begin to think again he began to ask questions, some of them aloud.
Why? What happened that he could do such a thing?
Never before had he ever touched his wife in anger and it had not always been easy. There had been many scenes and arguments in his past, not so violent but equally devastating to his state of mind. Two or three times before she had slapped him when his rebuttals were sound and her exasperation got the best of her. But this—
Was it because in earlier days his self-control was better and pride prevented any retaliation? Or was his forbearance due to the fact that never before had their contentions seemed so important?
Was it the things she had said about Nancy, the inferences made? The thoughts of his son and the deep-seated resentment of this new request for custody?
His steps slowed as reason returned and the shakiness disappeared. There were no conclusive answers to his questions and presently hope came again. What had happened was over. He was ashamed and he would apologize. Frieda might not forget, but the fact that she had come to discuss divorce indicated that she was interested. There could be personal reasons, quite aside from Ricky, where none had existed before. If so, a compromise was possible.
Suppose he agreed to custody during vacations, holding out for one month in the summer. That would be better than nothing. Ricky would be thirteen in another couple of months. In three years he would be sixteen, nearly a man, and by then he would have some choice as to where, and with whom, he spent his vacations. Such thoughts were mildly cheering and he stopped at the side of the road, seeing the string of moving lights in the distance and realizing this must be the parkway.
Then he thought of Nancy and the instructions he had given her.
Wheeling, he started back, legs stretching. He had no idea how long he had been walking, but he had an idea about how far he had come. Hurrying now in the still night air, he could feel the perspiration come and his shirt was damp beneath his belt. Rounding a curve a car coming toward him swung wide and he stepped from the macadam. Another car not far behind gave him more room, and when he glanced over his shoulder after it had passed he thought it looked familiar.
It was moving too fast for him to read the license plate and he had the vague impression that a man was driving. But it was a convertible like his wife’s. The general color scheme was similar, too, and as he plowed ahead, he hoped it was Frieda’s. For there was no telling what she might do when she was angry, and although he had told Nancy not to stop if she saw Frieda’s car, he did not want to encounter his wife again so soon.
He was panting slightly as he made the final turn into the straight stretch that led past his house. Ashley’s place was still dark and a minute later he could tell that the convertible was gone. There was only his small sedan in the driveway as he cut across the lawn to the front door.
As he turned the knob he hesitated, to glance back at his car to make sure Nancy was not in it and then he went inside and through the little entryway. At first glance he thought the room was empty and started to call out; then, his gaze lowered, he saw the crumpled figure on the floor in front of the divan.
The next long seconds had no place in Rick Sheridan’s memory then or later. What he did was automatic and without conscious thought because the conflict in his mind was too great.
In that first instant, as the shock hit him, he froze in his tracks, his body immobile and cold all over. He did not remember that he had left Frieda on the floor screaming at him; all he knew was that his car was outside, that the convertible was gone, that the woman on the floor had a white suit and blond hair.
There was no doubt in his mind. The first impression told him with a horrible certainty that Nancy must have come in while Frieda was still here and that Frieda, already gripped in a fit of fury and frustration, had killed her.
He wanted to cry out and his throat stayed closed. He put out a hand to steady himself. He pushed with that hand, forcing himself to move and, weak-kneed, he kept moving.
“Nancy!” he cried, his voice a ragged whisper. “Nancy.”
Then, somehow, he was on his knees, the wonderment growing in him that the white suit he had seen from the doorway was in reality not a suit but a dress. The hair was blond but not as long as Nancy’s. The face, in profile, was too thin.
Only then did he realize his mistake and know beyond all doubt that this was Frieda, and now, as some odd relief mixed with his horror, he saw the bruise on the throat, the scarf that had been cruelly twisted to leave a thin blue line in the skin.
The eyelids were closed and still. The distorted face had a bluish tinge beneath the tan, and the painted mouth was open. The straw handbag was open beside one outstretched hand, its contents spilled. It was when his glance moved on that the shadow of some movement caught the corner of his eye, and now, swiveling on one knee, he saw Nancy standing in the doorway to the inner hall, her eyes wide, her palms pressed hard against the sides of her taut white face.
3
FOR the next few agonizing seconds there was no sound in the room and neither of them moved. Out on the highway a car raced past and the sound of a girl’s laughter drifted through the open door and served to break the spell that death had woven. Rick found he was holding his breath and let it out. He swallowd to loosen his throat.
“Nancy,” he said huskily. “My God, Nancy!”
He pushed up from the floor and his knees were stiff. “Nancy,” he said again, his voice quiet now, and with that she uttered a small cry and ran to him and flung her arms about him and held on hard.
“Oh, Rick,” she wailed. “I was so frightened.”
He could feel her tremble against him, hear the muffled sobs as she buried her face in his shoulder and reaction shook her. For a little while longer he did not know what to do or what to say. His glance came to the straw bag and he found himself checking the contents—the lipstick and keys and tissues; the cigarette case and gold lighter; the compact which had been jarred open to spill traces of powder on the rug.
Finally he took a breath and put his hands on her shoulders. He pushed gently and when she lifted her face he saw the dark lashes were matted and the green eyes wet. Still holding her shoulders he pushed her still farther from him and steadied his voice with an effort.
“What happened?”
“I—don’t know, Rick. There wasn’t any car outside and I thought—”
She swallowed and tried again.
“She was like that when I came in. I didn’t know what happened. I didn’t touch her but I saw her face. . . . Her face, Rick,” she said, her voice breaking again. “All twisted and blue and—”
“All right.” He made his voice sharp to blot out such memories and make her concentrate. “I know how you must have felt, but right now we’ve got to think. Come here.”
He led her to the nearest chair and pushed her gently back into it. He stepped over to the table and poured some brandy into the clean glass. He told her to take a swallow and waited until she had obeyed.
“Now,” he said. “Think, darling. How long were you here?”
“Not more than a few minutes.”
“How many? Four,
