Free Laura (Femmes Fatales) by Vera Caspary Page A

Later she told me that she had recently been rejected in love—imagine anyone rejecting Laura. The fellow, I take it, was rather insensitive. She had, alas, a low taste in love. Through the confession I clung to her hand tightly, that small, tender hand which held such extraordinary firmness that she used to say it was slightly masculine. But the elements are so mixed in us, McPherson, that Nature must blush to quote Shakespeare when she stands and says to the world, ‘This was a man!’”
    The music flowed between the white dusty boards of the trellis, through vines of artificial lilac. I had never before spoken aloud nor written of the reverie which had filled me since that night with Laura at the theatre, yet I felt certain security in entrusting it to a man whose nostalgia was concerned with a woman whose face he had never seen.
    At long last the song ceased. Freed from pensive memories, I drained my glass and returned to the less oppressive topic of murder. I had by this time sufficient command of myself to speak of the scene we had witnessed in Laura’s room and of Shelby’s pallor at the sight of the Bourbon bottle. Mark said that the evidence gathered thus far was too circumstantial and frail to give substance to a case against the bridegroom.
    “Do tell me this, McPherson. In your opinion is he guilty?”
    I had given myself freely. In return I expected frankness. He answered with an insolent smile.
    I set to work on his emotions. “Poor Laura,” I sighed. “How ironic for her if it actually was Shelby! After having loved so generously, to discover treachery. Those last hideous moments before she died!”
    “Death was almost instantaneous. Within a few seconds she was unconscious.”
    “You’re pleased, Mark, aren’t you? You’re glad to know she had no time to regret the love she had given?”
    He said icily, “I’ve expressed no such opinion.”
    “Don’t be ashamed. Your heart’s no softer than any other Scot’s. Sir Walter and Sir James would have been delighted with you. A nature rocky as the hills, a tombstone and a wee bit o’ heather.”
    “You rockbound Americans, you’re sentimental like worms.” Bony hands gripped the table. “let’s have another drink.”
    I suggested Courvoisier.
    “You order. I can’t pronounce it.”
    After a short pause, he said: “Listen, Mr. Lydecker, there’s one thing I want to know. Why did she keep putting off the wedding? She was crazy about him, she had pictures of him all over the place, and still she kept postponing it. Why?”
    “The familiar curse of gold.”
    He shook his head. “Carpenter and I have gone into that. The guy’s fairly decent about it, if a man can be decent and take money from a woman. But this is what gets me. They’re going together for a hell of a long time and at last they decide to break down and get married. So she plans a vacation and a honeymoon, and then has to have a week by herself before she goes through with it. What was holding her back?”
    “She was tired. She wanted to rest.”
    “When everyone says the same thing and it’s the easiest answer, you know damn well it’s baloney.”
    “Are you suggesting that Laura might have been seeking excuses for postponing the wedding? That she wasn’t awaiting the great day with the tremulous expectancy of a happy bride?”
    “Could be.”
    “Strange,” I sighed. “Incredibly strange and tragic for us to be sitting here, at this very table, under these same weary lilacs, listening to her favorite tunes and stewing over our jealousy. She’s dead, man, dead!”
    Nervous hands toyed with the stem of the brandy snifter. Then, with his dark eyes piercing the gossamer of my defenses, he asked, “If you were so crazy about her, why didn’t you do something about Shelby?”
    I met this scrutiny contemptuously.
    “Why?”
    “Laura was a grown woman. Her freedom was dear to her and jealously guarded. She knew her own heart. Or thought she did.”
    “If I had known