Let Dead Enough Alone Page 2

  “So am I, doctor,” Lynn said. She looked down at Margaret, who looked up at her, who smiled and waited. “Margaret,” Lynn said.

  “Better,” Margaret said. “Abner—wait a second, Abner.” Abner Speed had started to walk back toward the garage. “Stop at Ringstead’s, will you?” Margaret said. “Get this filled.”

  “Don’t know as I’ll have time,” Abner said. “Have to go slow, m’am.”

  “If you have time, then,” Margaret said. “I’m sure you will, Abner.”

  Speed said, “Yes, Mrs. Halley,” although without conviction. He went on toward the garage.

  Lynn followed Margaret Halley into the brightness of the house—into a square entrance hall, from it into a long living room. A fire burned brightly there, in a big fireplace. Lynn was told she must be frozen; that she must have a drink. Or tea? She decided on tea; was told to back up to the fire, get warm from the fire; that tea wouldn’t take a minute. If it was trouble—?

  It was none, Margaret—this Margaret so different from Dr. Margaret Halley, in her Park Avenue office—told Lynn Ross. It was not, of course, a matter merely of ringing. There were only Lucinda and Abner, and Lucinda would be deep in things. “Roughing it,” Margaret said, walking toward the end of the big room. “Aren’t you glad it snowed? So appropriate.”

  It was that, Lynn thought, warm by the fire, standing with her back to the fire. She looked across at windows—windows almost, but not quite, curtained. In the light which escaped into the night, snowflakes danced. It was most appropriate; it was very pretty. It was pleasant to watch it, from inside, with back to fire.

  Margaret was not long. She came back with a silver teapot, and silver cream pitcher and sugar bowl, and cups, on a tray. She put the tray down on a table. She said, “Now,” in a tone of anticipation. “I’m so glad you got here before the others.” She poured tea. “John’s resting,” she said. “I insisted he rest. The poor—” She did not finish. Instead, she said she hoped Lynn had had no trouble finding them.

  “None,” Lynn said. “The directions were perfect—Margaret.” She hesitated a moment before the name. It was still more natural to say “Doctor.” It was still natural to be a little—well, not in awe, precisely. Respectful, austere as the word was, was still perhaps nearer it. But it was easier here. What a pretty woman she is, Lynn thought. And she must be—oh, over forty.

  “Isn’t Mr. Halley well?” she asked.

  “John? Oh—well enough. There have been things to do, of course. And it’s been months since either of us has turned a muscle. You know how it is.”

  Lynn did not, particularly. There was no point in going into it. She sipped tea and the warmth caressed her—caressed slender body, long, slim legs. She opened the jacket of her suit, to feel the warmth through the thinner material of her blouse. She said she felt like purring.

  “By all means,” Margaret said. They sipped, for a moment, in silence. “You’ll like the others, I think,” Margaret said, then. “Shall I brief you about them?”

  It always helped to be briefed. Lynn said it always helped.

  “Brian Perry,” Margaret said. “You’ve heard of him?”

  “Should I have?” Lynn asked, shaking her head as she spoke. (I do feel like purring, she thought.) “Is he somebody famous?”

  “I suppose not,” Margaret Halley said. “Not to everybody. Doctor Brian Perry?”

  “No,” Lynn said. “I’m very ignorant. But you know that.”

  Margaret looked at her sharply, for an instant with doctor’s eyes. Lynn was watching the fire.

  “He’s a psychiatrist, too,” Margaret said. “And a neurologist. He’s done some very interesting things. Got suggestive results. Has some interesting theories. Of course, some of the theories—” She did not finish that. “A tall man, Lynn. Much taller than you. Tall and thin—his women patients probably fall in love with him. Which can be helpful, you know. Up to a point. He used to come to the lake summer weekends. They had a little place near the club.”

  “The tall dark one will be Dr. Perry,” Lynn said. “You said ‘they’?”

  “He and his wife,” Margaret said. “She’s dead. She was named Carla.”

  It would be too bad not to be alive, Lynn thought—Lynn who, not much over a year ago, had taken one sleeping pill and then another, and after that another and another still, because the world was dreary and life stuck in her throat. She said, “That’s too bad,” of Carla Perry, whom she had never known and who was dead. The words were as good as any.

  “And Struthers Boyd,” Margaret said. “They have a house down the road. He and John play golf together. It’s too bad Grace is in Florida. You’d like Grace, I think.”

  Grace presumably was Boyd’s wife. She was not dead. She was in Florida.

  “Big man,” Margaret said. “Very hearty. The—the classmate type. And a man named Kemper—Tom Kemper. And Audrey Latham. Did you ever hear of Audrey Latham?”

  She had, it appeared to Lynn, heard of no one. She shook her head, and listened. She heard that Audrey Latham wrote music. “Show songs. Usually about somebody who can’t forget somebody. You know?”

  “Yes,” Lynn said.

  “Additional music by Audrey Latham, so far,” Margaret said. “John thinks she’s very good, however. Or will be. John’s always been interested in music, you know.”

  It was another thing that Lynn had not known. But she knew very little of John Halley—that he was older than his wife, and had a great deal of money, and had always had.

  “In music,” Margaret said. “In pictures. In writing. He wrote a little himself as a young man, you know.” Once more Lynn had to shake her head. “When he lived in France,” Margaret said. “Little sketches. About things—people—little incidents. Charming little things. It was a long time before John and I met—heavens, I must have been in rompers. If in anything. More tea?”

  Lynn took more tea.

  “And that’s all,” Margaret said. “Brian and Struthers Boyd and Tom and Miss Latham—and John and I, and you. Not a large party—and one too many men, because Grace had her reservations all made for Florida. But—”

  She paused. She put her teacup down and lighted a cigarette.

  “To be quite honest,” she said, “John’s been moody lately. Hasn’t had much interest in things. There’s a little therapy in the party, my dear. Pretty young women—you and Miss Latham. John’s quite interested in pretty young women, too. Mental stimulation—Brian. Gemütlichkeit—good old Struthers. And auld lang syne and whatnot. A bright start for the New Year. And—”

  She paused again. She ground out the cigarette she had just lighted and finished the tea in her cup.

  “Forget about the therapy,” she said. “We’ll all have fun. More tea?”

  “No,” Lynn said.

  “It’s a dull thing, tea,” Margaret said. “We’ll have cocktails when the others get here or—now, if you like?”

  “When the others come. I wonder if—”

  “Of course,” Margaret said. “You want to freshen up. Come, I’ll show you.”

  She got up; she led Lynn to the hall again and then, insisting on carrying the suitcase while Lynn carried the smaller bag, up the stairs and down a hall to a room at the rear of the house. It was a small room, but on a corner, with two windows. A bath opened off it.

  “A lovely room,” Lynn said, and to that Margaret smiled only. She said that she hoped Lynn wouldn’t mind an electric blanket.

  “Mind?” Lynn said. “Why?”

  “Some people are afraid they’ll catch on fire,” Margaret said. “Some people are afraid of so many things.”

  “I’m not,” Lynn said. “Not any more. I don’t remember I ever was of electric blankets.”

  “No,” Margaret said. “Of course not. We’ll have a drink or two before we change. And then change. And then have a drink or two.” She went to the door. She stopped there. “You’re fine now, aren’t you, my dear?” she said.

  “Fine,” Lyn
n said. “Just fine, doctor.”

  “Time,” Margaret said. “That almost always does it. Time—and being watched over. I was never in doubt about you, you know. Not about you. In half an hour or so?”

  Lynn nodded, and Margaret went out of the room and down the hall. Lynn could hear her heels clicking on the uncarpeted floor. Lynn opened her suitcase and took out a dinner dress—a long dress, which was made to fit closely—to make her tall—and hung it in the closet. She “freshened up.” After a time she heard, from downstairs, the sound of voices, and of a woman’s laughter. The laughter sounded gay.

  Lynn Ross went down the stairs—a tall girl and very slim, with a wide white forehead and dark eyes, with reddish-brown hair which had a kind of glow in its color, a glow independent of the light which fell on it. She met the others—Dr. Brian Perry, who was, as promised, taller than she; who was somewhere in his early forties (probably) and on whose rather long face rimless glasses suggested austerity; Mr. Boyd, a loosely large man and a hearty one; a pretty young woman who came to Lynn’s shoulder, was very blond, and looked rather more likely to sing songs than to write them. And Tom Kemper, who had—Lynn realized only after she saw him—not been described at all. He was her height or a little less (still she noticed height before almost anything), wore brown hair in a crew cut, and looked at the world with, it seemed, abounding amiability. “Warm brown eyes.” Lynn had read about them. Here they were, in the open countenance of Mr. Kemper, who looked to be in his early thirties, and without a care in the world—who somehow, without saying anything so obvious, managed to say that, for years, he had been waiting for just this delightful opportunity of meeting a tall young woman named Lynn Ross.

  Abner Speed—wearing a white coat, now—wheeled in a bar wagon and stood beside it and looked at Dr. Margaret Halley. Then, it appeared, there was a momentary hitch. “I think Mr. Halley would rather—” Margaret said, and looked, quickly, toward the door which led to the central hall and the stairs which rose from it. “I wonder what’s—” she began, and stopped. They heard feet on the stairs. John Halley came in from the hall, smiling. The smile creased a long brown face. He wore a dinner jacket.

  For a host minutes late to his own party, John Halley was unperturbed. It occurred to Lynn, smiling a guestly smile, that it probably had been many years since John Halley had been perturbed, ill at ease. He said now that he was sorry, made general sounds of greeting and added, to Margaret, that he’d decided to get changed and be out of the way.

  “Of course, dear,” Margaret said, and patted her husband’s sleeve. “Good old John,” Struthers Boyd said, apropos of nothing immediately apparent, and Tom Kemper said, “Evening, sir.” Audrey Latham said nothing, but looked up into Halley’s long brown face and smiled very prettily, Lynn thought. Halley moved toward the bar wagon. On his way, he tapped Boyd lightly on the shoulder; said, “Evening, Kemper”; said, “Glad you could make it, doctor,” to Brian Perry, and paused to shake his hand. At the bar, Halley said, in a lightly pleasant voice, “Now?” Then, directed, he mixed drinks and Abner Speed passed drinks. Returning to the fire with his own, he said, “Cheers,” and was echoed.

  “To the New York State Gas and Electric Company,” Halley said, then, and, standing with his back to the fire, smiled widely. He did not, to Lynn, seem in any way—what was the word Margaret had used? “Moody.” He seemed to be a lean, brown man in his middle years, in a dinner jacket which fitted as perfectly as his manners, and was worn as confidently. “May it keep what strength it has,” Halley said.

  He was told, by Boyd, that he was an optimist. But Margaret said, “John! Don’t even suggest it!” The others sought to look as if they understood.

  “You ought to remember, doctor,” Halley said to Brian Perry. “Of course, it doesn’t matter so much in the summer.” Perry’s face showed that he did remember.

  “There are various theories,” Halley said, “as to what the company uses to transmit its power. Some say it’s merely string. There is a body of opinion which holds out for baling wire.” He looked around, his smile still wide. “There is also a group which insists that the power goes off whenever there is a heavy dew. I’ve never felt, myself, that that was entirely fair.”

  “A breeze will do it,” Struthers Boyd said. “Just a gentle little breeze. Of course, it’s the trees. But you’ve got a standby, haven’t you, John?”

  “Of sorts,” Halley said. “Manual job. Across the road.”

  “Quit scaring people,” Margaret said. “He loves to scare people. Nothing’s going to happen.” She said this with confidence ….

  And, some hours later, undressing in the small corner room, Lynn thought that, as usual, Margaret Halley had been right. Lynn hung the long dinner dress (which made her tall) carefully in the closet, and took off the rest of her clothes and opened a window a very little and got into bed. She switched on the electric blanket and, almost at once, was surrounded by gentle warmth. A new year had begun, and they had all drunk toasts to it. Strangers had become friends—for that little time, in that bright room. “You’re a mighty pretty girl,” Struthers Boyd, a little flushed (but only a little flushed), had told her. “A mighty purty girl,” in dialect which had sounded fine at the moment. “It goes like this,” Audrey Latham had said, and sung a little song—and listened to herself and said, “Or almost like that.” Then she had held out her arms to John Halley and said, “Dance it with me, John. See how it goes,” and they had danced a few steps to her singing. To Lynn’s ears it had gone well—oh, very well.

  But everything had gone well. The Halleys could be proud of their party. At midnight, Abner Speed and his wife—who was ample and wore an apron—had come into the bright room and drunk with the rest to the New Year in champagne Lynn knew was admirable, since everything else had been so admirable and so gay. They had all danced and Brian Perry, somewhat unexpectedly, had danced beautifully—much better than Mr. Boyd, who could not really be said to have danced at all. (But that had been fun, too. All of it had been fun.) Toward the end, she thought, John Halley had grown a little tired; he had sat and watched, sipping scotch and water, as he had done all evening; saying little. He was older, of course—but probably not older than Struthers Boyd. And Boyd had certainly neither sat, nor said nothing. “The classmate type.” Lynn smiled to herself in the darkness. How aptly Margaret had hit it off. How nice everyone was. How—how bright the world was. Even a year ago, although by then she had been much better, she had been still a little afraid of brightness.

  And Brian Perry had kissed her. Of course, it had meant nothing. On New Year’s Eve, after the toasts, people kiss people—kiss the person they are nearest to. Chance governed that—Margaret and Tom Kemper had kissed, since they were standing side by side. And even John Halley and Audrey. (Struthers Boyd had kissed all of the women, and shaken hands firmly with the other men. But that, too, went without saying.) It had been merely one of those accidents of placing that, when the New Year began, Brian had been standing beside her, smiling down at her. (Down! Think of that!) So, he would have been a boor not to kiss her, and he was certainly not a boor. He was … it had all been …

  It would be fun tomorrow—and next week—to think back to the party; sort out the pleasant details of what was now only a remembered gentle blow. But now it would be most fun of all to sleep, warm and secure in bed, afraid no longer of anything—not of the storm outside, not of anything. He had had to stoop to kiss her, and his lips had been firm on hers and for an instant (since he was not a boor) he had drawn her to him—and—and …

  She fought against awakening; fought to regain the soft warmth of sleep. Not yet awake, she pulled the blanket closer under her chin; sleeping still, she pulled her knees up so that, lying on her side, her long body was curled, as nearly as possible as a cat curls. She began to dream of ice—ice moving down on her, slowly and relentlessly, as a glacier moves. She awoke, and was shivering. For a moment she could not remember where she was, and then remembered. At the Halleys’, in
a corner guestroom. She must, sleeping uneasily (but not for a long time had she slept so), have thrown the covers off. She must—

  Then she remembered more. An electric blanket—was she afraid of an electric blanket? The blanket should be warm. Or, had she forgotten to turn it on? That was not it surely; warmth had come quickly when she was first in bed, pressing palms together with the blanket between them. There was no warmth in the blanket.

  She reached out to the control on the table beside the bed. She had moved the control clockwise to turn the blanket on. Had she, somehow in her sleep, turned it off again or, becoming too warm, turned it down too far? She twisted the knob of the dial; first counterclockwise to turn the current off, then back again—far back. She waited. The blanket remained cold.

  Something had happened to the blanket. Something was always (in her experience) happening to automatic things. Mysteriously, for wayward reasons of their own, they ceased to be automatic, just when you most needed them. She would have to get up now and get her coat out of the closet, and put it on top of the blanket; she would have to close the window and sleep in a stuffy room. She would have—

  A small red light began to glow on the table beside the bed. For a moment she did not recognize it. Then she did—as the indicator light on the blanket control. The thing had turned itself on again. Electricity was beyond comprehension. Almost at once the blanket began to grow warm.

  Slowly, tentatively, she stretched out her long, slim legs. Already it was warm, even at the foot of the bed. That was a nice thing about them, when they worked. They worked all over ….

  Brian Perry’s lips had been warm on hers. He must, without those rimless glasses—there is something so harsh about rimless glasses—he must be—he’s not more than forty or so, I shouldn’t think—he was married, but his wife is dead—what was his wife’s name? I wonder if …

  She slept, having never been quite awake.