The Magician's Wife Part 19

"That forty a day was all right."

"And then?"

"I started to take off my clothes, but was restless and didn't feel like going to bed. Then I remembered Mike, and he seemed as good an excuse as any to get out of the house again and go somewhere. So I went."

"Out through the lobby, of course?"

"No-after all that hocus-pocus about putting the keys in the box, I would have felt kind of silly asking Doris to start over again. So I dropped duplicate keys in my pocket and went out the back way. I keep three or four sets around, ignition keys and trunk keys, on little spiral rings." He took out a pair and clinked them at Mr. Kuhn. "I took a set from a bureau drawer and drove off without telling Doris."

"Straight to the Lilac Flamingo?"

"That's right-to the side street by the club."

"When was this?"

"At a guess, I'd say I left at eleven-thirty."

"And then you came back?"

"I did."

"Parking where?"

"Same place as before."

"The same way as before? Snug? To the curb?"

"Mr. Kuhn, I haven't the faintest idea. I always park according to law, or try to-and in this case I suppose I followed habit. But if independent recollection is what you want, I don't have any."

"What time was this?"

"One-thirty, one-forty-five."

"And you went in the back way, as before?"

"No, I went in through the lobby."

"Being checked in? By the late man? On the desk?"

"No-Frank was asleep."

So far, having had his moment of warning, while the lawyers wrangled, Clay had made lightning improvisations, and feeling they might be believed, had regained his big-shot manner, a combination of cold civility and slightly annoyed impatience. But it all began to wear thin when Mr. Kuhn abruptly asked: "Isn't it true, Mr. Lockwood, that you stayed home that night, that you didn't leave at all, by the front door, back door, or any door, and that you've told this incredible tale simply to help Miss Conlon-that you've been her paramour and are trying to get her off, at any cost, even a breach of the truth?"

"No, Mr. Kuhn, it's not true."

"You've been a visitor at her home?"

"I've never been to her home."

"Mr. Kuhn picked up his report and, elaborately letting the jury see, asked Clay: "You deny that on August eighteenth last you went to her home, leaving around dusk?"

"Her apartment house, not her home."

"Explain this distinction, please."

Clay's mouth, disconnected from his mind, began to talk, explaining his concern for Buster, her safety in the projected act, and "I wanted to check on it, what had been done with the rails-and I wanted no piece of Gorsuch, or Alexis, as he called himself with me. So, being in Baltimore one evening, I decided to look her up, and after finding her in the phone book drove over to that part of town. I located her place, went in, and checked the mailboxes, lighting a match to look, as I'm sure your report says. Her box was there, but then I decided I'd better call, rather than barge out of the blue. So I went up the street, looking for a call box, and, not finding any, came back. Then, to my surprise, she came bouncing out of the doorway and down the steps. So we had our talk, right there on the sidewalk, and I found everything had been done in the way I had said it should be. But then we went on to other things and stepped into a vestibule-of an office building nearby. You want the details of what we said?"

"Not particularly," said Mr. Kuhn.

"WHY DONT YOU WANT THE DETAILS?" thundered Clay.

His mouth having come up with a tale that at least steadied his nerves, he summoned courage to take the offensive, and sounded once more, as he had the day before, like the big, overbearing, self-righteous business executive, determined to be heard. "Or do you only want part of the truth? The part that'll burn this girl."

"Then-the details," said Mr. Kuhn.

Clay told of Buster's concern over Mr. Alexis, that he was 'giving me the air, so he can go back to her-out of grat.i.tude for what she did, helping his father die, at least as he thought, and bringing him all that money.' Pointing at Sally, whose eyes looked like fragments of gla.s.s, Clay explained: "She meant that lady there, Mrs. Sally Gorsuch-though of course, Mr. Kuhn, your police reports cover it. I hope you've referred to them-I know of course you wouldn't suppress anything."

"Mr. Lockwood, you've been warned," snapped the judge.

"If you're trying to shut me up, I won't shut!"

Clay looked at Judge Warfield, as utter recklessness swept caution aside. It was his great moment at the trial, and for a long interval silence hung on the courtroom. Then Mr. Kuhn resumed: "So even then, on August eighteenth, the defendant, Miss Conlon, had her mind on revenge?"

"On a replacement, I'd say," Clay told him.

"... Replacement? What do you mean?"

"Some guy-in Alexis' place."

"Ah! Meaning you?"

"Yeah! We kidded along about it!"

"And you kissed her?"

"You bet I did. She kisses nice."

24.

MR. KUHN HAD NO further questions, Mr. Pender only a few deferential ones of a kind to remind the jury of Clay's personal eminence, and there was no more mention of perjury. Nevertheless, Clay's face was drawn as he left the stand, and he didn't look at the judge, the jury, or anyone, not even at Buster, where she sat trying to beam him a smile. Not waiting for lunch with Mr. Pender, he hurried out to his car and drove home, finding n.o.body there. He went to Grace's bedroom and flung himself down on her bed, a square, newfangled thing with shelves in the place of a headboard and no footboard at all. There, some time later, returning from market, she popped in and sat down beside him. But when she asked how it went, he merely said, "O.K., I guess," in a vague, dull way, still keeping his face in the pillow. But when she opened the paper she had bought, he turned over and stared at the headline. It was The Pilot's noon edition, which had the perjury charge but not its subsequent withdrawal. In a jerky, dramatic way then, he said: "So-you want to know how it went, that's how. They later withdrew the charge-but the word was used-and for a couple of minutes there, to leave that court I'd have had to put up bail."

"But how could they charge you with that?"

"I was guilty of it, that's how."

"But you never lied in your life. Not once!"

"And I didn't lie now-that's where it gets good. But down underneath the fraction of truth I was telling, the whole truth was rumbling around, and they heard it! They didn't buy what I said, especially not that jury. They knew something was wrong, even if they didn't know what. And that Kuhn even came out and said it, that I lied under oath-and the c.o.c.keyed part was that the lying he thought I had done, I didn't do, at all. ... Ah, why slice it so thin? I blew it, that's all."

"But how could you? Yesterday-"

"Oh, boy, yesterday! You should have heard me today!"

"Clay, will you calm down? What happened?"

"My alibi, remember? It ruined me."

"But-it was supposed to be good."

"And was, airtight, lawyer-proof, and copper-riveted, and that was the trouble with it. It exploded right in my face. Hoist by my own petard. What is a petard, if you know?"

"Why-a powder keg, I think."

"And how! And how!"

Disconnectedly, half-heartedly, he tried then to tell her what had happened, and did sketch out most of it. But then he broke off, pleading: "Don't ask me to talk, Grace. If I had scored, I'd say so, don't worry-no one's as gabby as I am when I've stuff to brag about. The very fact I don't want to tell it is the proof that there's nothing to tell-at least, that you'd want to hear. And the worst of it is, I hurt the girl's case instead of helping it."

"Well, that, at least, I can bear."

Her waspish tone caught his ear, and he pressed her to know what she meant. "I mean, it serves her right," she told him virtuously.

"In what way serves her right?"

"Well, Clay! Look at what she did!"

"And what did she do, Grace?"

"Well! The life that she led with Alec!"

"She did no more with him than I did with Alec's wife. And if that's what serves her right, all I can say is-"

"And trying to put it on Sally!"

"Grace, Sally did it!"

"But Sally was not even there!"

"Sally was in it up to the hilt. She planned it with me- she's guilty, just as guilty as I am."

"And I am, don't forget!"

"... And let's have an end of that!"

He stared at the ceiling, went on: "Your wanting to share with me, your standing by me the way you have, is the one bright spot in this mess. But don't let's play games. No one's here with us but G.o.d, and I don't think we're kidding Him. So let's not kid ourselves. You share my pain, I know-and that warms me, fills me with hope, and gives me strength. You can't share my guilt. n.o.body can except-"

"My daughter?"

"Yes."

He pulled her to him, unb.u.t.toned her sweater, broke the strap of her bra, and nuzzled and kissed and inhaled.

That went on for three days, with interruptions only for the meals she cooked and brought him, and for her hourly trips outside, to buy papers as they came out. He took little interest, however, as she read him the rest of the testimony, Buster's outbreak on the stand, arguments by the lawyers, and speculation as to the verdict while the jury was "out." And his face was blank as she came in the fourth day, tossed him a paper, and said: "Well, it's over-they convicted her. Of manslaughter, whatever that is. Less than murder apparently. So, she won't go to the chair. So, you did what you could. So, do you mind? If we forget this dreadful girl? And talk about something else?"

"Forget her?" he said dully. "How could I?"

"Well, you'd better! She's all but ruined your life!"

He glanced through the paper, learning that Mr. Pender had moved for a new trial and had served notice that, failing that, he would appeal, and that sentence would be pa.s.sed on Monday. Then, almost as though in a stupor, he asked: "And why should I forget her? Or even try to forget her?"

"She has it coming, that's why!"

"Has what coming, Grace?"

"This! If she'd lived a decent life, if she'd let Alec alone, above all, if she hadn't jumped in that car, just to plague him and act like a hussy, none of this would have happened-to say nothing of that other, the lie she told the police about seeing Sally's car! Oh, yes! These chickens come home to roost! She has no one to thank but herself!"

"She has no one to thank but me-and Sally."

"Is there something between you and this girl?"

He didn't answer, but got up in robe and pajamas, went into the bathroom, and shaved, bathed, and combed. When he came out the bed was made and his clothes were lying on it, his suit, underwear, and shirt, with three neckties to choose from; his shoes and stockings on the floor. Biting his lip, he dressed, then went to the living room, where she sat in her knitted suit, primly waiting. "Well?" she asked. "Is there? It said in the paper you kissed her and that 'She kisses nice.' "

"She does-and there's nothing between us."

"Maybe not, but I'm sick of her just the same."

"Grace, she's convicted of something I did."

"Oh, but there's more to it than that!"

"There's no more to it than that."

"Oh, yes! Don't forget! I did something too!"

"Grace! For G.o.d's sake, knock it off!"

She bounced up, as though on springs, at the crackle of his voice, and was rigid as his arms went around her and he began to talk in her ear: "Honey, what you did I'll never forget-the money was just the beginning-your wanting to share-your standing by me like a rock-to me are nine-hundred-percent magnificent-looking at you, where you sit. But I don't sit where you sit-the place where I sit is different. I'm guilty, you're not. What you've done proves you love me, as G.o.d knows I love you." He held her close and kissed her, then kissed her again and again, until she began to kiss back. Then, releasing her, he walked away until he faced the wrap-closet door. "But that's all it proves," he whispered.

Opening the closet, he took out his coat and hat and put them on. "Where are you going?" she asked.

"Out. In the park. Think."