The Umbrella Man and Other Stories Read online

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’ll get myself a sandwich here, and then I’ll come on in.”

  Outside, the fog had cleared a little, but it was still a long, slow drive in the taxi, and she didn’t arrive back at the house on Sixty-second Street until fairly late.

  Her husband emerged from his study when he heard her coming in. “Well,” he said, standing by the study door, “how was Paris?”

  “We leave at eleven in the morning,” she answered. “It’s definite.”

  “You mean if the fog clears.”

  “It’s clearing now. There’s a wind coming up.”

  “You look tired,” he said. “You must have had an anxious day.”

  “It wasn’t very comfortable. I think I’ll go straight to bed.”

  “I’ve ordered a car for the morning,” he said. “Nine o’clock.”

  “Oh, thank you, dear. And I certainly hope you’re not going to bother to come all the way out again to see me off.”

  “No,” he said slowly. “I don’t think I will. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t drop me at the club on your way.”

  She looked at him, and at that moment he seemed to be standing a long way off from her, beyond some borderline. He was suddenly so small and far away that she couldn’t be sure what he was doing, or what he was thinking, or even what he was.

  “The club is downtown,” she said. “It isn’t on the way to the airport.”

  “But you’ll have plenty of time, my dear. Don’t you want to drop me at the club?”

  “Oh, yes—of course.”

  “That’s good. Then I’ll see you in the morning at nine.”

  She went up to her bedroom on the second floor, and she was so exhausted from her day that she fell asleep soon after she lay down.

  Next morning, Mrs. Foster was up early, and by eight-thirty she was downstairs and ready to leave.

  Shortly after nine, her husband appeared. “Did you make any coffee?” he asked.

  “No, dear. I thought you’d get a nice breakfast at the club. The car is here. It’s been waiting. I’m all ready to go.”

  They were standing in the hall—they always seemed to be meeting in the hall nowadays—she with her hat and coat and purse, he in a curiously cut Edwardian jacket with high lapels.

  “Your luggage?”

  “It’s at the airport.”

  “Ah yes,” he said. “Of course. And if you’re going to take me to the club first, I suppose we’d better get going fairly soon, hadn’t we?”

  “Yes!” she cried. “Oh, yes—please!”

  “I’m just going to get a few cigars. I’ll be right with you. You get in the car.”

  She turned and went out to where the chauffeur was standing, and he opened the car door for her as she approached.

  “What time is it?” she asked him.

  “About nine-fifteen.”

  Mr. Foster came out five minutes later, and watching him as he walked slowly down the steps, she noticed that his legs were like goat’s legs in those narrow stovepipe trousers that he wore. As on the day before, he paused halfway down to sniff the air and to examine the sky. The weather was still not quite clear, but there was a wisp of sun coming through the mist.

  “Perhaps you’ll be lucky this time,” he said as he settled himself beside her in the car.

  “Hurry, please,” she said to the chauffeur. “Don’t bother about the rug. I’ll arrange the rug. Please get going. I’m late.”

  The man went back to his seat behind the wheel and started the engine.

  “Just a moment!” Mr. Foster said suddenly. “Hold it a moment, chauffeur, will you?”

  “What is it, dear?” She saw him searching the pockets of his overcoat.

  “I had a little present I wanted you to take to Ellen,” he said. “Now, where on earth is it? I’m sure I had it in my hand as I came down.”

  “I never saw you carrying anything. What sort of present?”

  “A little box wrapped up in white paper. I forgot to give it to you yesterday. I don’t want to forget it today.”

  “A little box!” Mrs. Foster cried. “I never saw any little box!” She began hunting frantically in the back of the car.

  Her husband continued searching through the pockets of his coat. Then he unbuttoned the coat and felt around in his jacket. “Confound it,” he said, “I must’ve left it in my bedroom. I won’t be a moment.”

  “Oh, please!” she cried. “We haven’t got time! Please leave it! You can mail it. It’s only one of those silly combs anyway. You’re always giving her combs.”

  “And what’s wrong with combs, may I ask?” he said, furious that she should have forgotten herself for once.

  “Nothing, dear, I’m sure. But . . . ”

  “Stay here!” he commanded. “I’m going to get it.”

  “Be quick, dear! Oh, please be quick!”

  She sat still, waiting and waiting.

  “Chauffeur, what time is it?”

  The man had a wristwatch, which he consulted. “I make it nearly nine-thirty.”

  “Can we get to the airport in an hour?”

  “Just about.”

  At this point, Mrs. Foster suddenly spotted a corner of something white wedged down in the crack of the seat on the side where her husband had been sitting. She reached over and pulled out a small paper-wrapped box, and at the same time she couldn’t help noticing that it was wedged down firm and deep, as though with the help of a pushing hand.

  “Here it is!” she cried. “I’ve found it! Oh dear, and now he’ll be up there for ever searching for it! Chauffeur, quickly—run in and call him down, will you please?”

  The chauffeur, a man with a small rebellious Irish mouth, didn’t care very much for any of this, but he climbed out of the car and went up the steps to the front door of the house. Then he turned and came back. “Door’s locked,” he announced. “You got a key?”

  “Yes—wait a minute.” She began hunting madly in her purse. The little face was screwed up tight with anxiety, the lips pushed outward like a spout.

  “Here it is! No—I’ll go myself. It’ll be quicker. I know where he’ll be.”

  She hurried out of the car and up the steps to the front door, holding the key in one hand. She slid the key into the keyhole and was about to turn it—and then she stopped. Her head came up, and she stood there absolutely motionless, her whole body arrested right in the middle of all this hurry to turn the key and get into the house, and she waited—five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten seconds, she waited. The way she was standing there, with her head in the air and the body so tense, it seemed as though she were listening for the repetition of some sound that she had heard a moment before from a place far away inside the house.

  Yes—quite obviously she was listening. Her whole attitude was a listening one. She appeared actually to be moving one of her ears closer and closer to the door. Now it was right up against the door, and for still another few seconds she remained in that position, head up, ear to door, hand on key, about to enter but not entering, trying instead, or so it seemed, to hear and to analyse these sounds that were coming faintly from this place deep within the house.

  Then, all at once, she sprang to life again. She withdrew the key from the door and came running back down the steps.

  “It’s too late!” she cried to the chauffeur. “I can’t wait for him, I simply can’t. I’ll miss the plane. Hurry now, driver, hurry! To the airport!”

  The chauffeur, had he been watching her closely, might have noticed that her face had turned absolutely white and that the whole expression had suddenly altered. There was no longer that rather soft and silly look. A peculiar hardness had settled itself upon the features. The little mouth, usually so flabby, was now tight and thin, the eyes were bright, and the voice, when she spoke, carried a new note of authority.

  “Hurry, driver, hurry!”

  “Isn’t your husband travelling with you?” the man asked, astonished.

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