You Can't Catch Me Page 5

  Tristram said, “No.”

  “Yet you seem to have forgotten me.”

  “You must understand … that circumstances in my life have changed too,” Tristram said.

  He spoke blindly; gropingly; scarcely knowing what he said. It was as if someone were urging him forward, not unkindly, though perhaps a bit impatiently, a stranger’s hand pressed between his shoulder blades, and pushing. “I … am not exactly the man you knew in Saratoga Springs.”

  “You are married?”

  “No. But—”

  “You are in love?”

  “No.”

  “You no longer feel, as you once did, about me?—Not that I blame you in the slightest.” She paused; and said bitterly, “You are hardly to blame, after all, for my husband’s vicious appetites.”

  Tentatively, blushing, he said, “It has been some years …”

  “But only three! And I thought of you constantly, and treasured your letters! If I never wrote to you, Angus, it was only because …” She paused; pressed her handkerchief to her eyes another time; seemed, for a moment, too stricken to continue. “… because of certain facts of my marital life … of which I cannot speak. Of which, three years ago, I did not feel I could speak out of shame … and disgust. And the terror that you, hearing such things, would feel shame and disgust as well … and revulsion toward me.”

  “Revulsion?”

  Her head bowed, Fleur Grunwald nodded mutely.

  “Revulsion? I? For you?”

  With no consciousness of what he did, only that, at this time, and in this precise way, it must be done, Tristram took gentle hold of the young woman’s shoulders (such delicately boned shoulders!), and helped her to be seated on the nearest sofa. With the abandon of a small child Fleur Grunwald began at last to cry, her face hidden in her hands. Yet she held herself stiffly, shyly, with a maidenly sort of apprehension; she gave herself up to her grief, and a terrible grief it was, but did not surrender to Tristram’s embrace, as if resisting that very inclination. She has not been, after all, his mistress, Tristram thought, with enormous relief.

  She wept, and her warm tears splashed on Tristram’s hands, and a violent flamelike sensation passed through his body, leaving him weak. He said with sudden passion, “Please don’t cry: I give you my word that you will be safe from your husband, and that you will be free of him. I will protect you with my very life.”

  Only the foyer of the suite was lighted; Tristram was sitting with the sobbing young woman in a shadowy sort of alcove, behind which, magisterially, a tall narrow window opened out onto the ambiguity of a city night—an immense, clear, starlit sky that blended indistinguishably with the lights of the city, and gave to the darkened room a humming sort of radiance. Though Markham might have been more forceful with Fleur Grunwald, and would surely, Tristram suspected, have closed her in his arms (for the distraught young woman did want comfort, didn’t she? had spoken of love, hadn’t she?), Tristram contented himself with clasping her gloved hands; leaning close to her, but not overly close; murmuring, as she spoke, words of sympathy and encouragement. How extraordinary this was! How far Tristram Heade had come from his bachelor’s life back in Richmond, within a very few days …! For all its acceleration his heart beat happily; his pulses sang. For all that Fleur Grunwald’s story turned out to be, even in its fragmentized form, deeply upsetting and repugnant, Tristram could not in his innermost heart regret it, since it had brought her to him; and him to her.

  It emerged, over a period of an hour and a half, in halting, piecemeal fashion, that Fleur Grunwald, twenty-three years old, and married since the age of seventeen to a Philadelphia businessman and philanthropist named Otto Grunwald, had finally, after years of abuse, fled his home; dared incur his wrath by making the break he had warned her against making, numberless times, under pain of death. As if, she said, trembling, death were not preferable to her, to continuing to live with him.

  “Don’t ask why I left him now, after so long,—it is too shameful, and too disgusting,” Fleur said. “But finally, last Friday, out of desperation that he would do to me what he has, from time to time, hinted of doing, I finally summoned up the courage, and fled; as you had urged me three years ago. I am staying temporarily with a relative of his, a spinster cousin of Grunwald’s who has always been sympathetic with me, and will not betray me. But I must leave within a few days, I can’t endanger her too. Grunwald has spies, he has men in his employ,” Fleur said, beginning again to sob, “—there is no escaping him for long, while I am in Philadelphia.”

  It turned out, to Tristram’s surprise, that Fleur was staying in a brownstone on Delancy Street!—by the most remarkable coincidence, the very street on which he had found the glass eye. But of course there could be no connection.

  Fleur spoke, agitatedly, and not always coherently; drawing close to, and then shrinking from, an explanation of why she had decided, so abruptly, with so little preparation, to leave Grunwald at this time—“It is too loathsome, it cannot be believed.” Tristram feared her fainting; or becoming hysterical; he feared a sudden knock at the door—the vindictive husband, or, what would in fact be more distressing, Angus Markham himself. (For if Markham had contacted the lost and found office of the railway terminal, and the clerk had told him Tristram’s name and telephone number, it was not at all improbable the man might show up.) The decision to help Fleur Grunwald, to lay down his life for her, as Tristram had extravagantly sworn, seemed to have brought with it, unexamined, unconsidered,—for in the exigency of the moment, correctly perceived as the turning point in Tristram Heade’s life, there was no time for cogitation, or caution!—and no gentleman could have behaved otherwise!—the ancillary decision to assume, for a while, at least, the identity of “Angus Markham”: for Tristram understood, were he to insist upon unmasking himself, or, rather, undeceiving Fleur, the humiliated young woman would have fled him immediately.

  The deception is only temporary, he thought. And as it is for her good, it must be done.

  By Fleur’s account her husband was a man in his mid- or late fifties, and quite wealthy; not one of Philadelphia’s most prodigiously wealthy men; but very well-to-do; like Tristram Heade, the undeserving heir of wealth. Unlike Tristram, however, Grunwald was actively involved in his various investments, and by way of carefully chosen philanthropic projects (“in themselves investments,” Fleur said, “for Grunwald does nothing that does not enhance Grunwald”) he had enhanced the already honorable name of Grunwald in Philadelphia public life. Grunwald’s father and grandfather had both been disagreeable men, Fleur had been given to believe, from tales and anecdotes casually told of them, involved, over the years, in petty family strife and disputes, and a plague of lawsuits. “But from what I sense their moral nature fell within the range of what might be called ‘normal,’” Fleur said. “Grunwald’s does not.”

  “I see,” Tristram said.

  And, “I know.”

  As, several times, Fleur approached the actual circumstances of her relations with Grunwald, her manner became increasingly agitated and distracted; she spoke vaguely of “systematic abuse,” and “tyranny,” and “torture,” but Tristram did not know whether she spoke literally, or metaphorically; whether Grunwald’s cruelty was physical in some way, or simply (though it was wrong to say “simply”) psychological. In any case, as clearly as he could determine, it had increased, in recent months, in severity; being related in some mysterious way with Grunwald’s health and his fears of growing old; his “terror,” as Fleur called it, of the time when his “manly powers” would wane … and he, Otto Grunwald, would be reduced to as piteous a figure as Fleur herself.

  “My husband is a man who very much pities women, even as he scorns us,” Fleur said carefully. “And he is very much attracted to us, even as he is revolted.”

  Hearing this, Tristram could not suppress a shudder. He wondered what, in the most literal sense, this young woman’s words meant.

  It was now nearly three o’clock in
the morning. Fleur’s eyelids drooped with fatigue; her face had become dead-white, as if drained of blood. But when Tristram made the eminently practical suggestion that she try to sleep on the sofa,—he would leave her entirely alone of course, for as long as she wished—she laughed nervously, and protested that she must leave soon; she’d had no intention of staying so long. Even if, as she said, nothing had been decided.

  Tristram heard this clearly, but did not know what to make of it.

  Had a decision been in the offing?

  She stood, and smoothed her hair, and affixed her hat (which had slipped from her head); adjusted, with an air of embarrassment and impatience, her slightly rumpled clothing; insisting that she must leave, and would see him the following day. “When we know more clearly what course we can take,” she said. “When … when we know more clearly.”

  Again, Tristram did not understand. He sensed that Fleur Grunwald’s meaning was something very clear, in fact, in itself, eminently practical; yet it eluded him, as, reaching with naive directness for something glimpsed behind us, in a mirror, we feel our fingers closing in empty air.

  Fleur prepared to leave, and Tristram said, puzzled, “At least let me accompany you back to Delancy Street, won’t you? It will take only a minute for me to put on some street clothes. Will you wait? You can’t possibly leave here alone, Fleur, even to take a taxi, in the condition you’re in.”

  “I came here alone, after all,” Fleur said in a small dull spiritless voice. “I should be capable of leaving alone.”

  “Please wait.”

  Fleur did not say no; seemed to have said yes. Tristram excused himself, and hurried into the other room, quickly changing his clothes. Where were his shoes? His shoes? … He was thinking that, had he been Markham, he might be rather hurt by the young woman’s abrupt change of mood; might well have been vexed. Of course he did not know Angus Markham but suspected that, unlike Tristram Heade, he was accustomed to sexual conquest; accustomed, in any case, to women who came to him in desperation, knowing that he would know to help. And how?

  When he returned to the parlor, however, having been away no more than three or four minutes at the most, it was to discover that his visitor was gone; leaving no trace of herself behind except a faint scent of lily-of-the-valley, and a neatly printed little note affixed with a hat pin to the back of the sofa:

  997 Delancy

  DO NOT COME TILL AFTER NIGHTTIME

  3

  By nighttime of the next day, when Tristram Heade presented himself at the front door of the Delancy Street brownstone, and rang the doorbell, he was in a state of nerves of a kind altogether new to him: yet oddly calm: outwardly calm: thinking, This is Markham’s way, and it must be mine as well.

  He had spent much of the day making inquiries into Mr. Otto Grunwald; had hired a taxi to take him into the wealthy neighborhood, contiguous with Fairmount Park, in which Grunwald lived; had walked numerous times past the property pointed out to him as Grunwald’s—several acres of meticulously tended lawns and gardens, at the rear of which, beyond a wrought-iron fence with a medieval-looking gate, a French Normandy mansion seemed to rise with the eerie plausibility of a dream within a dream. The Heades of Virginia had been conspicuously wealthy, in their time; but here, Tristram thought, chastened, here is real wealth.

  He felt some rage too: an infusion of Angus Markham’s spirit perhaps. Or was it his own? He had fallen in love with the beautiful young wife of the man who lived in that house; the beautiful young wife who had been held a virtual captive for years, in that house. And what could he do? What would he do?

  It is too loathsome, it cannot be believed.

  From all that Tristram had been able to learn, by way of questions put to various persons—among them the manager of the Hotel Moreau, and several antiquarian book-dealers whose shops he visited that day, and a Buchanan cousin who was a partner in one of the city’s most prestigious law firms—it seemed that Otto Grunwald, no matter the mysterious secret depravity of his soul, did have a reputation in Philadelphia as one of the more faithful and generous members of the “private sector.” Among his charities were the Philadelphia Symphony, the Philadelphia Museum of the Arts, the American Red Cross, the American Association for the Advancement of Mental Health, and the Episcopal Hospital, for which he was a trustee. Grunwald was a trustee too for The Folkes School, to which, for generations, Grunwalds had sent their sons; sonless himself, Grunwald gave the school money regularly, and had recently donated a lavish new building, Grunwald Hall, in memory of his father. Fleur’s words sounded in Tristram’s head, with a despairing vehemence he had not heard the night before—Grunwald does nothing that does not enhance Grunwald.

  The most disturbing information Tristram learned about Otto Grunwald was that there had indeed been two young wives preceding Fleur. The first had died at the age of twenty-six of an allegedly accidental overdose of sleeping tablets; the second had died at the age of twenty-four of injuries sustained after a fall down a flight of stairs in her home.

  (“But were no charges ever brought against Grunwald?” Tristram asked his cousin, with whom he spoke on the telephone, and the man said in a flat, bemused voice, “Against Otto Grunwald? In this city? On little or no evidence? For a man with a degree from Virginia you seem to know very little about the law, Tristram.”)

  After Fleur Grunwald left his hotel room Tristram had been able to sleep only fitfully. Several times he woke to see the young woman in the room with him, her face very pale and her eyes very wide, shining with tears. Aren’t I Fleur to you any longer? Her voice was wild, sweet, pleading, edged with terror.

  Tristram, in love for the first time in his life, waited impatiently for the day to pass. He wondered if early dusk qualified as “nighttime” and decided that it did; it must. Well before that time he set out for Delancy Street, and arrived at the address he wanted while the sun was still in the western sky, a furious fiery orange.

  The street was unusually wide for a residential street in this part of the city, and its houses were unusually large, each three storeys high, made of fine old brownstone in excellent condition. Plane trees lined both sides of the street and in the carefully tended strip of lawn in front of 997 there grew a number of elegantly trimmed evergreen shrubs. By the time Tristram climbed the steps and rang the doorbell he was trembling inwardly and felt moisture at the back of his neck. Calm, he told himself. Be calm.

  When a silent black servant answered the door, Tristram identified himself as, simply, “Markham: the man Mrs. Grunwald is expecting.” He was led immediately up a flight of stairs and into a room in which Fleur awaited him, on her feet, looking toward him with an expression of eagerness and apprehension. Her immediate words were, “Angus! Have you …?” Tristram, puzzled, did not know how to reply. He took one of her small-boned hands, which felt rather cold and moist, and impulsively lifted it to his lips. “My dear Fleur,” he whispered. “My poor girl.” It was Tristram speaking, or it was Markham, and the words sounded right, or nearly. Fleur shivered; laughed nervously, like a young girl; and drew away, even as, in virtually the same motion, she seemed about to step forward into Tristram’s embrace. Tristram thought, She is a woman terrified of men: of a man’s touch, even in love.

  He thought, Grunwald must pay for this.

  Fleur asked him to be seated, and the silent black servant left them alone. The room in which they sat was an old-fashioned drawing room, beautifully paneled in cherry-wood, with a bay window overlooking the street below; a small cheery fire burned in a fireplace. Again Fleur Grunwald wore black, this evening a floor-length robe or negligee of a sumptuous silken material, richly embroidered, with a high mandarin collar, numerous tiny buttons, and long flowing sleeves. Her hair, an ashy shade of brown, naturally wavy, and rather thin, was parted neatly in the center of her head and gathered up smoothly at the nape of her neck with a mother-of-pearl comb. To mitigate her pallor she had daubed powder onto her face, and reddened her lips; she wore no jewelry except, s
urprisingly, on the third finger of her left hand, an enormous square-cut diamond with a matching wedding band studded with smaller diamonds.

  Tristram asked suddenly, “That robe, Fleur, is very beautiful, but is it yours?”—a question that took both Fleur and himself by surprise. Fleur laughed nervously again, and stared at him in perplexity. “—I mean, because it’s one or two sizes too large for you,” Tristram said, “I thought it might belong to your cousin.” Fleur said, blushing, “I feel more comfortable with clothes that are loose-fitting. I don’t like tight things.”

  As if to change the subject Fleur offered Tristram a glass of sherry, which he accepted, with gratitude; and poured herself a glass as well, lifting it to her lips with fingers that trembled slightly. Tristram had the idea that this very young woman was not much accustomed to drinking; and that, though she made an effort (as he was making an effort) to appear calm, she was really quite agitated. He said, clearing his throat, “I hope your husband didn’t try to contact you today,” and Fleur said, after a moment, with a shy, strange smile, “I had thought you might have contacted him … but it seems you did not?” Tristram said slowly, “No. I did not.” His face burned as if this were a shameful admission.

  Fleur made no reply, her eyes downcast. She held her sherry glass to her mouth with both hands, as a child might; but was not drinking. Tristram said, with sudden conviction, “I will see him tomorrow, Fleur. I know where he lives.” Silent, Fleur appeared to be holding herself very still. A grandfather clock ticked coolly in a corner of the room. Tristram said, “I’ll insist upon seeing him tomorrow. All this will have to be worked out.”

  “Yes,” Fleur said softly, stifling a sob, “—it will have to be worked out.”