An Air That Kills Read online

  “What’s the matter with you guys anyway? Have I broken out in spots or something?”

  “Where’s Galloway?” Turee asked.

  “I thought he was here.”

  “Wasn’t he supposed to come with you?”

  “That was the original plan, but I had an emergency call to make at a clinic down in Mimico, so I left word with Thelma to tell Galloway to go ahead without me. I know how he hates to be late. You don’t suppose Thelma got her signals switched?”

  It was generally agreed among the fellows that Thelma had been born with her signals switched, but none of them wanted to state this outright because it might hurt Harry’s feelings. Harry adored his wife. Her little eccentricities seemed endlessly fascinating to him and he was always enter­taining his friends with detailed reports of her opinions and experiences.

  Because he’d been the sole support of his parents, Harry had not married until they were both dead and then he wasted no time. His marriage, at the age of thirty-five, to a woman who worked as a receptionist in a doctor’s office, came as a shock to his friends, especially to Galloway who had become used to having Harry at his beck and call, and ready for anything. The carefree bachelor Harry had been suddenly replaced by the hopelessly married Harry, subject to rules and restrictions and at the mercy of whims and worries. Though Thelma and Esther did not get along well, the two men re­mained the best of friends, partly because Thelma seemed to like Galloway and encouraged Harry to see him, and partly because the two men had been friends ever since their prep school years together. As a senior, Harry had been president of the class. He still possessed the yearbook with his gradu­ation picture in it, and the caption: Henry Ellsworth Bream. A great future is predicted for our Harry, who holds a warm place in all our hearts.

  He still held a warm place in a good many hearts but the future remained elusive. He had missed a number of boats, by inches or minutes, by oddities of fate like a flat tire, a delay in traffic, a wrong turning, a misplaced key, a sudden blizzard, a mistake in a telephone number.

  “Poor Harry,” people said. “Always running into bad luck.”

  It was generally expected that when his parents died fate would step in and make up to Harry for all his misfortunes by handing him a real stroke of luck. By Harry’s standards, fate had. The luck was Thelma.

  “She probably didn’t give him the message,” Turee said. “Perhaps she suddenly decided to go to a movie or something and Galloway’s still sitting there waiting for you to turn up.”

  Harry shook his head. “Thelma wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

  “Not on purpose, of course.”

  “Not accidentally, either. Thelma’s got a wonderful mem­ory.”

  “Oh?”

  “That girl’s never forgotten a thing in her life.”

  “Well, all right, all right. It just seemed the logical explana­tion, that’s all.”

  It was midnight by this time, and Bill Winslow, who couldn’t hold his liquor but would die trying, had reached the point of saturation. The excess fluid was seeping out of his eyes in the form of tears.

  “Poor old Galloway, sitting down there on his can, sitting on his poor old lonely can, while we’re up here lapping up his liquor and having a swell time. It’s not cricket. Fellows, I ask you, is that cricket?”

  Turee scowled at him across the room. “For God’s sake, stop blubbering, will you? I’m trying to think.”

  “Poor old Galloway. Not cricket. Here we are having a swell time and there he sits on his poor old . . .”

  “Hepburn, see if you can haul him off to bed.”

  Hepburn put his hands under Winslow’s armpits and pulled him to his feet. “Come on, Billy-boy. Let’s go beddy-­bye.”

  “I don’t want to go to bed. I want to stay down here and have a swell time with you fellows.”

  “Look, Billy-boy, we’re not having a swell time.”

  “Y’aren’t?”

  “No. So let’s get moving. Where’d you leave your suit­case?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I put it upstairs with mine, in the room next to Gallo­way’s,” Turee said.

  “I don’t want to go to bed. I’m sad.”

  “So I see.”

  Winslow tried to brush the moisture off his cheeks with his forearm. “I keep thinking about poor old Galloway and poor little Princess Margaret.”

  “How did Princess Margaret get into this?”

  “Ought to marry somebody, have kids, be happy. Every­body should be happy.”

  “Certainly.”

  “I’m happy.”

  “Sure you are.”

  “I’m having a swell time with you fellows, aren’t I?”

  “Not for long, Billy-boy. Come on.”

  With the tears still spouting from his eyes, Winslow shuf­fled across the room and began to ascend the staircase on all fours like a trained dog going up a ladder. Halfway up he collapsed and Hepburn had to drag him the rest of the way.

  Turee got up and put another log on the fire and kicked it impatiently with his foot. “Well, what do we do now?”

  “I don’t know,” Harry said gloomily. “This isn’t like Ron, to keep people waiting.”

  “He might have had an accident.”

  “He’s a good driver. He’s got a real bug on safety, seat belts and everything.”

  “Even good drivers occasionally have accidents. The point is, since there’s no phone here, if something happened we’d have no way of finding out unless Esther sent a telegram to Wiarton and it was delivered out here.”

  “Esther would be too upset to think of doing that.”

  “All right, here’s another theory: Galloway never left home. He suffered an attack of indigestion, perhaps, and decided not to come.”

  “Now that’s more like,” Harry said with enthusiasm. “Last time I saw him he was complaining about his stomach. I gave him a couple of those new ulcer capsules my firm’s putting out.”

  “Galloway hasn’t got an ulcer.”

  “He may have. The capsules worked like a charm.”

  Turee turned away with an expression of distaste. He was the only one of the group who refused to have anything per­sonal to do with either Harry’s diagnoses or Harry’s pills.

  “All right, all right. Galloway’s ulcer started kicking up and he went to the hospital. How does that sound?”

  “Splendid,” Harry said, beaming.

  When Hepburn returned, a conference was held and it was decided that Turee, the brainiest, and Harry, the sober­est, should drive back to Wiarton and call Galloway’s house to test the ulcer theory.

  The road wound along the cliffs above the bay and Turee had to concentrate on his driving while Harry, in case the ulcer theory might be incorrect, kept his eye peeled for signs of a Cadillac in distress. They met only two cars, neither one a Cadillac.

  By the time they reached the town of Wiarton, nearly all the lights were out, but they finally located a pay phone in the lobby of a small tourist hotel which was just opening for the season. Since both the men were wearing fishing clothes, the manager of the hotel assumed they were customers and treated them very cordially until he learned they merely wanted to use the telephone. When, in addition to suffering a disappointment, he had to make change for five dollars, he became quite bitter about the whole thing and sat behind the desk glowering as Turee stepped into the phone booth.

  It required ten minutes or more to put the call through to Galloway’s house in Toronto, and then the connection was bad and the conversation was punctuated by what sounded like static.

  “Esther?”

  “Ron?”

  “No, this is not Ron. Is that you, Esther?”

  “Just who is this, please?”

  “Ralph. Ralph Turee. Is that you, Esther?”

 
“Yes,” Esther replied, rather coldly, since she’d been awakened from a sound sleep and even under the best of circumstances didn’t care much for Turee, Turee’s wife, or any of the little Turees. “Isn’t it rather late?”

  “I can’t hear you. Would you speak up?”

  “I’m practically screaming already.”

  “Listen, Esther—what in hell is that noise? Operator, operator, do something about that noise—Esther? Are you there? Well, listen a minute. Is Ron all right?”

  “Of course he’s all right.”

  “No attack of indigestion or anything?”

  “Are you drunk, by any chance?” This was one of Esther’s favorite questions and after long practice she read the line with spirited contempt, rolling the r in drunk and broadening the a in chance.

  “I am not drunk,” Turee shouted. “Why should I be?”

  “I’m sure you have reasons. Now what’s all this about Ron?”

  “Well, it’s like this. Harry’s up here at the lodge with the rest of us.”

  “So?”

  “Ron hasn’t arrived. Harry drove up alone in his own car. He had a business appointment to keep in Mimico and he told Thelma to tell Ron not to wait for him but to come up to the lodge by himself and Harry would get here when he could. Well, Harry got here all right, but Ron hasn’t. The fellows were beginning to get worried so we thought we’d better call you.”

  Esther suffered from a chronic case of jealousy, and the first image that flashed through her mind was not of Gallo­way lying dead somewhere in a car wreck, but of Galloway lying cosily beside Thelma in a bed. She said, “Maybe Ron was delayed.”

  “Where?”

  “In Weston.”

  “How?”

  “How? Ask Harry. He’s married to the woman.”

  “Now that,” Turee said irritably, “is the silliest remark in history. What’s got into you, Esther?”

  “Just an idea.”

  “Honest to God, I gave you credit for better sense. I can’t say more than that right now because I’m shouting as it is and Harry’s not ten feet away. Do you understand?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Listen, Esther . . .”

  At this point the operator’s voice cut in and demanded an­other ninety cents. Turee deposited the money, cursing aud­ibly. “Are you still there, Esther?”

  “Naturally.”

  “I think you should call the police.”

  “Why? It might embarrass poor Ron. He’s rather sensitive about being caught by the cops in bed with another man’s wife.”

  “For Pete’s sake, Esther, get off that kick, will you? This might be serious. Ron could be lying in some hospital or even a morgue.”

  “He carries all kinds of identification in his wallet. If there’d been an accident I would have been notified.”

  “Then you’re not worried?”

  “Worried? Yes, I’m worried, but it’s not the kind of worry I want to share with the police department.”

  “I’m amazed at your attitude, Esther, genuinely amazed.”

  “You go right on being amazed, I can’t stop you.”

  “But what about Ron?”

  “Ron,” she said dryly, “will be home in due course with a perfectly believable story which I may even believe, for a time. You needn’t concern yourself about Ron. Wherever he is and whatever he’s doing, I assure you he’s not concerning himself about you, or me, or Harry, or anyone else.”

  “That could mean he’s dead.”

  “The trouble with you and the fellows is that you all get maudlin when you’ve been drinking.”

  The statement contained such a large element of truth that Turee didn’t attempt to refute it. “I must say that’s not a very friendly remark.”

  “I’m not feeling too friendly at the moment. Now look. You and the fellows went up to the lodge for a weekend of fishing. Or whatever. If Ron shows up here I’ll tell him you’re worried and ask him to wire you. If he shows up there, you might do the same for me. Right?”

  “Right,” Turee agreed, though he didn’t feel it was right at all. The whole thing was wrong, Galloway’s absence, Esther’s attitude, Winslow’s wild, drunken sobbing. What a weekend this is shaping up to be, he thought. I ought to turn right around and drive home.

  The air in the telephone booth had become hot and stale and when Turee opened the door and stepped out into the lobby he was sweating, red-eyed and ill-tempered.

  Harry was standing beside the window looking intently out over the bay, as if there were many interesting things to be seen. But the bay was dark, nothing could be seen, and Turee knew that Harry had been listening—listening and perhaps hearing.

  “Well, well,” Turee said with an attempt at heartiness. “It seems as though we were getting all discombobulated for nothing.”

  “Ron’s at home, then?”

  “Not exactly. But I assure you Esther’s not in the least worried about his well-being.”

  “That sounds as if she’s worried about something else.”

  “Oh, you know Esther. She’s hatched the idea that Ron went off on a bat. Who can tell, maybe she’s right.”

  “Maybe.” Harry turned back to the window, his jaw clenched so tight that his voice seemed to be coming from some other place, like a ventriloquist’s. “I thought I heard you say something about me.”

  “You? Oh, certainly. I explained about the mix-up in Wes­ton, how you had to keep your business appointment and . . .”

  “I don’t mean that.”

  “All right,” Turee said quietly. “What else did you hear?”

  “You told Esther you couldn’t talk any more about some­thing because I was only ten feet away.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What were you referring to?”

  “Well, it’s like this.” Turee was an inexperienced liar, and the circumstances—the wearing off of the drinks he’d had, the lateness of the hour, and the presence of the hotel manager behind the desk, wide-eyed with curiosity—con­tributed to his awkwardness. “The fact is, Esther had a suspi­cion that you and Ron went off on a bat together.”

  “Esther should know me better than that. In the old days, well, perhaps, she might have had a point, but I’m a married man now.”

  “Yes.”

  “Esther does know me better than that.”

  “What Esther knows and what she feels are often miles apart.”

  “Are you telling me the truth?”

  “About what?”

  “Come off it, Ralph. We’re friends.”

  “Well, as one friend to another, I suggest we go back to the lodge and get some sleep.” Turee took a couple of tenta­tive steps toward the door, but when he saw that Harry didn’t intend to follow, he turned around and came back. “We can’t stay here all night, old boy.”

  “Can’t we?”

  “Look, Esther’s crazy suspicions shouldn’t make the least difference to anyone. Now come on, let’s go back to the lodge. There’s nothing more we can do here.”

  “Yes, there is,” Harry said. “I’m going to phone Thelma.”

  “Why?”

  “You don’t have to have a reason for phoning your own wife. Besides, I want to find out if Ron ever showed up at the house.”

  “But it’s late, Thelma will be asleep. She may not even hear the phone.”

  “It’s right beside our bed.”

  “Go ahead and call her then. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Warn me?”

  “What I mean is, if I phoned my wife at this hour of the morning she’d think I was drunk, and the next time I was invited to come up here with the fellows she’d raise a hell of a smell.”

  “Thelma’s not like that. She wants me to have a good time. She’s a remarkably unselfish
woman.”

  Turee didn’t argue. It was one of Harry’s most ingratiating qualities, to attribute to other people the virtues he himself possessed.

  As Harry slid into the phone booth and closed the door, Turee watched anxiously, thinking, God, suppose Esther’s right for once and Ron’s there with Thelma . . . No, that’s impossible. Thelma’s just as crazy about Harry as he is about her.

  He began to whistle, almost inaudibly, I’m just wild about Harry.

  THREE

  Thelma was not asleep, as Turee had predicted. She answered the phone on the second ring and her voice sounded alert, as if she’d been expecting the call. Or one like it.

  “This is the Bream residence.”

  Harry laughed. “I know that, sweetheart.”

  “Oh, it’s you, Harry.”

  “None other. I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

  “No.”

  “Are you glad to hear from me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Cross your heart and hope to die?”

  “Cross my heart,” she said flatly, “and hope to die. How you enjoy playing games, Harry. You’re like a child. But isn’t it too late for games? Oughtn’t children to be in bed? I think so. Tomorrow,” she added, “tomorrow you can play all the games you like.”

  In their three years of marriage she had never addressed him in such a wearily patronizing manner. Harry colored, as if his face had been slapped. “Thelma, what’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s not true. I know it’s not true. What’s happened, Thelma? Tell me. Tell Harry.”

  Her only response was a sigh. He could hear it quite plainly; it was long and deep and sad.

  “Thelma. Listen to me. If you want me to come home, I will. I’ll start out right this minute.”

  “No! I don’t want you to come home!”

  “What’s the matter, Thelma? Are you feeling all right?”

  Again she made no reply. Harry felt smothered by her si­lence. He pulled open the door of the phone booth a few inches and breathed in the new air deeply and rhythmically. With the door open Turee could overhear, but Harry didn’t care. He was not timid or embarrassed about sharing his troubles with his friends since he had so frequently shared theirs.