Inspector Queen’s Own Case

“Well,” Jessie said. “I thank you, Mr. Queen. It hasn’t been exactly dull for me, either.” And there’s a brilliant remark.

“I don’t mean this Humffrey thing.” He cleared his throat twice, the second time irritably. “You’ve come to mean — well, a lot to me, Jessie.”

“I have, Richard?” Oh, dear...

“An awful lot.” He scowled at the rug. “I know I have no right...”

“Oh, Richard.”

“I mean, a man of my age—”

“Are we back to that again?” Jessie cried.

“And you so youthful, so pretty...”

My goodness, Jessie thought. Now if my stomach doesn’t start making blurpy bilge-pump sounds, the way it always does when I’m fussed... And there it goes!

“Yes, Richard?” Jessie said loudly.

The taxi man took that moment to start blasting away on his horn. Richard Queen flushed a profound scarlet, grabbed her hand, shook it as if it were a fighting fish, mumbled, “I’ll call you some time, Jessie,” and ran.

Jessie sat down on her floor and wept.

He’ll never call, Jessie assured herself. Why should he? I got him into it, and now I’ve run out on him. He won’t come back.

She swallowed the two aspirins dry, as a punishment, and resumed putting her clothes away.

Murdered babies.

My righteous indignation.

The truth is, Jessie Sherwood, she told herself pitilessly as she banged hangers about in the closet, you’re a hopeless old maid. You’re a hopeless old maid filled with hopeless guilt feelings, and don’t blame it on menopause, either. You’ve got plenty to feel guilty about, old girl. Not just running out on him. Not just acting like an irresponsible neurotic, throwing yourself at him, leading the poor man on till he began to feel young again, and then making it as hard for him as you could.

It’s that pillowslip.

When Jessie thought about the pillowslip, something inside cringed and curled up. She tried not to think of it, but the more she tried the faster it bounced back. She had been so positive the doctored slip was just like the one she had seen. But it hadn’t been. One look, and Humffrey had known it was a forgery. How could he have known? What hadn’t she noticed, or forgotten? Maybe if she could remember it now... That would be helping. That would be making it up to Richard!

So Jessie shut her eyes tight and thought and thought, right there in the closet, seeing the nursery again, seeing herself stooping over the crib in the nightlight, the pillow almost completely covering the motionless little body... the pillowcase... the pillowcase...

But she could not add anything to the pillowcase. It remained in her mind’s eye as she thought she had seen it that night.

She dropped the dress to the floor and went over to the chintz-backed maple chair near the window, where she could look out at her postage-stamp back garden. The morning-glories were still in bloom, and the petunias; the berries on the dogwood tree were big and shiny and red, and disappearing fast down the gullets of the birds; and Jessie thought, I will do it for him. I will. So she sat there and thought, desperately.

How had that monster disposed of the pillowslip? He hadn’t burned it, he hadn’t cut it to pieces... He had been under pressure, the pressure of his own guilt, the pressure of his wife’s hysterics, the pressure of Dr. Wicks’s presence, the pressure of the police-on-the-way... Pressure. Pressure makes people do things quickly, without much thought. Richard had remarked himself Wednesday night that Humffrey had had only one thought in mind, “to get rid of the pillowcase in the quickest and easiest way.”

Suppose I’d been the one, Jessie thought with a shudder.

Suppose I’ve smothered the baby and the baby’s body has been found by that nosy nurse and the house is in confusion and Dr. Wicks is there and the police are coming and suddenly, like a dash of seawater, I notice the pillow with my dirty handprint on the slip. It mustn’t be found... they’ll know it was murder... get rid of the slip quick, quick... is that someone coming? whose voice is that? I mustn’t be found in here... I’m in the nursery — I’ve got to get rid of it — got to hide it — where? where?

The laundry chute!

Now wait, Jessie said to her racing pulse, wait, wait, that came too easy....

Easy? But that’s just it. The easiest way! One step to the door of the chute, one flip of the wrist, one shove, another flip of the wrist... and the pillowslip is gone. Gone down into the basement, into the laundry-sized canvas hamper under the chute opening... gone to mingle with the rest of the household’s soiled laundry. The easiest, the quickest way to get rid of it.

At least temporarily.

Later — later I’ll get hold of it, destroy it. As soon as I can. As soon as I can get down into the basement plausibly, safely...