bed which appears to have been slept in by two people.” He took a package of cigarettes from his pocket and, leaning forward, extended it toward her. “Do you smoke?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She took a cigarette and accepted his light and drew smoke deeply into her lungs. He thought, watching her, that she was a very attractive and clever young woman, to say nothing of being an extremely self-possessed one. She was, in fact, the very kind of young woman that he himself would like to have. When she held out the cigarette so that he could see clearly the vivid stain on the end that had been between her lips, he looked at it and up at her and smiled again his thin smile.

“I have nothing to compare it with, Miss Buchanan. Besides, even if I did, it would prove nothing definitely.”

“Do you really wish to prove something definitely? Couldn’t you prove it by fingerprints or something like that?”

“I might prove that someone had been there. I couldn’t prove when. Anyhow, there was definitely nothing extraordinary in Mr. Burns’ death, and I am not particularly anxious to flay a straw man.”

“Why are you doing it, then?”