I Will Fear No Evil (20 page)

“Miss Joan? It’ll really be my
own
apartment? I can entertain?”

“Of course, dear. Private. Oh, Cunningham’s staff will clean and so forth, any service you want. Breakfast tray, whatever. Or never enter it if you prefer it that way.”

“It sounds heavenly. I’m sharing a room with two other girls . . . at a rent that’s horrid because it’s inside an enclave. Safe—but I never have any
privacy.
”

“Winnie. Look at me, dear, and lay it on the line. The bed in there now is, I believe, a single. Would you like to have it replaced with a big, big double bed?”

The girl blushed. “Uh, it would be nice.”

“So stop blushing. I won’t know you have a visitor unless you tell me; that door is soundproof. Of course visitors have to be identified and checked for weapons, just as visitors to an enclave have to be—but that simply means you must vouch for a visitor to my chief guard the first visit. But I won’t know it unless you choose to tell me. The in-house staff all have visitors. But security is my chief guard’s worry, not mine.”

“But he does have to show his I.D.?”

“You still would have to vouch for him to Chief O’Neil but—Hold the countdown. Did you mean he would rather not show an LD.? Is he married, or something?”

Winnie blushed again, did not answer. Joan Eunice went on, “Nobody’s business, dear. This is a private home, not a government compound. You vouch for him, that’s enough. Chief O’Neil doesn’t trust LD.s; they’re often faked. But he has a photographic eye. Are you going to stay with me? As nurse in residence, or lady’s companion, or social secretary, or whatever you want to call it.”

“Lady’s maid. If I’m to be your maid, Miss Joan, I’d rather that your staff knew it and no pretense. And dress as your maid. What sort of uniform? Traditional? Or Acapulco? Or something in between?”

“Oh, not traditional, surely; you have such pretty legs. All-out Acapulco, if you like.”

Winnie looked pleased. “I might go all out. A girl gets tired of these white coveralls.” (Joan! Tell her not to use an all-out Acapulco paint job. Bad for her skin.)

“Suit yourself, dear. But don’t use a lot of paint. Bad for your skin.”

“Oh, I know! I’m a real redhead, you probably noticed. I can’t even sunbathe. I was thinking of a little black frill skirt with a white lace apron about the size of a saucer. Little perky maid’s cap, white on a black ribbon. Cling-On cups, in black. Transparent? Or opaque?”

“Whichever suits you, Winnie. High heels?”

“Uh, translucent, I guess, like the panels in that nightie. High heels, certainly, or the effect is lost—I can wear real stilts if I’m barefooted most of the time. Then just enough paint for accent. There are lovely decals that go on in no time and come right off with cold cream. Butterflies and flowers and things. Cheap, too. Everything I mentioned I can buy in disposables. I’ll look like a proper lady’s maid, yet not spend more time getting dressed than I do in pulling on this smock and tights.”

“You’ll look cute, dear. Going to dress up in a maid’s outfit and model it for your friend?”

Winnie started to blush again, then grinned. “I certainly am! And let him take it off me, too!” (Cheers!) (Eunice, you have a one-track mind.) (You should know, dearie—it’s
your
mind.)

A few moments later Winnie announced Mr. Salomon, then left. The lawyer came toward Joan solemnly, took the hand she extended and bowed over it. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Disappointed,” Joan answered soberly. “Because my oldest and dearest friend hasn’t time to dine with me my first day up. But physically I feel fine. Weak, but that’s to be expected.”

“Sure you’re not overdoing?”

“I’m sure. My respiration and heartbeat are being telemetered—if I weren’t all right, someone would come in and order me to bed. Truly, I’m all right, Jake—and I won’t get strong unless I
do
stay out of bed. But how about
you
, old friend? I have been terribly worried.”

“Oh, I’m all right. Just made a fool of myself, Johann.”

“You did not make a fool of yourself . . . and I feel certain Eunice knows it, Jake.” (Watch it, Boss!) (Pipe down.) “You could have paid her no finer tribute than those honest tears.” Joan found her own tears starting; she encouraged them while ignoring them. “She was a sweet and gallant lady, Jake, and it touched me more than I can say to learn that you appreciated her wonderful qualities as much as I did. Jake—please sit down, if only for a moment. There is something I
must
ask you.”

“Well . . . all right. Can’t stay long.”

“Whistle that chair closer, and face me. Uh, a glass of sherry? Doctor says I may have it—and I find that I need it. That Spanish cocktail sherry, dry as your wit. Will you do me the honor of pouring for us?”

Joan waited until the lawyer had filled their glasses, and had seated himself. She raised her glass and at the same time raised her chest, letting those “wicked” panels do their best. “A toast, Jake—no, don’t get up. The same toast, Jake—always the same toast from now on whenever you and I drink together . . . but silently.” She took a sip and put her glass down. “Jake—”

“Yes . . . Johann?”

“ ‘Joan,’ please—I can’t be ‘Johann’ any longer. Jake, you know that I never expected to live through any such operation? It was a—device. A legal device.”

“Yes, Joha—Yes, Joan, I knew. That’s why I helped.”

“I knew. The most generous act of friendship I have ever known. What is it the Japanese name it?—the friend who helps, when it is necessary to die. Never mind. Jake, look me in the eye. Do you know, deep in your heart, that I would rather be dead . . . than to have lived through it by this incredible circumstance? Be alive . . . at
her
expense? Do you
know
that, Jake? Or must I live still another life, hating myself?”

Salomon raised his eyes, met hers firmly. “Yes—Joan. I know it. It was no fault of yours . . . you must not hate yourself. Uh . . .
Eunice wouldn’t want you to!
”

“I know! Weep, dear Jake; don’t hold back your tears—see, I am not holding back mine. Just try not to go to pieces, or I will, too. Jake, each of us would happily have died rather than let this happen. I am as certain of it about you as I hope you are about me. I don’t think I could stand it if you had not reassured me. Look at me—a lovely body and young—yet I am almost ninety-five years old and have not one friend left alive . . . but you.”

“You’ll make more friends.”

“I wonder if I can. The span is great, perhaps too great. I feel as the Wandering Jew must have felt, alive beyond his allotted time. His name—Aha—something. My memory is not as good as this young body. But I can’t forget one question which I
must
ask. Jake, is there any possibility that Eunice’s husband had something to do with her death? That prize I put up, that blood money—
did it tempt him?
”

(Boss, Boss, you’re way off base. I know!) (Sorry, beloved, more sorry than I can say. But I must have
proof
.) “Jake?
Did I entice a murder?
”

The lawyer shook his head. “I’m astounded. But of course you don’t know the circumstances. You enticed
nothing
. I wrote that offer most carefully. Were there any guilt I would share it. There was none.”

“How do you
know?
” (Drop it, Boss. Please!)

“Mr. Branca was in Philadelphia, visiting his mother.” (You see, Boss?) “I had to find him to get the post-death ratification. Took three days, while both of you were kept ready for surgery. Joe Branca didn’t know she was dead. Hell of a job even to find him. Three long days.”

“ ‘Three days.’ Why wasn’t I told!”

“And
waste
Eunice’s death? Are you crazy? You were unconscious; Garcia put you under as soon as I notified him that a body was going to be ready. Then that dreadful wait. I need
your
forgiveness, too, for—Joan—no, ‘Johann!’ I hated you . . . for being alive when
she
was dead. But I pushed on—for
her
sake. Oh, I got over it, it was a sick hate. I knew better.”

“Do you hate me now?”

“Eh?” Salomon looked at her, in sorrow. “No. You are not only my old friend, who has always been honest and decent under his crusty exterior—whose virtues outweighed his faults.” Salomon managed to smile. “Though sometimes just barely. But also you are the only tie I have left to her.”

“Yes. You may find me better-tempered now, Jake. It’s easier to smile, easier to be patient, then it was in that old wreck of a body I had. But, Jake, about Joe Branca. All right, he was in Philadelphia. But could he have
arranged
it?”

“No.”

“You’re certain?”

“Certain. Joha—Joan, it’s that million dollars that worries you, fear that it might have started a chain of events. When they located Joe Branca, I had to jet there and get that piece of paper. He was dazed. Couldn’t believe it. But accepted the fact. But
not
the money. I couldn’t get him to sign the post-death authorization without first preparing another document, waiving the money. The escrow trustee—Chase Manhattan—was instructed by Joe to pay it to the Rare Blood Club—his idea—as a memorial to Eunice Evans Branca.” (Oh, Boss! I’m crying.) (We all are.) (But, Boss—Joe must be starving.) (We’ll take care of it.)

She sighed. “I’ll be damned.”

“Perhaps. And perhaps myself. But I don’t think Joe Branca will be. He’s an unworldly man—Joan. From a slum family. A flower in the muck. I couldn’t even get him to accept a lesser sum. He insisted on paying for witnessing and notarizing his mark, and the tax stamp on the assignment—and it took almost every dime he could dig up. He just shook his head and said, ‘Broke don’t scare me.’ ”

“Jake, we must take care of him.”

“I don’t think you can, Joan, In his own odd way he is as proud as she was. But I did one thing. In searching for him I had to get a court order to open their studio —indispensable it turned out, as an old letter from his mother gave us the clue that located him. But I learned that the rent was almost due . . . the corporation’s rent agent wanted to know how soon the lease was going to lapse—he assumed that, with
her
dead, the rent would not be paid. So I covered the matter for the moment; then when I got back, I bought the lease. As long as Joe chooses to stay, he won’t be asked for rent. Then I checked around and located her bank account and arranged with a friendly judge to let me guarantee the matter and had it assigned to Joe without bothering him with legal formalities. The little dear was smart about money—a nice sum, enough to keep him eating a couple of years, I think.” (All gone in a couple of months,
I
think. Boss, Joe doesn’t understand money. A bank account isn’t real, to him.) (Don’t worry, darling. Jake and I will handle it.)

She sighed. “I feel reassured, Jake. But distressed about her husband. We must look into it. If he’s that unworldly, then there must be some way to subsidize him without his knowing it.”

“All right, Joan, we will try. But Joe Branca taught me—at my age!—that there are things money cannot buy. Not if the prospective seller is indifferent to money.”

“Will you have more sherry? And may I have another drop? If you can’t stay, I think I’ll ask to be put to bed and right to sleep. Skip dinner.”

“Oh, but you must eat, Joan. For your strength. Look, if I stay, will you eat?”

She gave him Eunice’s best sun-coming-up smile. “Yes! Yes, Jake dear! Thank you.”

Dinner was informal, service only by Cunningham and two assistants. Joan did her best to simulate a charming, gracious hostess—while trying not to appear greedy; everything tasted so
wonderful!
But she waited until coffee had been served and Jake had refused a perfecto and accepted a glass of port, and she then could say, “Thank you, Cunningham, that will be all,” before returning to personal matters.

Once they were alone she said, “Jake, when will I be up for a competency hearing?”

“Eh? Any time you feel well enough. Are you in a hurry?”

“No. I would be utterly content to be your ward the rest of my life.”

Her lawyer smiled slightly. “Joan, by the actuarial tables you now have a life expectancy of about sixty years; mine is more like ten or twelve.”

“Well . . . that’s hard to answer. But will you go on as before as my de-facto manager? Or am I asking too much?”

Salomon studied his glass. “Joan . . . once the court dissolves this guardian-and-ward relationship, there is no reason why you should not manage your affairs.”

(Joan! Change the subject; he’s trying to leave us!) (So I know! Keep quiet!) (Tell him your middle name!) “Jake. Jake dear . . . look at me. Look hard and keep on looking. That’s better. Jake—is it that you would rather
not
see me . . . as I am now?

The lawyer said nothing. She went on, “Isn’t it better to get used to what
is
. . . than to run away from it? Wouldn’t she—Eunice—want you to stay?” (Keep slugging, Sis—he
wants
to stay.)

“It isn’t that simple . . . Joan.”

“Nothing ever is. But I don’t think you
can
run away from it any more than I can—for I won’t stop
being
what I am—her body, my mind—and you will always know it. All you accomplish by leaving is to deprive me of my one friend and the only man on earth I trust utterly. What does it take to change my name?”

“Eh?”

“Just what I said. I changed my surname from ‘Schmidt’ to ‘Smith’ when I enlisted on December eighth nineteenforty-one simply by spelling it that way to a recruiting sergeant. No one has bothered me about it since. This time perhaps it must be formal, considering the thousands of places where my signature appears. It is technically a sex-change case, is it not? A court takes judicial notice, or some such, and it’s made a matter of record?”

Salomon slipped into his professional
persona
and relaxed. “Yes, of course; I had not thought about
that
aspect—too many other details on my mind. Joan, your earlier name change was legal—although informal—because any person is free to call himself by any name, without permission of a court, as long as there is no criminal intent—to defraud, deceive, evade responsibility, avoid taxes, whatever. You can call yourself ‘Joan’—or ‘Johann’—or ‘Miniver Cheevy’—and that is your name, as long as your purpose is innocent. And pronounce it as you like. Knew of a case once of a man who spelled his name ‘Zaustinski’ and pronounced it ‘Jones’ and went to the trouble of publishing the odd pronunciation as a legal notice—although he did not have to; a name may be pronounced in any fashion its owner chooses.”