The Seducer

14

At seven o’clock, Brad went upstairs and tried Madeline’s door. It was not locked, and he pushed it a few inches into darkness and stood listening intently to the sound of deep and languorous breathing.

It seemed to him, standing in the dimly lighted hall at the threshold of the black room, that it was the whole house breathing, not merely Madelaine, the walls swelling and contracting to the rhythm of quiet breath against a quicker and barely perceptible drumming of a giant pulse.

Pushing the door farther into the room, admitting a swath of light from the hall behind him, he stepped into the light and out of it into darkness and made his way silently, after standing still for a moment while the pupils of his eyes adjusted, to the bed where Madelaine lay.

There was a tiny night lamp on her bedside table, and he turned this on with a soft click of the switch, the light fanning out to fashion in the darkness a small perimeter that encompassed the face of the sleeping woman.

Madelaine did not stir. She lay on her back with her hair spread upon the pillow. Her mouth was slightly open. Her breasts rose and fell to the deep and languorous cadence of her breathing and the breathing of the house.

She was heavily sedated, drugged in sleep and defenseless against all device. She would sleep this way for hours, and she had made in the end a fatal error. Having known her husband for what he was, she had failed to understand what he could, when driven, become.

Switching off the night light, Brad turned and left the room, closing the door behind him and standing for a full minute leaning against it in the hall, his own pulse thundering in his heart and head now that a decision had been made.

There had been no decision minutes before, when he had ascended the stairs compulsively. But he had known instantly, standing beside the bed in the dark room behind him, that Madelaine must die for his sake. It was not, he felt, so much a decision which he had made himself in that instant as a decision that had been made long ago without his connivance, and which he must now accept as part of an order of things he could not change.

Pushing away from the door, he went downstairs and into the library, where he dialed a number that rang a bell in the littered little apartment where Maggie lived.

The bell rang three times, bringing no response. He was about to hang up with a feeling of reprieve, the order of things having been changed after all, when suddenly, just after its beginning, the fourth ring was cut off, and Maggie’s voice came on. It had the lazy, mutilated sound that a voice has when it is heard through a yawn.

“Hello.”

“Maggie? This is Brad. Are you alone?”

“Yes. All alone. I was lying and wondering what to do, and I went to sleep. Would you like to see me, darling? Do you want me to meet you?”

“Not tonight. I have a departmental faculty meeting to attend.”

“Couldn’t we meet afterward? I want so much to meet you.”

“No. Not tonight. Listen to me, Maggie. We’re in trouble.”

“Trouble? Did you say trouble? Why are you talking so softly? I can hardly hear you.”

He became aware then that he had been whispering into the mouthpiece, not because it was a necessary precaution in a house that was empty, except for himself and the sleeping Madelaine, but only because he was reacting instinctively to the abortive influence of guilt. This struck him as being a dangerous sign, and he made a conscious effort to speak normally. His voice, however, in spite of the effort, was still conspiratorially low.

“Madelaine knows about me. Someone told her.”

“Knows? Did you say she knows? How could that be, darling, when we’ve been so careful and clever?”

“As I said, someone told her. She had a visitor this afternoon.”

She was silent, the open wire singing softly between them. There was in the singing sound of the wire a kind of incongruous deadliness, like a murderer humming in the midst of his work. She was apparently thinking at the other end of the wire, drawing a conclusion from what he had said. Finally, after almost half a minute, she expressed the conclusion succinctly.

“That God-damn Buddy!” she said.

“Just how much does Buddy know? Have you told him anything?”

“Certainly not. Buddy doesn’t need to be told things. He finds them out by being a sneak and a spy.”

“Well, he has put us in a vulnerable position. What are we going to do about him?”

“Don’t worry about Buddy. I know how to handle him. What’s more important is what we’re going to do about Madelaine.”

“Whatever it is, it will have to be done quickly. She’s going away in a few days.”

“For good?” Maggie queried.

“Until spring. She intends to have a divorce when she returns.”

“Really? That would be too bad.”

“Yes, it would. It would be disastrous.”

“Are you calling from home? Is she there now?”

“She’s upstairs asleep,” Brad informed her. “She’s under sedation.”

“You mean she’s taken something to make her sleep?”

“That’s right.”

“Will she sleep soundly for quite a long time?” Maggie asked, sudden eagerness in her voice.

“For hours. Until morning at least.”

The wire sang softly again between them, the murderer humming, and each of them knew what was in the other’s mind, although neither expressed it directly — the understanding of what must be done now or never, thanks to Buddy, the necessary disposition of Madelaine which might, even tomorrow, be too late to be any longer necessary or beneficial.

“Did you say you’re going to some kind of meeting?” Maggie asked.

“Yes. A departmental faculty meeting.”

“When are you going?”

“The meeting’s for eight. I’ll leave here a little earlier.”

“Will you be late returning?”

“Some of us will stop off somewhere for coffee and a snack,” Brad told her. “It’s routine. I’d guess that I won’t be home before eleven. Possibly after.”

“Maybe it would be helpful if I were to call on Madelaine while you’re gone. Do you think so?”

“I did think so, but now I’m not sure. What about Buddy?”

“Nothing about him. He’ll be sorry for the trouble he’s caused, and I know how to prevent him from causing any more.” Maggie’s voice was grim and controlled.

“He’ll certainly suspect the truth,” Brad warned.

“I doubt it. He’s too stupid. I keep telling you not to worry about him.”

“Nevertheless, perhaps we’d better wait a while.”

“Perhaps. If you want to lose everything that you might otherwise have. After you have given her time to make different arrangements about her money, there will be little purpose, as I see it, in doing anything whatever.”

“Are you sure you can manage it?” Brad asked nervously, a cold sweat starting from the skin of his forehead.

“Of course I’m sure. I can manage practically anything I set my mind to. There’s simply no use in talking about it. You do as I say, and I’ll do the rest.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Simply leave the house dark and the back door unlocked. You had also better leave something for me to use. Leave it just inside on the floor. A hammer or something. It will be necessary to avoid making noise. Besides I don’t believe I’m strong enough to manage without using something.

“Good God!” Brad exclaimed. “It sounds horrible when you put it like that.”

“Well, it isn’t exactly pleasant when you face up to it, but I don’t see why you should be so squeamish when I’m the one who will do all the work,” Maggie told him with a terrible and frightening practicality.

“All right. I suppose it must be done. I’ll do as you say.”

“Good. As you see, there’s hardly anything for you to do. You must try very hard, however, not to seem nervous or disturbed at your meeting. It might be recalled as odd in view of what will be known later.”

“I’ll do my part all right.”

“Of course you will. I’m sure you’ll behave admirably. But now we must stop talking. You will need to leave soon to get to your meeting. Good-by, darling.”

Brad said good-by and hung up. His hands were shaking again, and he laced the fingers together to stop the shaking. It was almost seven-thirty-five, and he would have to hurry.