Nine

MRS.?LEIDNER’S STORY

We had just finished lunch. Mrs.?Leidner went to her room to rest as usual. I settled her on her bedwith plenty of pillows and her book, and was leaving the room when she called me?back.

“Don’t go, nurse, there’s something I want to say to you.”

I came back into the room.

“Shut the door.”

I obeyed.

She got up from the bed and began to walk up and down the room. I could see that she wasmaking up her mind to something and I didn’t like to interrupt her. She was clearly in greatindecision of mind.

At last she seemed to have nerved herself to the required point. She turned to me and saidabruptly: “Sit down.”

I sat down by the table very quietly. She began nervously¹: “You must have wondered whatall this is about?”

I just nodded without saying anything.

“I’ve made up my mind to tell you—everything! I must tell someone or I shall go mad.”

“Well,” I said, “I think really it would be just as well. It’s not easy to know the best thing todo when one’s kept in the dark.”

She stopped in her uneasy walk and faced me.

“Do you know what I’m frightened of?”

“Some man,” I said.

“Yes—but I didn’t say whom—I said what.”

I waited.

She said: “I’m afraid of being killed!”

Well, it was out now. I wasn’t going to show any particular concern. She was near enough tohysterics as it was.

“Dear me,” I said. “So that’s it, is it?”

Then she began to laugh. She laughed and she laughed—and the tears ran down her face.

“The way you said that!” she gasped². “The way you said it. .?.?.”

“Now, now,” I said. “This won’t do.” I spoke³ sharply. I pushed her into a chair, went over tothe washstand and got a cold sponge and bathed her forehead and wrists.

“No more nonsense,” I said. “Tell me calmly and sensibly all about it.”

That stopped her. She sat up and spoke in her natural voice.

“You’re a treasure, nurse,” she said. “You make me feel as though I’m six. I’m going to tellyou.”

“That’s right,” I said. “Take your time and don’t hurry.”

She began to speak, slowly and deliberately⁴.

“When I was a girl of twenty I married. A young man in one of our State departments. It wasin 1918.”

“I know,” I said. “Mrs.?Mercado told me. He was killed in the war.”

But Mrs.?Leidner shook her head.

“That’s what she thinks. That’s what everybody thinks. The truth is something different. Iwas a queer patriotic⁵, enthusiastic girl, nurse, full of idealism. When I’d been married a fewmonths I discovered—by a quite unforeseeable accident—that my husband was a spy in Germanpay. I learned that the information supplied by him had led directly to the sinking of an Americantransport and the loss of hundreds of lives. I don’t know what most people would have done .?.?.

But I’ll tell you what I did. I went straight to my father, who was in the War Department, and toldhim the truth. Frederick was killed in the war—but he was killed in America—shot as a spy.”

“Oh dear, dear!” I ejaculated. “How terrible!”

“Yes,” she said. “It was terrible. He was so kind, too—so gentle .?.?. And all the time .?.?. ButI never hesitated. Perhaps I was wrong.”

“It’s difficult to say,” I said. “I’m sure I don’t know what one would do.”

“What I’m telling you was never generally known outside the State department. Ostensiblymy husband had gone to the Front and had been killed. I had a lot of sympathy and kindnessshown me as a war widow.”

Her voice was bitter and I nodded comprehendingly.

“Lots of people wanted to marry me, but I always refused. I’d had too bad a shock. I didn’tfeel I could ever trust anyone again.”

“Yes, I can imagine feeling like that.”

“And then I became very fond of a certain young man. I wavered. An amazing thinghappened! I got an anonymous⁶ letter—from Frederick—saying that if I ever married another man,he’d kill me!”

“From Frederick? From your dead husband?”

“Yes. Of course, I thought at first I was mad or dreaming .?.?. At last I went to my father. Hetold me the truth. My husband hadn’t been shot after all. He’d escaped—but his escape did him nogood. He was involved in a train wreck⁷ a few weeks later and his dead body was found amongstothers. My father had kept the fact of his escape from me, and since the man had died anyway hehad seen no reason to tell me anything until now.

“But the letter I received opened up entirely⁸ new possibilities. Was it perhaps a fact that myhusband was still alive?

“My father went into the matter as carefully as possible. And he declared that as far as onecould humanly be sure the body that was buried as Frederick’s was Frederick’s. There had been acertain amount of disfiguration, so that he could not speak with absolute cast-iron certainty, but hereiterated his solemn belief that Frederick was dead and that this letter was a cruel and malicioushoax.

“The same thing happened more than once. If I seemed to be on intimate terms with any man,I would receive a threatening letter.”

“In your husband’s handwriting?”

She said slowly: “That is difficult to say. I had no letters of his. I had only my memory to goby.”

“There was no allusion¹¹ or special form of words used that could make you sure?”

“No. There were certain terms—nicknames, for instance—private between us—if one ofthose had been used or quoted, then I should have been quite sure.”

“Yes,” I said thoughtfully. “That is odd. It looks as though it wasn’t your husband. But isthere anyone else it could be?”

“There is a possibility. Frederick had a younger brother—a boy of ten or twelve at the time ofour marriage. He worshipped Frederick and Frederick was devoted¹² to him. What happened to thisboy, William his name was, I don’t know. It seems to me possible that, adoring his brother asfanatically as he did, he may have grown up regarding me as directly responsible for his death. Hehad always been jealous of me and may have invented this scheme by way of punishment.”

“It’s possible,” I said. “It’s amazing the way children do remember if they’ve had a shock.”

“I know. This boy may have dedicated¹³ his life to revenge.”

“Please go on.”

“There isn’t much more to tell. I met Eric three years ago. I meant never to marry. Eric mademe change my mind. Right up to our wedding day I waited for another threatening letter. Nonecame. I decided¹⁴ that whoever the writer might be, he was either dead, or tired of his cruel sport.

Two days after our marriage I got this.”

Drawing a small attaché case which was on the table towards her, she unlocked it, took out aletter and handed it to me.

The ink was slightly faded. It was written in a rather womanish hand with a forward slant¹⁵.

You have disobeyed. Now you cannot escape. You must be Frederick Bosner’s wife only! Youhave got to die.

“I was frightened—but not so much as I might have been to begin with. Being with Ericmade me feel safe. Then, a month later, I got a second letter.”

I have not forgotten. I am making my plans. You have got to die. Why did you disobey?

“Does your husband know about this?”

Mrs.?Leidner answered slowly.

“He knows that I am threatened. I showed him both letters when the second one came. Hewas inclined to think the whole thing a hoax¹⁰. He thought also that it might be someone whowanted to blackmail¹⁶ me by pretending my first husband was alive.”

She paused and then went on.

“A few days after I received the second letter we had a narrow escape from death by gaspoisoning. Somebody entered our apartment after we were asleep and turned on the gas. Luckily Iwoke and smelled the gas in time. Then I lost my nerve. I told Eric how I had been persecuted¹⁷ foryears, and I told him that I was sure this madman, whoever he might be, did really mean to killme. I think that for the first time I really did think it was Frederick. There was always something alittle ruthless behind his gentleness.

“Eric was still, I think, less alarmed than I was. He wanted to go to the police. Naturally Iwouldn’t hear of that. In the end we agreed that I should accompany him here, and that it might bewise if I didn’t return to America in the summer but stayed in London and Paris.

“We carried out our plan and all went well. I felt sure that now everything would be all right.

After all, we had put half the globe between ourselves and my enemy.

“And then—a little over three weeks ago—I received a letter—with an Iraq stamp on it.”

She handed me a third letter.

You thought you could escape. You were wrong. You shall not be false to me and live. I havealways told you so. Death is coming very soon.

“And a week ago—this! Just lying on the table here. It had not even gone through the post.”

I took the sheet of paper from her. There was just one phrase scrawled¹⁸ across it.

I have arrived.

She stared at me.

“You see? You understand? He’s going to kill me. It may be Frederick—it may be littleWilliam—but he’s going to kill me.”

Her voice rose shudderingly¹⁹. I caught her wrist.

“Now—now,” I said warningly. “Don’t give way. We’ll look after you. Have you got any salvolatile?”

She nodded towards the washstand and I gave her a good dose.

“That’s better,” I said, as the colour returned to her cheeks.

“Yes, I’m better now. But oh, nurse, do you see why I’m in this state? When I saw that manlooking in through my window, I thought: he’s come .?.?. Even when you arrived I was suspicious.

I thought you might be a man in disguise—”

“The idea!”

“Oh, I know it sounds absurd. But you might have been in league with him perhaps—not ahospital nurse at all.”

“But that’s nonsense!”

“Yes, perhaps. But I’ve got beyond sense.”

Struck by a sudden idea, I said: “You’d recognize your husband, I suppose?”

She answered slowly.

“I don’t even know that. It’s over fifteen years ago. I mightn’t recognize his face.”

Then she shivered.

“I saw it one night—but it was a dead face. There was a tap, tap, tap on the window. Andthen I saw a face, a dead face, ghastly and grinning against the pane²⁰. I screamed and screamed .?.?.

And they said there wasn’t anything there!”

I remembered Mrs.?Mercado’s story.

“You don’t think,” I said hesitatingly, “that you dreamt that?”

“I’m sure I didn’t!”

I wasn’t so sure. It was the kind of nightmare that was quite likely under the circumstancesand that easily might be taken for a waking occurrence. However, I never contradict a patient. Isoothed Mrs.?Leidner as best I could and pointed²¹ out that if any stranger arrived in theneighbourhood it was pretty sure to be known.

I left her, I think, a little comforted, and I went in search of Dr.?Leidner and told him of ourconversation.

“I’m glad she told you,” he said simply. “It has worried me dreadfully. I feel sure that allthose faces and tappings on the windowpane have been sheer imagination on her part. I haven’tknown what to do for the best. What do you think of the whole thing?”

I didn’t quite understand the tone in his voice, but I answered promptly²² enough.

“It’s possible,” I said, “that these letters may be just a cruel and malicious⁹ hoax.”

“Yes, that is quite likely. But what are we to do? They are driving her mad. I don’t knowwhat to think.”

I didn’t either. It had occurred to me that possibly a woman might be concerned. Those lettershad a feminine note about them. Mrs.?Mercado was at the back of my mind.

Supposing that by some chance she had learnt the facts of Mrs.?Leidner’s first marriage? Shemight be indulging her spite by terrorizing the other woman.

I didn’t quite like to suggest such a thing to Dr.?Leidner. It’s so difficult to know how peopleare going to take things.

“Oh, well,” I said cheerfully, “we must hope for the best. I think Mrs.?Leidner seems happieralready from just talking about it. That’s always a help, you know. It’s bottling things up thatmakes them get on your nerves.”

“I’m very glad she has told you,” he repeated. “It’s a good sign. It shows she likes and trustsyou. I’ve been at my wits’ end to know what to do for the best.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him whether he’d thought of giving a discreet²³ hint to thelocal police, but afterwards I was glad I hadn’t done so.

What happened was this. On the following day Mr.?Coleman was going in to Hassanieh toget the workmen’s pay. He was also taking in all our letters to catch the air mail.

The letters, as written, were dropped into a wooden box on the dining room windowsill. Lastthing that night Mr.?Coleman took them out and was sorting them out into bundles and puttingrubber bands round them.

Suddenly he gave a shout.

“What is it?” I asked.

He held out a letter with a grin.

“It’s our Lovely Louise—she really is going balmy. She’s addressed a letter to someone at42nd Street, Paris, France. I don’t think that can be right, do you? Do you mind taking it to her andasking what she does mean? She’s just gone off to bed.”

I took it from him and ran off to Mrs.?Leidner with it and she amended²⁴ the address.

It was the first time I had seen Mrs.?Leidner’s handwriting, and I wondered idly where I hadseen it before, for it was certainly quite familiar to me.

It wasn’t till the middle of the night that it suddenly came to?me.

Except that it was bigger and rather more straggling, it was extraordinarily²⁵ like the writing onthe anonymous letters.

New ideas flashed through my head.

Had Mrs.?Leidner conceivably written those letters herself?

And did Dr.?Leidner half suspect the fact?

 

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