She pulled the curtains close across the windows and returned to her letter.
I hope that all is hell with you and Douglas.
She crossed out hell and inserted well.
I hope that all is well with you and Douglas. I don’t though. I don’t hope anything. I don’t care.
She tore the sheet of paper across the middle and placed it carefully in the wastebasket beside her desk. She had nothing really to say to her mother, never had, never would have. The idea of asking her for advice or comfort or help was absurd. Mrs. Clarvoe had none of these things to give, even if Helen had dared to ask.
The party in the next room had reached the stage of song. “Down by the Old Mill Stream”. “Harvest Moon”. “Daisy, Daisy”. Sometimes in close harmony, sometimes far.
A hot gust of anger and resentment swept through Miss Clarvoe’s body. They had no right to make so much noise at this time of night. She would have to rap on the wall to warn them, and if that didn’t work she would call the manager.
She started to rise but her heel caught in the rung of the chair and she fell forward, her face grazing the sharp edge of the desk. She lay still, tasting the metallic saltiness of blood, listening to the throbbing of the pulse in her temples and the panic beat of her heart.
After a time she pulled herself to her feet and moved slowly and stiffly across the room towards the mirror above the telephone stand. There was a slight scratch on her forehead and one corner of her mouth was bleeding where the underlip had been but by a tooth.
“...I have a crystal ball. I see you now. Real bright and clear. You’ve been in an accident. Your forehead is gashed, your mouth is bleeding...”
A cry for help rose inside Miss Clarvoe’s throat. Help me, someone! Help me, Mother — Douglas — Mr. Blackshear...
But the cry was never uttered. It stuck in her throat, and presently Miss Clarvoe swallowed it as she had swallowed a great many cries.
I am not really hurt. I must be sensible. Father always boasted to people how sensible I am. Therefore I must not become hysterical. I must think of something very sensible to do.
She went back to her desk and picked up her pen and took out a fresh sheet of notepaper.
Dear Mr. Blackshear:
You may recall that, at my father’s funeral, you offered to give me advice and help if the occasion should ever arise. I do not know whether you said this because it is the kind of thing one says at funerals, or whether you sincerely meant it. I hope it was the latter, because the occasion, you may have already inferred, has arisen. I believe that I have become the victim of a lunatic...
Chapter 2
...It is distressing to me to have to confide these sordid details to anyone. I do not lightly cast my burdens on other people, but since you gave my late father such expert counsel, I would very much appreciate your advice in the situation I have described to you.
If you would be so kind as to telephone me when you receive this letter and let me have your opinion in the matter, I would be extremely grateful. I intend, of course, to express my gratitude in more practical terms than words.
Yours very truly,
The letter was delivered to Mr. Blackshear’s office and then sent to his apartment on Los Feliz because he had gone home early. He no longer appeared regularly at his office. At fifty, he was retiring gracefully, by degrees, partly because he could afford to, but mostly because boredom had set in, like a too early winter. Things had begun to repeat themselves: new situations reminded him of past situations, and people he met for the first time were exactly like other people he’d known for years. Nothing was new anymore.
Summer had passed. The winter of boredom had set in and frost had formed in the crevices of Blackshear’s mind. His wife was dead, his two sons had married and made lives of their own, and his friends were mostly business acquaintances whom he met for lunch at Scandia or the Brown Derby or the Roosevelt. Dinners and evening parties were rare because Blackshear had to rise long before dawn in order to be at his office by six o’clock when the New York Stock Exchange opened.
By the middle of the afternoon he was tired and irritable, and when Miss Clarvoe’s letter was delivered he almost didn’t open it. Through her father, who had been one of Blackshear’s clients, he had known Helen Clarvoe for years, and her constrained prose and her hobbled mind depressed him. He had never been able to think of her as a woman. She was simply Miss Clarvoe, and he had a dozen or more clients just like her, lonely rich ladies desiring to be richer in order to take the curse off their loneliness.
“Damn the woman,” he said aloud. “Damn all dull women.”
But he opened the letter because on the envelope, in Miss Clarvoe’s neat, private-school backhand, were the words: Confidential, Very Important.
...Lest you think I am exaggerating the matter, I hasten to assure you that I have given an exact account both of the telephone call and my subsequent conversation with the switchboard operator, June Sullivan. You will understand, I am sure, how deeply shocked and perplexed I am. I have harmed no one in my life, not intentionally at any rate, and I am truly amazed that someone apparently bears me a grudge...
When he had finished reading the letter he called Miss Clarvoe at her hotel, more from curiosity than any desire to help. Miss Clarvoe was not the kind of woman who would accept help. She existed by, for, and unto herself, shut off from the world by a wall of money and the iron bars of her egotism.
“Miss Clarvoe?”
“Yes.”
“This is Paul Blackshear.”
“Oh.” It was hardly a word, but a deep sigh of relief.
“I received your letter a few minutes ago.”
“Yes. I... thank you for calling.”
It was more like the end of a conversation than the beginning. Somewhat annoyed by her reticence, Blackshear said, “You asked me for advice, Miss Clarvoe.”
“Yes. I know.”
“I have had very little experience in such matters, but I strongly urge you to...”
“Please,” Miss Clarvoe said. “Please don’t say anything.”
“But you asked me...”
“Someone might be listening.”
“I have a private line.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t.”
She must mean the girl, June Sullivan, Blackshear thought. Of course the girl would be listening, if she wasn’t busy elsewhere; Miss Clarvoe had probably antagonized her, or, at the very least, aroused her curiosity.
“There have been new developments,” Miss Clarvoe’s voice was guarded. “I can talk about them only in the strictest privacy.”
“I see.”
“I know how busy you are and I hate to impose on you, but... well, I must, Mr. Blackshear. I must.”
“Please go on.” Behind her wall of money, behind her iron bars, Miss Clarvoe was the maiden in distress, crying out reluctantly and awkwardly, for help. Blackshear made a wry grimace as he pictured himself in the role of the equally reluctant rescuer, a tired, detached, balding knight in Harris tweeds. “Tell me what you want me to do, Miss Clarvoe.”
“If you could come here to my hotel, where we can talk — privately...”
“We’d probably have more privacy if you came over here to my apartment.”
“I can’t. I’m — afraid to go out.”
“Very well, then. What time would you like me to come?”
“As soon as you can.”
“I’ll see you shortly, then, Miss Clarvoe.”