Burnt Offering Page 22

  “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.

  III

  SHE WAS AWAKENED by the sound of voices, the sounds of people hurrying in the house. Someone ran on bare flooring. She looked at her watch, and found it was only a little after eight. That was early, surely, for the morning of New Year’s Day. She could not, lying still in bed, under the electric blanket, make out words. She thought the voices were those of two, perhaps three, of the men. Then she heard someone—Dr. Perry?—say, “In here,” and realized that he must be speaking quite loudly. She heard the sound of a door closing.

  Something had gone wrong. There was wrongness in all the sounds—a hurrying excitement. Lynn Ross got out of bed, was aware of a sudden tenseness in her body and in her mind. She closed the window. Snow still was falling, but not, she thought, as heavily as it had fallen the night before, had been falling when she went to bed. Shivering in the cold room, she went to the closet and got a woolen robe she had hung there. She belted the robe tight about her, and went to the bedroom door. Warmth came in from the hall as she opened the door.

  A little way along the hall, nearer the stairs, Audrey Latham was standing, her slight body rigid, her entire attitude one of intent listening. She wore a sweater and slacks. She turned, quickly, when Lynn opened her door and s
tepped into the hall.

  “Something’s happened,” the slim blond girl said. “Something terrible’s happened.” As she spoke she moved toward the stairs. As she reached the top of the flight, she put a hand on the stair rail, steadying herself. “John,” she said. “I think it’s something about John.” She started down the stairs, moving slowly, holding to the rail. Lynn hesitated for a moment, then followed her.

  They were half way down the stairs, Lynn standing a few steps above Audrey Latham, when Brian Perry came from the living room into the hall and looked up at them.

  “There’s nothing you can do,” he said. “Nothing anybody can.”

  “What is it?” Audrey said. “What is it?”

  “Halley,” Brian Perry said. “He’s dead, Miss Latham. Somehow—God knows how—he got into the lake. We found him a little while ago.”

  Perry moved under the stairs. They could hear him lift a telephone receiver, whirl the dial. “I want the police,” Perry said. “The State police, I suppose. I have to report an accidental death.” There was a momentary pause. “I’ll hold on,” he said, and at the same moment Audrey Latham gave a little, shuddering cry, and swayed where she stood, holding to the stair rail. Lynn reached her, and held her. The girl’s slight body was shaking.

  “John,” she said. “He said—John!”

  “Yes,” Lynn said.

  Margaret came out of the living room into the hall. She was white. Even her lips were colorless, and she looked many years older than she had looked the night before—had looked in the soft light from the lamps, from the flickering fire. She looked up at the two on the stairs, and for an instant as if she did not recognize them. Then she said, “John is dead.” Her voice had a thin quality, but it was steady. “He drowned himself,” she said. “Went down to the lake and drowned himself.”

  “Margaret!” Lynn said. She released Audrey Latham, who clung to the rail, who stared down at Margaret Halley. Lynn started down toward the small woman who looked up at them with so fixed an expression.

  “You let him,” Audrey said. “You let him. You knew—you said you knew. And you didn’t do anything!”

  “No,” Margaret Halley said, in a voice without expression. “No, I didn’t do enough.”

  “The Halley house,” Brian Perry said. “On Lake Carabec. We found Mr. Halley in the lake this morning. He slipped, apparently. Struck his head on something. Drowned.” His voice stopped for a moment. “Several hours,” he said, and then, “Perry. Brian Perry. I’m a doctor, sergeant.” He listened once more. “No,” he said. “It won’t do any good. He’s been dead for hours, as I said.”

  He hung up the telephone. He came out into the hall and went to Margaret Halley.

  “As soon as they can get through,” he said. He looked up at Lynn and Audrey Latham. “It was an accident,” he said.

  Margaret Halley shook her head. The movement was slow, almost methodical.

  “It’s no good,” she said. “You know what it was, Brian. What I was afraid of. What we always have to be afraid of and—and try to guard against.”

  “I don’t know,” Perry said. “You did what you could. All anybody could do. There’s nothing now but to wait. We’d better have some coffee, Margaret.”

  “Of course,” Margaret Halley said, in the same thin voice. “Tell them, will you, Brian?” And then she started up the stairs. The two standing there drew aside to let her pass. But she stopped, level with them. Margaret spoke, but only to Audrey Latham.

  “I blame myself,” she said. “Quite as much as you could wish, Miss Latham. As even you could wish.”

  And then, her set face white, she went on up the stairs. She went up and they could hear her steps, steady, unhurried—in an odd fashion resolute—on the flooring of the upper hall.

  “Isn’t there something—” Lynn said, and Brian Perry shook his head.

  “Nothing, Miss Ross,” he said. “Come down and we’ll have coffee. Miss Latham?”

  But Audrey Latham seemed not to hear him. She brushed past Lynn and ran up the stairs, ran the few feet along the hall which took her to the room in which she had slept. The door closed, sharply, behind her.

  The dining room was across the central hall from the living room. Brian Perry, very tall indeed in slacks and a sweater over a woolen shirt, led Lynn Ross into it, and through it to a smaller room beyond. There, Tom Kemper and Struthers Boyd sat with cigarettes, coffee cups in front of them. Kemper was dressed much as Brian Perry was. He said, “Good morning, Miss Ross,” in a low, grave voice. “This is a terrible thing that’s happened.” Boyd wore a bathrobe which, when Lynn and Perry entered, he tightened around him. His heavy face was pale, now, and unshaven. It seemed to sag. He rubbed a hand along his face.

  “Old John,” Boyd said. “Hard to believe it.” He rubbed his face again. “Feel like hell about it,” he said. “Why would he do a thing like that? God—I feel like hell.”

  He seemed to include, this time, more in the statement than he had before. He pressed his hands against his forehead.

  “You get them, doctor?” he said.

  “They,” Brian Perry told him, were on their way. Because of the condition of the roads, it might take them time. Boyd stood up. He said, in a voice which drooped as his face drooped, that he’d better get some clothes on. He looked at Kemper; looked down at Kemper’s legs. Lynn looked too. Kemper’s slacks were wet to the knees. “If I were you,” Boyd said, “I’d get something dry on.”

  “He’s right,” Perry said. “Getting pneumonia won’t help anybody.”

  Reminded, Kemper shivered; said, “Hell yes.” He went out of the small breakfast room and Boyd went after him. Brian Perry touched a bell, and Lucinda Speed peered into the room through a partly opened door. She shook her head and sighed; and Brian Perry asked if they could have some coffee. She said, “I’ll get it,” and the door closed.

  “Kemper got him out,” Brian Perry said. He looked across the table at Lynn. He took his rimless glasses off and his eyes seemed larger without the glasses. He laid the glasses on the table beside his plate. “He wasn’t far from the bank, but Kemper had to wade in to get him.”

  “It’s so dreadful,” Lynn said. “After last night. We—we were all drinking to the New Year.” She discovered that her voice shook. Unexpectedly, Brian Perry reached across the table and, briefly, put one of his hands over one of hers. He had long hands, with very long fingers. He did not, otherwise, respond to what she had said.

  “Apparently,” Perry said, “he went down to the lake for something—or to the boathouse for something. Before he went to bed. He’d put on the outdoor shoes he kept downstairs. Somehow he lost his footing in the snow and fell into the water. He hit his head on something. A rock, probably. That stunned him.”

  “It was—it’s clear what happened?”

  “I’d think so,” he said. “John could have stood up and the water wouldn’t have been higher than his waist.”

  “But the way Margaret talked—” Lynn said. Mrs. Speed came in, carrying a tray. She poured them coffee, indicated toast wrapped in a napkin. She sighed deeply and went out again.

  “Yes,” Brian Perry said. “She thinks he killed himself.” He hesitated for a moment. “He was in a depression, Margaret says. As a matter of fact—” He broke off. “But that doesn’t matter, now,” he said. “A person in a depression is very likely to try suicide. Part of the treatment is to prevent suicide. It’s possible that—”

  “I tried to kill myself a year ago—a little over a year ago,” Lynn said, quite steadily. “The world was—all gray. Formless. I took too many sleeping pills. And—now I’m all right.”

  He put his glasses on, and looked at her with care—looked at her, she thought, professionally. He took his glasses off again.

  “You’re quite all right,” he said. “You went to Margaret?” She nodded. “She’s very good. She was probably right about her husband. Of course, in a close relationship, it’s hard to keep perspective. She wanted me to t
alk to John, if he was willing. See if I agreed. Better drink your coffee, Miss Ross. And—here.” He pushed the plate of toast nearer. She looked at it. “Yes,” he said. She took a piece of toast. It was wrong to be hungry. Nevertheless, she was hungry.

  Margaret had, he told her, sipping his own coffee, been worried for some time about her husband’s state of mind. Toward the end of the party the night before she had become afraid that Halley was entering the depressive phase. She had tried, after the others had gone up, to get him to go to bed, but he had not been ready. She had left him sitting by the fire.

  “She went into his room early, to make sure he was all right. She found he wasn’t there. She went downstairs and found he wasn’t there, either. Then she called Kemper. Kemper got me up.”

  They had convinced themselves that John Halley was not in the house, and then had gone out into the snow. In the snow they had found soft depressions, almost filled—faint hollows in the surface, just perceptible; only possibly what remained of tracks made in the snow hours before. They followed the faint marks—to the boathouse, to Halley’s body. He had been dead for several hours. They had carried his body back to the house.

  “She must be right,” Lynn said, after a longish pause. Brian was lighting a cigarette. He let the match burn down. At the last instant, he shook the match out. “Margaret, I mean,” Lynn said. “Why would he go there, except—except to do what she thinks?”

  Brian Perry struck another match. He lighted his cigarette, this time. Then, belatedly, he pushed the pack toward Lynn. He leaned across the table, with still another match flickering. He said, “Sorry,” and held the match to her cigarette. Then he said, “I don’t know, Miss Ross. It is, I’ll have to admit, a little complicated. But I’m quite sure he slipped, struck his head, and lost consciousness. And that—”