Net of Cobwebs Read online

  ELISABETH SANXAY HOLDING

  Net of Cobwebs

  Copyright © 1945 by Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Net of Cobwebs

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  About Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

  Bibliography

  Chapter 1

  Malcolm Drake waked early that morning; a little after five. It was a fine September morning and he felt fine, simply fine; he went into his bathroom and took a cold shower, and then there was the thermos bottle of hot coffee on the table. Virginia left it there every night; she was always trying to help him.

  He sat down at the table, in nothing but jaunty candy-striped shorts, and poured out a cup of coffee, black and steaming, plenty of sugar in it. I feel fine, he said to himself, and he looked fine; he could see himself in the mirror set in the bathroom door. He was brown and hardy, neatly built; only he did not like his face so much, with dark curly hair growing too low on his forehead, and little, deep-set dark eyes, and two vertical creases in his lean cheeks that made him seem to be smiling, in a sad, doggy way.

  He lit a cigarette with the second cup of coffee and leaned back comfortably in the chair. His windows faced the west, so he could not see the sun, but the sky was clear and pale blue. A fine day for a little exercise, that’s the idea. I’m coming out of this, all right. Getting better every day.

  Coming out of what? What was it he had got into, what dim little hell, like a trap of cobwebs? Never mind. Never mind. He felt fine now. The only thing that bothered him was to see the bed unmade. It would be a long time, hours, before the housemaid came around, and who wanted to sit in a room like this?

  He made the bed himself, very carefully; he turned the mattress, made the sheets and the blanket smooth and taut, tucked in the corners of the white spread, laid the pillow exactly straight. He took the two overflowing ash trays and emptied them in the bathroom; he got yesterday’s shirt out of the hamper and dusted with it. I like things tidy, he thought. My cabin was always—

  Never mind about cabins. He was living on shore now, a new life. The thing was to get started, get going. Get dressed, that’s the first step. He put on a clean blue shirt and a dark suit and his well-polished shoes; he lit another cigarette and stood by the window, looking out at the wide green lawn that ended in a belt of trees. He liked the neatness of this landscape, and the different shades of green, the pale-green birches and the dark-green pines. I might go out and take a walk, he said to himself. I think I will.

  He finished his cigarette, standing there, and he lit another. Might do a little reading, he told himself, and turned back to the table, where a couple of nice books lay, picked out for him by Virginia. Wonderful girl, he thought, and still standing he opened one of the books.

  He could not read. He tried. He read the first paragraph over and over, and his hands began to tremble, his mouth twitched. No... I’ll go out, get out in the fresh air, he told himself.

  But he could not go out.

  The whole thing was coming back, like a towering wave rushing at him. He stood facing it, breathing fast, and out of the wave came a bony wrist and a thin hand. That was Alfred. Jump, you damn fool! he had yelled to Alfred.

  Now... No! Look here! he said to himself. This is the bad time, early in the morning. Nobody else awake in the house. In the world.

  He went like a blindfolded man, lifting his feet too high, to the closet; he opened the door and fumbled among the clothes hanging there, and in the back, in the pocket of his winter overcoat, he found his little bottle.

  It was hard to get the top unscrewed, and it was hard to shake out a capsule into his hand. Bright, vivid blue they were; very fine little pills. If you took four at night, you slept; if you took just one, times like this, the whole thing slowed down, that shaking stopped; you could feel yourself coming together again.

  Drake, Dr. Lurie had said, I don’t want you to take any more of those capsules. Yes, I know the doctor in Trinidad gave them to you, and I consented to give you a prescription when you first came here. But you’ve been here six weeks now and it’s time you made an effort. I’m not going to renew your prescription, Drake, and you can’t get the capsules without it. Personally, I don’t care for these sedatives, in a case like yours. Dangerous.

  Doctor in Trinidad told me you could take a whole bottle of them and never turn a hair, Malcolm had said, and he had been pretty proud of himself for thinking that up on the spot. It had been a pleasure to see Lurie sort of foam up. A bottle of those capsules would kill you, Drake.

  Just what he wanted to know. He had ten bottles now. He had called up the druggist in the village. Send over a couple of bottles of those capsules, will you? he had said. I’ll give your boy the new prescription when he comes. Then when the boy had come, Malcolm had said he would send the prescription by mail. Not so good; every time he did it, it made him nervous. But the druggist didn’t seem to care, and Malcolm bought everything else he could dream up from the man. And the great thing was to get perhaps fifteen bottles and hide them, and be safe.

  He put the bottle back into the overcoat pocket and was going to the bathroom to get a glass of water when there was a knock at the door.

  “Just a moment?” he called.

  But the door opened, and in came Aunt Evie, trim and dainty in a flowered print dress, her blue-white hair all in little curls about her rose-pink face. Her blue eyes flickered at his clenched hand that held the capsule; her cupid’s-bow mouth smiled.

  “Malcolm boy,” she said winningly, “let’s go out and take a little walk in the nice fresh air, shan’t we?”

  “Th-thank you,” he said. “L-later.”

  He was stuttering, and that always worried him.

  “Oh, let’s go now!” she said, advancing toward him in a faint cloud of perfume. “Right now!”

  She thought she was helping him and saving him, and it was all wrong to feel like this about her. Only if she doesn’t get away from me, I’ll be sick. I’ll heave. I’ll go crazy. Get out! Get away from me....

  “Malcolm boy,” she said, and laid her hand over his clenched one. “You’re not—taking anything, are you?”

  Make her go. Please make her get out.

  “Malcolm boy, Dr. Lurie doesn’t want you to take anything now. Not anything.”

  He jerked his hand away and popped the capsule into his mouth. He could not swallow and he was going to choke. But he did swallow it.

  “Oh, Malcom!” she cried.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, but would you mind.... D’you mind going away—just for a few moments?”

  “Oh Malcom!” she said in a stricken voice. “You want to get rid of me!”

  He did; indeed he did.

  She went toward the open door and in the hall she paused and looked back at him with a piteous and forgiving smile. Over her shoulder Malcolm saw the silly gaping face of Ben, the butler/handyman; he closed the door on both of them and looked around his big, comfortable room in desperation.

  Don’t know what to do. Don’t know what to do, he t
hought. He locked the door and got out the jigsaw puzzle Virginia had given him. He cleared off a table and dumped all the pieces out on it; he drew up a chair and set to work on it with his hands, his broad shoulders hunched. He tried, breathing hard, and when he fitted two pieces together that made hall a lamb, he felt better. He got interested in the puzzle, only the sky was difficult; all those clouds.

  The doorknob rattled; that was Arthur.

  “Come in! Come in!” Malcolm cried and jumped up, knocking the puzzle all over the floor. He unlocked the door and his brother stood there, pale, gloomy, his light hair ruffled on the crown of his head, his tie crooked. Yet somehow he had a look of the greatest elegance, with his long, sharp nose and his tall, lean body.

  “Malcolm?” he said. “How’s everything?”

  “Everything’s fine,” Malcolm answered, and they went along the hall and down the stairs together. Funny thing, Malcolm thought, but I always feel better with Arthur. He’s not calm, not any of those things they say are good for you. But I feel better when he’s around.

  They went into the dining room. “Ah! Aunt Evie’s not down!” Arthur said very low. “Maybe she’s sick. Maybe she’s laid up.”

  “She isn’t,” said Malcolm. “She came into my room this morning.”

  “To bring you joy.”

  “Oh, yes. Y’know, I wish the old girl didn’t think I needed quite so much saving.”

  “She thinks everyone’s a drunkard and a gambler and a lecher,” said Arthur. “It makes her very serene and happy. Hi, Lydia!”

  “Yes, sir?” said the little housemaid.

  “This it, Lydia? This the new brew?’

  “Oh, yes, sir!” she answered, with a dimpled smile. “Mrs. Drake told me specially, sir.”

  “Try it, will you, Malcolm?”

  Malcolm took a sip of his coffee.

  “It’s a new account,” Arthur said. “I’ve thought up this name for it—Don Carlos Coffee. Not too bad! Only I haven’t got an angle. I mean, why should anybody buy it! Don Carlos, the Coffee That Is No Different.... Switch today to Don Carlos—just for the hell of it.”

  “Good morning, boys!” said Aunt Evie.

  She was standing behind Malcolm; as he tried to rise she laid her hand on his shoulder.

  “Try to eat, Malcolm boy,” she said.

  Her sweet perfume enveloped him; appalling things to say came into his head, things that would have made her blue-white curls rise up on her head. “I will,” he said. “I will.” Get out. Go and sit down. Get away from me.

  “Such a lovely, lovely day,” she said. “You will get out in this wonderful sunshine, won’t you, Malcolm?”

  “Yes, I will,” he said. “I will,” and at last she moved away.

  Arthur pulled back her chair for her with the formal and elegant courtesy that was natural to him. He seemed so distrait and preoccupied, yet he never neglected little things like this; he never overlooked anybody.

  “And this is the new Don Carlos, Arthur?” she asked.

  “How did you know about it?”

  “But I heard you talking to Helene, dear. It must be very, very hard to have to praise a thing you really despise in your heart.”

  “Despise Don Carlos?” said Arthur. “Not I.”

  “Money makes us do such strange, unlovely things,” said Aunt Evie gently.

  “Aunt Evie,” said Arthur, “this is the best brew you ever set tooth to. Try it.”

  “I don’t notice what I eat or drink, dear boy.”

  “But you notice aroma,” said Arthur. “Just get a load of that aroma, Aunt Evie. You can help me infinitely if you’ll tell your many friends about Don Carlos.”

  “I will, dear. But I did think, from the way you were talking to Helene, that it made you just a little heartsick to have to sing the praises of something, just for money, that you really—”

  “You’re mistaken!” said Arthur gravely. “My only worry is how to get people to try this king of brews. How to arouse curiosity.”

  “Curiosity killed the cat,” said Aunt Evie with a silvery laugh. “Satisfaction brought it back. How would that do for your slogan, Arthur?”

  “It’s very punchy,” said Arthur. “Only I’m afraid it’s not quite realistic enough. I mean, with all the scientific knowledge now available, I’m afraid the consumer won’t believe that cats arc killed by curiosity.”

  Aunt Evie laughed again.

  “Aren’t people funny, with their poor bits of so-called scientific knowledge?” she asked. “Oh, they are,” said Arthur.

  She began upon her breakfast now, and Malcolm sat stirring and stirring his cup of Don Carlos, and thinking about her. About her awfulness.

  When Arthur had married Helene, two years ago, he had accepted the necessity of long and frequent visits from Helene’s and Virginia’s Aunt Evie. After all, she had brought up the two orphan sisters; they were used to her.

  The home life of Aunt Evie was something Malcolm could never imagine. She was well-to-do and lived in an apartment hotel in New York; she talked of the little parties she gave there, in the roof garden. She belonged to a cult which was called, quite simply, Joy. The motto was Joy Now, and when you waked in the morning you stretched up your arms and Accepted Joy. It came, if you did the thing right, flooding all your being, and you were able then to give it out to others. She got it, all right. She was never tired; she was radiant from morning till night, and helpful.

  She explained that she could not help people unless she knew things. And she found out everything. She had a sleepless, unwearying curiosity, and great skill in putting two and two together. She believed in candor, too; what she found out she told.

  “Good morning, people!” said Virginia.

  She was a notable handsome girl, tall and broad-shouldered, with fine dark eyes and a fine color in her olive cheeks, a serious, quiet girl with an air of distinction in her gray flannel suit and blue blouse.

  “Where’s your naughty sister?” asked Aunt Evie.

  “She went to sleep again,” said Arthur. “That’s not naughty.” He pushed back his chair and rose. “I’ll have to hurry,” he said. “It’s my day to taxi the neighbors.”

  “The good-neighbor policy!” said Aunt Evie, with a merry laugh, and Arthur gave a polite and spasmodic grin and went out of the room.

  “Helene is a very, very fortunate young woman,” said Aunt Evie. “So many men would resent it, if a young and healthy girl wouldn’t come down to breakfast. But in Arthur’s eyes, Helene can do no wrong.”

  There was no response to that.

  “Ah, well—” Aunt Evie began, when Lydia came in.

  “Mrs. Foxe to speak to you on the telephone, Mrs. Chatsworth,” she said, and Aunt Evie rose. She was very fond of telephoning.

  “Malcolm,” said Virginia, “would you like to come with me this afternoon to see someone about the new bond drive?”

  “Oh, certainly!”

  “I called up this Mrs. Kingscrown and she seemed very nice. She asked me to come to tea and bring anyone I liked.”

  “That’ll be very fine,” said Malcolm.

  “Then let’s start around four...?”

  She was cutting a slice of toast into neat strips; she looked downcast and troubled.

  “I hope I don’t really hate Aunt Evie,” she said.

  “You don’t hate anybody,” said Malcolm.

  “But, Malcolm, suppose I hate her subconsciously?” she asked with anxiety.

  She worried altogether too much about things like that, about her motives, about her duties, and she had a way of asking Malcolm for advice that made him unhappy. God knew he didn’t have any advice to give her or anyone else.

  “Well, that kind of hate couldn’t do any harm,” he said.

  “It could do me harm, Malcolm. Hate can warp your whole nature.”

  “Your nature isn’t warped,” he said. “You’re as good as gold.”

  “D’you know what she did, Malcolm? I heard her. She called up Dr. L
urie, and she asked him to come in this afternoon and just have a look at you without your suspecting anything. She said she thought you were slipping back. She said you had some sort of queer hostility toward her. She told Dr. Lurie she thought you were dangerous.”

  He gripped the handle of his cup, to stop the shaking of his hands. The handle broke, and the cup turned over, and a brown stain like mud went running over the clean white cloth. Dangerous, he said to himself in despair. That was what he dreamed in his ghastly nightmares, that was what he dreaded, all the time. Being dangerous.

  Chapter 2

  “But, Malcolm!” Virginia said. “You don’t mind anything she says.”

  “No, no,” he said. “No... no... no. Excuse me, Virginia. Got to—got to—write some letters.”

  He had to get into his own room, quick, and shut the door. All right, he thought. I’m crazy. And she knows it, Aunt Evie does. ‘Shock,’ that damn doctor calls it. People like me don’t get ‘shocked.’ I went through a bad time, yes. But so do plenty of other people, and they get over it. But me...? Two days in a lifeboat, forty-eight hours; what’s that? Look at what other people take. Women, children.

  But some of them go mad. You hear about that. Raving mad, try to jump overboard. Some people go through with it all right—and some don’t.

  As he reached the top of the stairs Helene opened her door and came out, tall and exquisite, in a black taffeta housecoat fitted in to her tiny waist.

  “Oh, Malcolm!” she said. “I thought it was Arthur.”

  “Well, no...” he said seriously.

  He felt a profound respect for Helene, but he was never at ease with her. She was very courteous to him, and she was kind, but there was a dainty formality about her. She was beautiful and perfect and, to Malcolm, not quite human. She smiled at him, and he smiled at her, and she sought for something to say.

  “Ivan Jenette’s coming out this afternoon,” she said.

  “Oh, is he? Fine!” said Malcolm.

  “You remember him, Malcolm?”

  He didn’t know whether to say yes or no. Was this Jenette someone he ought to remember, and possibly did, or could remember if he tried? So he tried.