Ed Lacy - The Woman Aroused

Of course I could easily have gone directly to Hank's apartment, talked to his wife, but I had several phoney excuses for not doing that. He had said he didn't want her to get the money; that had started the entire mess. (Although he never said he wanted me to keep it as against giving it to his wife.) Then too, it was best I wait and see what was what. Suppose Hank had left a will, leaving the money to somebody besides his wife? If I gave her the seven grand I might be tied up in a law suit. They weren't good reasons, but they convinced me—which wasn't a difficult feat. So I waited—gave his sister another week to return from the country. The fact that lawyers hadn't called me made me feel happier—there probably wasn't a will.

Three weeks to the day after Hank was buried, I called his sister. I never cared much for Marion Keating. She was a short woman in her middle fifties, the type that spends her time hunting for better girdles, false breasts, hair dyes that are impossible, and a raft of make-up. She was sure she didn't look a day over thirty. (Although she would have happily settled for forty.) She had been on the edge of the society-social-blueblood swindle ever since she was 20 and married Edward F. Keating—Yale, badminton, sailing, and a comfortable amount of solid securities and stocks. The frantic keeping up with the Astors had left Marion looking worn and tired, and most boring. She moved and talked with jerky, nervous movements.

Mr. Keating was out—in fact I'd never seen him except when his picture appeared in the Sunday Times sport page many years ago. He had won a dinghy race, or something, and looked quite proud—and useless.

Her loud make-up made her weary, tired facial muscles stand out in sharp contrast, accented her age, but at first Marion acted as coy as a deb. After pouring me a drink and telling me about her week in the country, who had entertained her, or maybe it was the other way around, and the usual small talk, I was able to get in a few words. I told her what a shock Hank's passing had been and she suddenly pressed my hand between her two small damp thin ones, said, “George Jackson, my dear, I'm very glad you have come. The war—all those years—broke Hank's ties with the boys he knew. And somebody has to do something!”

“Yes? Do what?”

“That bitch murdered him!” Marion shrilled.

My mouth fell open like a ham comedian's.

“Oh I know her. Stayed in my house, right here, for over three weeks, and I locked my bedroom door every night. I thank God that Edward was in California, on business, during those weeks. He would have horsewhipped that... slut. George, nobody knows her wickedness, the slyness, the horrible cunning! She did it, she...”

“Hold up Marion, talk sense,” I said. “After all... well... murder. I thought Hank fell from a ladder, through the window, while hanging curtains?”

“A likely story! You knew Hank. Was he a drunk, or a very conservative, careful man? Falling through the window—he was pushed! Oh I know what I'm talking about—he told me he was trying to get rid of her. God knows what ever possessed him to marry that awful creature. The girls I could have had for him... with position and money. But you knew Hank, his high-sounding ideals. And he had to marry this whore, and now she's killed him. She wasn't satisfied driving him crazy, she had to push him out the window!”

Marion's voice was on a high, hysterical level. I wondered if she was tight, or perhaps slightly crazy. Still, she should be well past the change of life period and she didn't have enough sense to be-neurotic. I said, “I'm sure if there was even the smallest idea of murder, the police...”

“The police!” Marion actually screamed. “Those stupid, stupid, fools! She said she was down in the basement using the washing machine. Mind you, no one saw her down there, but the police believed her. George, if you only knew how impossible that sounds. Washing machine! That girl's a filthy slob. And as for work, she wouldn't move a finger to take off her shoes. I swear it, I saw her go to bed fully clothed, including her shoes. My God, if you ever saw her underwear... my poor brother!”

She turned on the tears and I wanted to leave but I had to find out about the will, if there was a will. “Marion, I don't know anything about all this. I've hardly seen Hank during the last eight years, only spoke to him on the phone once or twice when he returned. Surely the police wouldn't have believed this girl's story if they had any doubt of...?”

“The stupid police! They said there wasn't any motive. Motive! What do they know about this evil bitch. George, Hank has to be avenged, something has to be done!”

It was like a bad movie coming alive. There was such an unreal, melodramatic air about her ravings, I felt very uneasy. I waited a moment while she struggled with a handkerchief, then asked gently, “Hank leave a will, I mean, I suppose this girl will get everything... I mean, could that have been a motive?” I floundered rather badly.

Marion's eyes brightened, the tears stopped. “That's where I have her. Oh I have her good! Poor Hank, he never saved anything, and then all those years in the army. There isn't any will, he hasn't an estate. Not a cent. Even his GI insurance is in my name—he never changed it. He had a piece of property the family owns downtown, but that's in my name too. Before he went overseas, he changed the title. She hasn't a cent, and she'll starve to death before I give her a dime. I wouldn't even bury her—the murderess!”

She pressed my hand again. “George Jackson, you know I have money, that I've always given to charity, devoted my life to helping those less fortunate. I'm not a hard person. I would have done anything for Hank's wife. I looked forward to the day he'd marry, planned to give him the house in Westport as a wedding gift. Now you can realize what a she-wolf this girl is, when I tell you I pray to God she starves to death!”

I said I was sorry for her, it sounded like quite a mess, and she probably knew what she was doing and of course she was the soul of sweetness and charity, etc. Marion babbled on: she had hired private detectives but they hadn't been able to dig up a thing, but she would spend the rest of her life avenging her brother, etc.

I finally managed to break away before Marion wet herself with tears again. The night was cool and I walked home, thinking very objectively—or trying to. I still hadn't decided to keep the money, that was still a thought hidden in the back of my mind. But it was obvious I could—safely. There was one thing I was sure of: there wasn't any point in giving seven thousand to Marion, adding to her wealth, when she was cheating Hank's wife on the property deal.

And since Hank hadn't wanted this Lee to get the money, she probably had money too. In which case temptation might simply overwhelm me—with ease.

I mixed myself a drink, listened to the radio, and played with Slob. He was feeling very kittenish, making a great fuss over a ping-pong ball he had, chasing it all over the room. And in a sense I was as restless as the cat, too restless to sleep. It wasn't simply the money—something else disturbed me, although I couldn't put my finger on it. I dressed in a sweat suit, went downstairs and danced through a dozen records, then stretched under my sun lamp till I stopped sweating, thinking of Flo, vaguely wishing I knew Stella's name and phone number. I cleaned up the house while cooling off, took a hot, pine-bubble bath. While I was sitting in the tub, listening to Slob running around the living room like a fool, and glancing over some promotion booklets Socony had issued, I suddenly knew what was troubling me—I felt damn sorry for Hank's wife. Marion was a bitch and the poor girl was getting the wrong end of the stick. I decided to call her the following evening, and I felt better.

For what it's worth, I'll frankly admit I had a deep premonition there and then that I ought to leave well enough alone—as the trite phrase goes.

Still, I did have seven thousand dollars that was rightly hers, and also a certain curiosity to see what she looked like. Since my last “reunion” with Flo had petered out before it started, it may have been I was a bit on the frantic side at the moment.

The following day was humid and sticky and I skipped my cocktail to go home and shower. Despite the heat, I felt very gay, in sort of a philanthropic mood. I was on my way to do my good deed by a starving widow—maybe. Besides, I'd played a wild hunch on a nag called Mysterious, which had paid fourteen dollars and change for place. And I had amazed Joe (and myself) by actually playing her to place because I was more than a little doubtful of Marion's wild nonsense.

The house was sandwiched between several dull and depressing tenements on 29th Street, and it looked as if it had been remodeled just before the war. Despite the new bright brisk front (up to the first story only), the brass antique lamps over the doorway and the windows with their uniform red blinds, the house still had a tenement look and air about it. It gave me a chilly feeling to think I was probably standing on the very square of sidewalk where Hank had squashed out his life. I found Conroy in the mailbox—printed in Hank's neat, trim, lettering. There were several pieces of mail in the box. I rang the bell and waited. There wasn't any answering buzz and I rang again—a long ring. I tried the hall door, found it locked.

While I was standing there, feeling greatly excited—and relieved—sure that this Lee must be out of town, a man in a sweaty egg-yellow polo shirt came in, opened the hall doorway with a key. On the spur of the moment I walked in after him.

The clean hallway stairs smelled of disinfectant and the musty odor of people. Their apartment, or rather hers, was on the top floor and as I walked up, I could picture poor Hank hurtling down all the space I was climbing. I was sweating a bit when I reached the fifth floor, and as I stopped to run a handkerchief over my face, I was aware of the peephole in her apartment door opening, somebody watching me. Through the little hole in the center of what looked like a tiny porthole in the door, I saw somebody's iris-blue, I thought—staring at me. I wondered why the owner of the iris hadn't answered my ring, but then the bell might have been out of order.

I walked over to the door, rang the bell, as though I didn't see the eye watching me. The bell sounded loud in the early evening stillness. The blue iris didn't move, so finally I said, “Will you please open this door.”

After a second, a woman's voice with a faint drawl asked, “Who you?”

“I'm George Jackson, a friend of Hank's. If you're his wife, Lee, I'd like to talk to you. Or perhaps you can tell me where I can find her,” I added, suddenly thinking that in these days the apartment might have been re-rented by this time.

The iris stared at me for a second longer, and seemed to become a deep dark blue, then disappeared from the peephole, leaving a friendly beam of light. The door opened. I didn't see anybody, but I stepped inside and as the door closed softly, I turned to see her leaning lazily against the door.

She said, “I'm Lee.”

We stared at each other and I was aware of many things—and yet my mind seemed a blank, my thoughts scattered. There was the sharp odor about her and the room—the smell of the unwashed, the unclean. It was all over the incredibly dirty room, but it was especially strong about her. And it excited me, aroused me in a way I hadn't known for twenty years.

And there was the odd blue tattoo of a heart and an American flag on her left forearm. And she was a tall, magnificently built girl. She had on a thin, worn, armless housedress and nothing under that. Sweat stained the armpits. The dress couldn't hide any of her charms, the wonderful wide, strong shoulders; jutting breasts, firm round hips, and the oddly muscular arms and powerful legs. Her long dark untidy hair fell straight down to her shoulders, although neatly bobbed across her forehead. She wasn't a pretty girl but there was a certain unusualness about her face that made her attractive: the large eyes that stared at me with amusement, the nose that seemed to have been stuck on her face as an afterthought, maybe a plastic job, and her mouth was small, sullen, and unpainted.