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she hadn t raised her arms to try to protect herself, so
definitely he d hit her the first time from behind. That
blow would have killed her instantly, and the rest of it
was sheer sadism or some pathological hatred you could
only guess at.
But she must have let him in; I d locked the front door
when I left, and the others were already locked. I became
aware then that something had changed in the room, but
it was a second or two before I realized what it was. The
telephone had finally quit ringing. I turned to it and
picked up the receiver, still numb with shock, and started
to dial the sheriff's office. With a nervous giggle that was
The Long Saturday Night  38
near the borderline of hysteria, I was conscious of
thinking it was lucky for me I was in the sheriff s office,
with witnesses, when it happened. Then I stopped, and
let the receiver fall back on the cradle. I was staring with
horror at the splintered door frame.
Mr. Mulholland will please take the stand . . .
I rang the doorbell for a long time .... Yes, it
was at least five minutes .... When he finally
did answer, he was all out of breath, and
crazy-acting, and wild-eyed. 1 could smell the
liquor on him .... Yes, that s the same suitcase.
I just thought at the time it was his...
Wait! The suitcase was in the living room when I left.
He d have to testify there was no chance I could have
moved it, because I came out the door right behind him.
So it would be obvious she was still alive then I stopped.
What a defense that would be! By now I d already been
here at least twenty minutes, alone, since George had let
me off in front of the house.
I d told George she was still in New Orleans, when she
was already dead here in the bedroom. Friend or not.
he d still have to testify.
They already had the motive. The girl had given them
that.
The telephone started to ring again.
. . . and so, ladies and gentlemen of the jury,
having already killed his wife s lover, he
learned from her hotel in New Orleans that
she was on her way home, waylaid her in the
living room . . . where she dropped her
suitcase, fled in terror to the bedroom and, in
a last and futile attempt to save her life, bolted
the door . . .
. . . I give you this andiron . . . these monstrous
photographs . . . who but a man inflamed to
madness by the goadings of a cancerous and
unreasoning jealousy. . . .
I had to do something.
The Long Saturday Night  39
Yes, what? I heard my voice saying it aloud, and then
that nervous giggle again, warning me how near I was to
breaking up completely into hysteria.
Maybe if I got out of this room where her scream was
still ringing in my ears I could think. But it wasn t a
scream, I told myself; it was only the telephone. I went
down the hall with it ringing behind me in the bedroom
and ahead of me in the living room, as if I were running
wildly and forever just to stay in one place on a treadmill
in some ultramodern Hell filled with shrilling telephones
all trying to drive me over the brink into madness. Then
in a moment of lucidity, like a sun-filled hole in a drifting
curtain of fog, it occurred to me that if I answered it the
damned thing would stop. But as I came into the living
room it stopped anyway. I went on to the kitchen, only
half conscious of what I was doing, and from force of
habit poured a cup of coffee from the percolator which
had shut itself off now. I was raising it to my lips when I
saw her face again, and dropped the whole thing, cup,
saucer, and all, into the sink. I turned on the tap and let
the water run. Splashing among the fragments of china,
while I cupped trembling hands and caught some to wash
my face. I didn t know why. Maybe I thought it would
clear my head. I dried my face on a dish towel, dropped it
on the edge of the sink, and sat down at the breakfast
table to fumble for a cigarette.
Mother of God! Darrow come back from the grave
couldn t save me.
Fragments of thought went whirling through my mind,
too jumbled and disconnected to make sense or form any
recognizable pattern. It had to be Mulholland. No one
else had even known she was home. He had seen the
glove, and knew all the time the suitcase was hers. Then
he must have killed Roberts, and she was mixed up in it
some way No, I thought then, it didn t have to be
Mulholland; it could still be anybody. She d let the man
into the house, so it followed she could also have called
him and told him she was home, the minute I was out the
door.
And what had she really been doing in New Orleans?
What had she needed all that money for? I sprang up and
ran back to the bedroom, looking wildly around for her
purse; there might be something in it, some kind of
information. How did I know she was even in New
The Long Saturday Night  40
Orleans today, or last night? She hadn t got back to the
hotel to check out until sometime between five-thirty and
seven P.M.; she could even have been here in Carthage. I
spotted her purse on the bed beside the two suitcases,
pulled it open, and began pawing through the litter
women carry around with them lipstick, comb, mirror,
car keys, tissues, handkerchief. There was nothing here.
Wait receipted hotel bill, with her credit card number.
December to January 5th. That was right. I opened her
billfold. It held two fives, and three ones.
She d had six hundred in cash when she left here, and
presumably had cashed a check for five hundred today, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]