Call After Midnight Read online

  “Well, yes but—what happened?”

  “Can’t you guess?” Jenny asked bleakly.

  “You must have quarreled.”

  “I made a terrible scene. Then I just left. Peter had to pack up my clothes and send them to me. I wouldn’t even see him. You can’t imagine how foolish I was!”

  “I can’t imagine you making a terrible scene. What did you do? Throw things?”

  “Oh, it was all so trite. It doesn’t seem real now. You see Peter had been staying in town—on business he said, but often. One night when he was at home the phone rang and I happened to pick up an extension and it was Fiora and I heard them and—and Peter told her, of course he loved her, but he just couldn’t get away from me for a few days. They were making plans for the following weekend. I didn’t wait to hear any more. I stormed downstairs and accused Peter and cried and—and carried on,” she said inadequately. “Peter didn’t say anything. Not for a long time. But he finally lost his temper, too, and said, yes, he’d been seeing Fiora and he intended to go on seeing her if he wanted to. That’s when I left. I felt as if the whole world had gone to pieces.”

  “But it hadn’t,” Cal said gently. “Forget it all, Jenny.”

  “And then he married her.”

  Cal put out one hand, took her own in a hard, warm clasp for a moment, then gave it a brisk pat and released it. “Well, you rather threw Peter at Fiora,” he said sensibly. “She’s not a girl to overlook her opportunities. You couldn’t have expected Peter to come running after you. He’s got some of the—oh, call it the railroad steel in him.”

  “I don’t know what I expected.” But I know, I think I know, what I’m going to try to do now, she thought.

  Cal couldn’t have guessed what she was thinking. He said though, rather dryly, “Once anybody is in the clear there’s no use asking for trouble. Advice, free.”

  It was time to change the subject. Jenny said, “Have you been in New York much this year?”

  “Most of the time. Very little jumping over the country.”

  “How are things going?”

  Cal gave her a half-smiling but perceptive glance. “You know I’ll talk about the railroad if you give me half a chance. But I’ll tell you this. For the first time since Peter’s father died the road is in the black. Give us some more time and we’ll have the best damn railroad in America.”

  “You’re still a vice-president?”

  “No, I was moved up to the presidency when Peter went in as chairman of the board this winter. All the elder statesmen in the business eye us gloomily and say we’re too young, but I can take a look at our balance sheets.”

  Cal was a dedicated railroad man and always had been since he came, fresh from M.I.T., to work for Peter. He had moved up steadily due both to his own hard work and to Peter’s recognition of Cal’s value. Peter never made a move without consulting Cal; Peter had said that a good executive picks good men and uses them.

  Her own acquaintance with Cal had amounted to a kind of remote and impersonal friendship. Whatever Cal had said of Peter and her divorce she knew that he was actually devoted to Peter, not only as his employer and co-worker but as a friend. Nobody could possibly help liking Peter.

  “Peter needed you, Cal. He inherited all that money and all his stock in the road. He always said that he’s not a born railroad man as you are. In a sense he inherited his job, too. He said that you and he made a good team.”

  “We both had things to learn. Still have, I suppose. But Peter gave me my chance. I couldn’t have got very far by now in one of the big roads. The Sheraton Valley has everything a big road has except size. It’ll have the size one day if I live and barring—” He put out his cigarette with a quick thrust into the ashtray. “Barring mergers.”

  “Mergers? What roads?”

  The car sped along for some distance before Cal replied. “One road, the Pilgrim and Southern. Nothing about it has got out yet. Some people may guess that it’s been suggested. But that’s as far as it has gone. Art Furby has been trying to talk Peter into considering the pros and cons—and ways and means, for that matter.”

  “Is Art for it, then?”

  “Oh, yes. And you know how Peter feels about Art.”

  Art Furby had inherited his interest in Peter’s road as Peter had inherited. Art Furby’s father had been Peter’s father’s friend. Peter had a strong instinct for clinging to the past. Jenny said, “Yes, I know.”

  “And of course,” Cal said, “Art’s feelings are a little sensitive right now. He expected to move up from head of the legal department to the presidency. I got the presidency instead. Peter wanted it that way, but he hates having hurt Art. So now, to make up for it, he may listen to Art.”

  “Why does Art want the merger?”

  “Why does anybody? He says it’ll put us in a stronger position. But we’re in the black now. Give us another few years. We’re already in a position to plow some money back into the road, new rolling stock, new steel contracts. Of course, in the end any merger decision is up to the Interstate Commerce Commission. We’d have to show need for a merger, increased ability to improve service. We’re a public carrier. In any event it would all take time, can’t be done in a day …Why did you go out and get a job?”

  “Because I wanted it, of course. And I needed the money.”

  “Peter told me he had made a settlement at the time of your divorce.”

  “Oh, he did! A very generous one, fifty thousand dollars. He deposited it in the bank.”

  “Generous! Your attorney should have insisted on alimony.”

  “He did. I wouldn’t take it.”

  There was a silence. Then Cal laughed shortly. “Well, I’m glad you kept the settlement.”

  “Of course,” Jenny said simply. “I thought sometime I might need it.”

  He put on the brake for a tollgate. The lights flared brightly above them. He tossed change into the basket and as a red light ahead changed to a green one with “thank you” on it, he gave her a half-exasperated but half-amused look. “Well, that’s sensible. But it looks to me as if you need some right now.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “That’s fine,” Cal said a little too heartily. She shot him a suspicious glance but he had rolled down a window and was peering through the mist, which grew thicker as they approached the Sound. “The turn-off is somewhere near. Can’t see—oh, here we are.”

  He checked the car to look for signs and Jenny forgot railroad, forgot Cal, almost forgot Fiora. In a short time now she would enter the house where for two years she had been happy, which had been home to her, the rambling, awkward old house on the Sound.

  It was out of date. It had a magnificence which was now as old-fashioned as the carriages which still stood in its huge carriage house. It was impossible to heat and impossible to staff properly. It had gardens which had had to be let go—not for lack of money, Peter had money, but for lack of gardeners. The shrubbery flourished, old and lush. The lawns were kept in order but barely that. No heating system could quite cope with the vast halls and drafty rooms of the house. Yet it had a certain strength and charm. “We ought to sell this to some school. Give it away if I could find anybody to take it. It’s a white elephant de luxe,” Peter had said. “Lonely old place, too. I suppose it was the last word in elegance in its day but its day is long past.” This, though, was mere talk. Peter would never have sold the place. Of course it was not home to Jenny, not now. But she’d see Peter.

  Cal started up the car again. He gave her an odd look. “Don’t bother about your hair.”

  “Why, I’m not—”

  “You were smoothing it and fussing with it like a—like a girl going to her first dance. You’re beautiful,” he said coolly.

  “Why, Cal!” She had never heard him compliment anybody.

  “Well, you’ve got eyes, haven’t you? A mirror? You’re so far ahead of Fiora that I—Jenny, why didn’t you fight for Peter if you want him so much? There, don
’t answer. I withdraw it: Here’s the turn.”

  But I think I am going to fight for him, Jenny thought a little smugly. I’m sure I will. This time it’ll be different. Unless, of course, Peter and Fiora were really happy together. She decided not to think about that yet. But she had to think of Fiora until she and Cal discovered whatever trouble there was in that solid house ahead of them.

  The road wound along the Sound and it was thick with fog. Jenny rolled down the window on her side and felt the salt air moist on her face. She wondered how Peter would look, what he would say, but mainly what would be in his eyes when he saw her.

  Cal turned in at last at the stone entrance with its banks of huge laurels leaning over the high wall. The driveway curved between great clumps of copper beeches and masses of shrubbery which glistened wetly in the lights from the car. They rounded an enormous yew tree and saw the house, looming up vastly in the fog. It was sparsely lighted, a light over the entrance, a light in the library, one or two lights on the second floor. Cal said, “No sense in Peter’s trying to save electricity,” and brought the car up to the steps. In a moment now, at once, Peter would come to the door.

  Cal got out of the car, came around to Jenny’s side and opened the door beside her. “Take it easy—” He stopped as the door of the house opened. Peter did not come out. Instead a woman stood in the lighted doorway looking out at them. Cal stared for a second and said, “It’s Blanche Fair!”

  It was Blanche, an old-time friend of Fiora’s and Art Furby’s secretary for many years; at least she was supposed to be his secretary. In moments of disillusionment with Art, Peter had said that Blanche was Art’s brains, which was not precisely true, for Art was certainly a sufficiently good and experienced lawyer to hold his position as general counsel for the railroad; if he hadn’t been efficient, even Peter, who clung loyally to old associates, would have had to get rid of him. Blanche had introduced Fiora to Peter and Jenny liked her accordingly.

  Cal turned back to Jenny. “What’s she doing here?”

  “Perhaps Peter sent for Art Furby, too. A lawyer. So Blanche came with him.”

  “You’re way behind the times. Blanche isn’t Art’s secretary any longer. She’s got a new title, executive assistant to Peter.”

  “She’s very intelligent,” Jenny said slowly.

  “She’s ambitious,” Cal said shortly. “Are you going to get out? I can still turn around and take you back to town.”

  “No.” She wished that Peter would come to the door and run down the steps to meet her.

  He didn’t and she and Cal went up a few steps, crossed a terrace, went up some more steps. It was an absurdly pompous approach. Jenny remembered fleetingly how Peter had laughed at its magnificence but nothing could have induced him to change so much as a single marble urn; weather-stained but pompous, the two urns stood as they always had on either side of the door.

  Blanche said, “You made a quick trip.”

  Cal said, “Hello, Blanche. You remember Jenny—”

  “Of course.” She put out a hand and pressed Jenny’s hand. “This is an imposition though, Jenny. I didn’t think Peter should send for you. But come in.”

  They entered the hall and Jenny realized vaguely that it, at least, was very changed. Cal said, “What about Fiora?”

  “She is perfectly all right,” Blanche said.

  It was what Jenny’s common sense had suggested; at the same time something hard and tight around her throat relaxed its pressure. Fiora wasn’t much hurt; there was no possibility whatever of Peter’s being charged with murder. Murder, Jenny thought with incredulity.

  Blanche said, “Fiora fainted from shock. Peter was upset. He phoned to both of you before I could stop him.”

  Cal took off his coat. Blanche said earnestly, “This is very hard for Jenny, Cal. Very embarrassing to her. Why don’t you see Peter yourself, and Jenny and I will wait till you’re ready to go back to town? I’m only thinking of Jenny—”

  “Come off it, Blanche,” Cal said pleasantly and threw his coat and hat down upon a bench. “What’s been happening? Was Fiora shot or not?”

  Blanche replied with neat precision. “It happened about midnight. Fiora had invited me for the weekend. I got here just before dinner. Afterwards we sat around and talked. Peter wanted a nightcap. Fiora went to the pantry to get some ice. They have no domestic help living in the house—there’s only a young couple, Victor and Rosa, who cook and see to the place and they live in the old gardener’s cottage. I was at the telephone here in the hall. Peter was in the library. We both heard the shot and Fiora screamed. We ran to the pantry. She was clutching her arm, backed up against the refrigerator.” Blanche shook her lovely head just a little. “Fiora said somebody had come up behind her and shot her.”

  “Who?” Cal said.

  “She says she doesn’t know. But she does have a bullet wound in her arm. We got her into the library. I bandaged up the wound. She’s sitting up drinking a highball right now.”

  “Didn’t she see who shot her?”

  “She says she didn’t.”

  Jenny found her voice. “Didn’t you send for a doctor?”

  “Oh, no,” Blanche said. “I once took a first-aid course. I knew what to do. It’s a clean wound. The bullet went right through and came out. Peter found it on the floor. Why send for a doctor?”

  “Because you and Peter will be liable for criminal negligence for one reason,” Cal said, “and because you can’t be sure that you cleaned and bandaged the wound properly.”

  “Oh, I think I did. You see, a doctor might feel he ought to report this to the police. Peter might be in for considerable annoyance.”

  But Cal said, “Why Peter?”

  Blanche touched her pink lips with her tongue. Blanche’s beauty was in her dazzling coloring, pink and white skin, luminous green eyes, and luxuriant hair, which was so black it really did have a blue tinge. Her nose was a trifle flat, her lips a trifle wide, her chin a trifle small and receding, but the over-all picture was one of brilliant beauty. She said, “Because, only Peter and I were here with Fiora. I didn’t shoot her and neither did Peter. I’d have seen him if he came out the library door and went to the pantry. I told you, I was talking over the telephone. I was talking to Art Furby, if you feel a need privately to check my alibi, dear Cal.” She laughed conscientiously but Cal didn’t seem to think it a joke.

  “That’s the business of the police. I’ll see Peter.”

  “Wait, Cal, we’ve talked it over, Peter and I and Fiora. None of us want the police bothering around, stories in the paper, scandal.

  “But Fiora had a bullet through her arm,” Cal said. “Take off your coat, Jenny.”

  Jenny had been standing like a stone. She roused as Cal came toward her and removed her red coat. Blanche’s eyes flickered up and down Jenny’s dress with what Jenny felt was automatic approval. She said politely, although disapprovingly, “Peter’s in the library. This way—”

  “I know the way.” Cal cupped his hand around Jenny’s elbow. Blanche turned along the hall toward the library and Cal said, low to Jenny, “We’ll get this over with and get back to town.”

  Jenny was thankful for the firm clasp of her arm but she couldn’t keep her heart from pounding like a drill.

  Again, as they entered the library following Blanche’s erect and elegant black figure, Jenny was sensible of change, which vaguely surprised her. The library had been a dingy but comfortable old room; it was now a lively mixture of colors, mustard green, orange, tangerine. All she really saw then, however, was Fiora, blanket-swathed, sitting up against pillows on a sofa and Peter coming quickly to meet them. Jenny went to him as if drawn by a magnet. He took both her hands. He was just the same: a little stocky in build with a habit of standing very solidly on his feet as if, as Cal had said, he had some railroad steel in him. His light brown hair was cut short as a brush; his eyes were a light and rather wary blue set in a tanned face; he had blunt features like his Dutch ancestors an
d it was difficult to read any expression in his face even though he was smiling at her and for a reckless second Jenny thought he would take her in his arms and wanted him to.

  He didn’t. He didn’t say anything either. Something was wrong with the reunion she had almost unconsciously expected.

  She looked away from Peter and met Cal’s rather sardonic gaze. Blanche’s face and Fiora’s were very still. She drew her hands from Peter’s.

  From the sofa Fiora said, “I didn’t shoot myself, Cal! I don’t care what they say, somebody shot me.”

  Chapter 3

  PETER MOVED A CHAIR toward Jenny, as if inviting her to sit down. Blanche went to a table where she took a cigarette from a silver bowl and lighted it with a crystal lighter shaped like a rabbit. New, Jenny thought with odd detachment; new since I lived here. She looked at Fiora who lay back against the pillows, her pretty doll’s face as sweet and luscious as a cream puff. She was huddled in a peach-colored dressing gown, with one arm bare except for a big white bandage pad, strapped on the delicate flesh with strips of adhesive. A blanket was over her feet and a highball glass stood on the table near her. Blanche, as usual, was accurate.

  Cal folded his arms across the tall back of a chair and looked at Fiora. “Who says you shot yourself?”

  “Peter and Blanche, of course!” Fiora cried. “They say I must have been fooling around with Peter’s gun. But I wasn’t. I didn’t. I’m scared to death of guns. Somebody shot me.”

  “Who?” Cal said.

  “I don’t know who! I was there in the pantry, getting ice out of the refrigerator for Peter’s highball. I didn’t hear a thing. Except this horrible sound right in my ears, and then I fell against the refrigerator and knew it was a shot and saw the blood on my dress and I screamed and I was shot.”

  Blanche delicately touched an ashtray with her cigarette.

  “Didn’t you see anybody?” Cal said.

  “No! Not anybody!”

  “Didn’t you hear anything?”

  “I heard the shot. I didn’t shoot myself. Why should I?”

  Her pretty face was obstinate. Cal sighed. “You’d better sit down, Jenny,” he said without looking at her.