Laura. Vera Caspary

to meet her train. The trip to and from Wilton was no more to her than a subway ride. She set Wednesday as the day of her return and promised to telephone him immediately upon her arrival.

      As Mark pondered these facts, his eyes on the checkerboard of light and dark woods set into Mrs. Treadwell’s floor, he became aware that his restlessness was the subject of nervous scrutiny. The long mirror framed his first impression of Shelby Carpenter. Against the shrouded furniture, Shelby was like a brightly lithographed figure on the gaudy motion picture poster decorating the sombre granite of an ancient opera house. The dark suit chosen for this day of mourning could not dull his vivid grandeur. Male energy shone in his tanned skin, gleamed from his clear gray eyes, swelled powerful biceps. Later, as Mark told me of the meeting, he confessed that he was puzzled by an almost overwhelming sense of familiarity. Shelby spoke with the voice of a stranger but with lips whose considered smile seemed as familiar as Mark’s own reflection. All through the interview and in several later meetings, Mark sought vainly to recall some earlier association. The enigma enraged him. Failure seemed to indicate a softening process within himself. Encounters with Shelby diminished his self-confidence.

      They chose chairs at opposite ends of the long room. Shelby had offered, Mark accepted, a Turkish cigarette. Oppressed by Fifth Avenue magnificence, he had barely the courage to ask for an ashtray. And this a man who had faced machine guns.

      Shelby had borne up bravely during the ordeal at Headquarters. As his gentle Southern voice repeated the details of that tragic farewell, he showed clearly that he wished to spare his visitor the effort of sympathy.

      “So I put her in the taxi and gave the driver Waldo Lydecker’s address. Laura said, ‘Good-bye until Wednesday,’ and leaned out to kiss me. The next morning the police came to tell me that Bessie had found her body in the apartment. I wouldn’t believe it. Laura was in the country. That’s what she’d told me, and Laura had not lied to me before.”

      “We found the taxi-driver and checked with him,” Mark informed him. “As soon as they’d turned the corner, she said that he was not to go to Mr. Lydecker’s address, but to take her to Grand Central. She’d telephoned Mr. Lydecker earlier in the afternoon to break the dinner date. Have you any idea why she should have lied to you?”

      Cigarette smoke curled in flawless circles from Shelby’s flawless lips. “I don’t like to believe she lied to me. Why should she tell me she was dining with Waldo if she wasn’t?”

      “She lied twice, first in regard to dining with Mr. Lydecker, and second about leaving town that night.”

      “I can’t believe it. We were always so honest with each other.”

      Mark accepted the statement without comment. “We’ve interviewed the porters on duty Friday night at Grand Central and a couple remember her face.”

      “She always took the Friday night train.”

      “That’s the catch. The only porter who swears to a definite recollection of Laura on this particular night also asked if he’d have his picture in the newspapers. So we strike a dead-end there. She might have taken another taxi from the Forty-Second or Lexington Avenue exits.”

      “Why?” Shelby sighed. “Why should she have done such a ridiculous thing?”

      “If we knew, we might have a reasonable clue. Now as to your alibi, Mr. Carpenter . . .”

      Shelby groaned.

      “I won’t make you go through it again. I’ve got the details. You had dinner at the Myrtle Cafeteria on Forty-Second Street, you walked to Fifth Avenue, took a bus to a 146th Street, bought a twenty-five-cent seat for the concert . . .”

      Shelby pouted like a hurt child. “I’ve had some bad times, you know. When I’m alone I try to save money. I’m just getting on my feet again.”

      “There’s no shame in saving money,” Mark reminded him. “That’s the only reasonable explanation anyone’s given for anything so far. You walked home after the concert, eh? Quite a distance.”

      “The poor man’s exercise.” Shelby grinned feebly.

      Mark dropped the alibi, and with one of those characteristic swift thrusts, asked: “Why didn’t you get married before this? Why did the engagement last so long?”

      Shelby cleared his throat.

      “Money, wasn’t it?”

      A schoolboy flush ripened Shelby’s skin. He spoke bitterly. “When I went to work for Rose, Rowe and Sanders, I made thirty-five dollars a week. She was getting a hundred and seventy-five.” He hesitated, the color of his cheeks brightened to the tones of an overripe peach. “Not that I resented her success. She was so clever that I was awed and respectful. And I wanted her to make as much as she could; believe that, Mr. McPherson. But it’s hard on a man’s pride. I was brought up to think of women . . . differently.”

      “And what made you decide to marry?”

      Shelby brightened. “I’ve had a little success myself.”

      “But she was still holding a better job. What made you change your mind?”

      “There wasn’t so much discrepancy. My salary, if not munificent, was respectable. And I felt that I was advancing. Besides, I’d been catching up with my debts. A man doesn’t like to get married, you know, while he owes money.”

      “Except to the woman he’s marrying,” a shrill voice added.

      In the mirror’s gilt frame Mark saw the reflection of an advancing figure. She was small, robed in deepest mourning and carrying under her right arm a Pomeranian whose auburn coat matched her own bright hair. As she paused in the door with the marble statues and bronze figurines behind her, the gold frame giving margins to the portrait, she was like a picture done by one of Sargent’s imitators who had failed to carry over to the twentieth century the dignity of the nineteenth. Mark had seen her briefly at the inquest and had thought her young to be Laura’s aunt. Now he saw that she was well over fifty. The rigid perfection of her face was almost artificial, as if flesh-pink velvet were drawn over an iron frame.

      Shelby leaped. “Darling! You remarkable creature! How you’ve recovered! How can you be so beautiful, darling, when you’ve gone through such intolerable agonies?” He led her to the room’s most important chair.

      “I hope you find the fiend”—she addressed Mark but gave attention to her chiffon. “I hope you find him and scrouge his eyes out and drive hot nails through his body and boil him in oil.” Her vehemence spent, she tossed Mark her most enchanting smile.

      “Comfortable, darling?” Shelby inquired. “How about your fan? Would you like a cool drink?”

      Had the dog’s affection begun to bore her, she might have dismissed it with the same pretty indifference. To Mark she said: “Has Shelby told you the story of his romantic courtship? I hope he’s not left out of any of the thrilling episodes.”

      “Now, darling, what would Laura have said if she could hear you?”

      “She’d say I was a jealous bitch. And she’d be right. Except that I’m not jealous. I wouldn’t have you on a gold platter, darling.”

      “You musn’t mind Auntie Sue, Mr. McPherson. She’s prejudiced because I’m poor.”

      “Isn’t he cute?” cooed Auntie Sue, petting the dog.

      “I never asked Laura for money”—Shelby might have been taking an oath at an altar. “If she were here, she’d swear it, too. I never asked. She knew I was having a hard time and insisted, simply upon lending it to me. She always made money so easily, she said.”

      “She worked like a dog!” cried Laura’s aunt.

      The Pomeranian sniffed. Aunt Sue pressed its small nose to her cheek, then settled it upon her lap. Having achieved this enviable position, the Pomeranian looked upon the men smugly.

      “Do you know, Mrs. Treadwell,