Novel Treatments / Porkpie - 3rd of 3 Chapters
HELENA SWANN … I got back to Dismas Cottage from a tennis date with Ivan around noon. He dropped me off and went on to a friend’s house where he intended to shower and change clothes before going to lunch.
I was looking forward to a shower myself, as well as a quiet afternoon at home. Passing through the side entrance from the porte cochère, I put my racket in the big foyer closet and was stripping off my sweaty headband when Aunt Claudia glided into my field of vision. She was holding her hands at waist level, wringing them slowly. The look on her face was Yankee tragic. Her mouth was drawn down and her eyes sparkled with concern.
“Aunt Claudia darling, what is it?” I asked.
“Rupert McAllister called and left a message, Helena. I told him I hadn’t seen you in years, but he just laughed. Oh, what a terrible man!”
“What was the message?”
“I told him it was foolish to leave word since you would never get it. He said ‘tell her to call me at the Hyatt Regency,’ and then he hung up.”
Like the replay of a bad dream or the recurrence of a dormant malady, the name Rupert McAllister filled me with dread. For the moment I managed to suppress my fear in order to console Aunt Claudia. I told her there was really nothing to worry about.
“But Helena, dear, what will you do?”
“I have to think about it, but I’m inclined to call him. I have to believe he’s managed to find me. If it were just a fishing expedition, he wouldn’t be right here in town, would he?”
“I suppose not, but what good will it do to confirm that for him?”
“That’s what I have to think about. If he knows I’m here and I don’t call him, he’ll surely write one of his awful stories and everyone will know. Maybe there’s something I can do for him in return for keeping quiet about my stay here … for now, at least.”
“Oh, Helena, are you sure?”
“Please don’t worry, Aunt Claudia. I’ll think of something.”
“Well,” she sighed, “would you like of cup of tea, dear?”
Aunt Claudia’s offer of tea was her all-purpose remedy, the universal answer to life’s woes. So, while she sought out her maid in the kitchen, I went off to shower and change clothes. It gave me a chance to think things through.
The mental ease I was cultivating during those weeks in Newport had already suffered a setback two days ago, when a newspaper story linked the body that washed ashore in Florida to Sam. And now, here was that slimeball McAllister come to torture me.
It was clear I had to talk to him. On the phone, he was unctuous and condescending. With the utmost politeness, I invited him to come visit at eight-thirty the next evening. I made no demands or preconditions. I wouldn’t try to negotiate until we met.
“Thanks so much, Mrs. Swann, for agreeing to see me,” he said.
“My pleasure, Mr. McAllister. There’ll be just the two of us. We’ll have drinks and a nice chat.”
“Delightful! I’m so looking forward to it.”
I’ll just bet he was. Aunt Claudia wouldn’t present a problem. She had made plans weeks ago to leave for Boston, where she’d be for a few days with a friend in Back Bay. I’d ask Ivan to stay away for a few hours so I could meet McAllister alone. As a matter of fact, that was his routine on Thursday anyhow.
With that settled in my mind, I began to chew over every event and every emotion of the past few months. The only comforting thought was that Sam was unlikely to try to find me while so many people were looking for him. His best bet had to be a big city where he could blend in, or perhaps some really isolated place where someone could hide him.
Despite my sense of security in Newport, every story about his odyssey from San Francisco to Miami was an agony that renewed my sense of dread and loathing. How much of all this was about me? And why did I think these thoughts, why did every new felony and murder seem to form a link in a chain that bound me to him? All I can say is that I never made a mental break with him. Even today when I awake from a dream about lovemaking, Sam’s is the face I’m kissing, the body that presses against me.
Dealing with McAllister would mean answering questions on every aspect of the family scandal. He would certainly want to hear it all: my relations with Sam, what I thought about Angela’s pregnancy, what I knew about the murders in Las Vegas and San Francisco – the whole ugly mess. Although I planned to tell him as little as possible, somehow I had to extract his promise not to reveal my whereabouts. Maybe I could trade some future exclusive for his cooperation now.
I certainly wouldn’t say anything to him about the jealousy that consumed me whenever I thought about Angela’s pregnancy. Oh, I didn’t want to be pregnant, and the thought of having Sam’s child was truly dreadful. But her due date! Counting backwards, I realized the child might have been conceived that last morning, before they came down for breakfast. After a night in my bed, he probably impregnated his wife!
By the time McAllister arrived the next evening at eight-thirty, I felt in command of my emotions and quite sure I could handle him. I brought him into the living room and asked him to sit on the striped silk Beidermeier sofa, while I occupied higher ground in a straight-back armchair. There was a low mahogany serving table between us. We exchanged the usual pleasantries and he gushed about the amenities of Dismas Cottage. I smiled and nodded through this without commenting, just as I had seen Aunt Claudia do a hundred times.
“Will you take a drink, Mr. McAllister? A brandy, perhaps?”
“Why yes, Mrs. Swann, I will. If it’s no trouble, that is, and if you’ll join me.”
“No trouble at all. And of course I’ll join you,” I said as I crossed the room to the liquor cabinet.
There was a silver tray on top of the cabinet. I took out two snifters and a bottle of cognac from the bottom shelf and put everything on the tray. As I carried it back and placed it between us, I pointed out a box of Cuban cigars on the table.
“If you’d like a cigar, I’d be pleased to light it for you,” I said. “I won’t join you, of course, but it gives me pleasure to see a man enjoy a good cigar.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Swann. Absolutely delightful!”
He selected a cigar, took up the little cutting tool and clipped off the end. I was ready with a lighter and he drew in the smoke until it was properly lit. While he watched, I poured a few ounces of cognac into the bottom of each snifter. From his demeanor, I could tell he was succumbing to the ritual. Very few men can resist this sort of thing.
“Now I know we have business to discuss, Mr. McAllister, but I’m hoping we can get to know each other first. If we can talk off the record, that is. I’m very mistrustful of journalists after what’s happened.”
“I should think you would be. And I do apologize for the sensational aspects of my stories. That sort of thing grows out of not having access to the right people. One can’t expect a balanced reportage when the only sources willing to talk are anonymous tipsters and known felons.”
Now this was utter bull. The reportage was tabloid style because the story was tabloid fodder, pure and simple. But I went along.
“Yes, I see what you mean,” I said. “You know, Rupert, I’d like it if you’d tell me a little about yourself. You’re from London, aren’t you?”
Well that got him started. Middle class Brits are often uptight with upper class Americans. They feel out of place unless you disarm them with a modicum of respect and an easy manner. Once I had accomplished that, the evening went very well indeed.
He filled me in on his background and I let him know a few things about my life in New York as an actress. Although I made sure we were still off the record, I felt certain this was information he already had by now.
“Did you ever appear in a lead role, Helena? You certainly have the presence for it.”
“No, I was neither a very successful actress nor a very good one. I never had a big role, never the kind of success you’ve had in journalism.”
“Really, you know, this story has made me. I can’t point to much else.”
“Well, you’ve done a lot with it.”
“I suppose so. I’ve had some luck and I’ve been resourceful. But there have been … well, frustrations.”
“Such as?”
“You’ll pardon me for saying so, but I’m angry that your sister has continued to stonewall me.”
“How could she do otherwise, Rupert?”
“Don’t you see? Her side of whole affair could be on the record. All the nasty conjecture would not have been possible.”
At least he was consistent with that line of claptrap. But it was ludicrous. When you go “on record,” there is that much more room for disputation and innuendo. At this point, though, I thought I might begin to deal with him.
“Well, I’m sure that your business tonight is to ask me to go on record. Still, I don’t believe it’s time.”
“When will it be time, Helena?”
“I’m not sure. Right now I feel trapped. You’ve found me despite my precautions and I’m at a disadvantage. If you tell the world about me, Sam Porter will know where I am.”
“There will be no reason to do a thing like that if you can help me, even a little.”
“I’m not a rich woman like my sister Angela, despite what people think. Would my story be worth something?”
“Of course. It could be worth a great deal.”
In a few minutes, Rupert McAllister was in a very expansive mood. I had verbally agreed to give him the exclusive story of my involvement with “Porkpie” for a sum I would negotiate with his publisher. There would be no written agreement for now, and I would not be interviewed until Samson Porter was in jail.
The cognac refills had done their part also. Before long my new friend was feeding me details of Sam’s escapades that had never been seen in print.
“As soon as I found a publisher for the book version,” he said, “I began collecting eyewitness accounts whenever possible. Some of them have been unsuitable for the newspapers.”
“Why? What do you mean, Rupert?”
“Well, everyone knows Porkpie tore up that bank in Phoenix, and then peed on the bank manager’s family photo. But I have affidavits from six customers who were there that day. Each of them said very nearly the same thing. First, they were terrified by his display of temper. Second, after he turned the place upside down, he pulled out the biggest uncut willy they had ever seen.”
While he laughed at his own cleverness, I smiled demurely. Then I changed the subject before he could ask question one about my familiarity with Sam’s anatomy.
“Why don’t I give you a little tour of Dismas Cottage before you leave?” I asked. “You’ve only seen the rooms downstairs.”
It was ten-thirty and I wanted to get rid of him. Ivan would probably be back soon and I was expecting Aunt Claudia to call from Boston. As we ascended the staircase, I decided to point out just a few things, show him the library and call it a night.
The corridor at the top of the stairs comprises a kind of portrait gallery depicting several generations of Chitworths. While I related a few details from the life of Pardon Chitworth of the Mayflower Compact, I heard a noise downstairs, which I assumed was Ivan opening the front door.
Steering Rupert into the library, I closed the double doors softly behind us. Ivan knew I didn’t want them to meet, and this would enable him to get upstairs to his room quietly, bypassing us. So I was really annoyed when the doors opened again, just as I was showing Rupert an original New York Edition of the works of Henry James.
I felt a swift expulsion of air from my lungs when I turned and saw it was Sam framed by the doorway, not Ivan. First, there was a moment of grace and confusion while I processed the beard, the long hair, the substandard clothing. Next, McAllister turned to look, puzzled at first. Quickly, his face drained of all color.
Sam glanced towards me appraisingly, then fixed his attention on poor Rupert, who threw his hands up and began screaming in a high-pitched wail. When Sam pulled the gun from his waistband, McAllister literally begged for his life.
“Pl-e-e-e-ase don’t kill me!” he screeched. “Pl-e-e-e-ase!”
Sam caught up with Rupert in front of the fireplace and slapped him twice across the face with his left hand. He tried to run, but Sam grabbed him roughly by the collar and kicked him to the floor. As Rupert turned a forlorn and tear-streaked face towards him, Sam lifted the gun, aimed and shot – a look of rage-filled contempt on his face.
I had moved quietly and quickly to the doorway. Just as I heard the discharge and saw Rupert McAllister’s tortured face explode, I slipped outside and slammed the doors shut. Because of all the rare books, the library had long ago been fitted out with locks so it could be secured from either side. By the time Sam understood that he would have to shoot his way out, I’d be gone from the house.
I could hear him kicking at the doors while I raced downstairs and out the front entrance. The telephone was ringing as I left. By the time I had dashed through the grounds out to Leroy Avenue, two shots rang out. He would be after me now.
If I could get to the corner of Bellevue Avenue before he saw me, he’d have to guess whether I turned south towards Marble House or north towards Memorial Boulevard and the town. My lungs hurt from the exertion and my breathing was labored, but I pushed on as hard as I could. My biggest fear was falling and letting him catch up.
At the corner of Bellevue and Leroy, I looked back to see if he was in sight. No, not yet. Which way now, I thought, which way? I slipped around the corner to the south and rested a moment, crouching down by the hedge at the boundary of Chateau-sur-Mer, oldest of the large estates on the avenue. Just a little farther south was the entrance gate; I ran to it and hid myself behind a tree inside the grounds. From that vantage point, I kept my eye on the corner of Leroy, where I hoped to see Sam’s head above the hedge as he came up to Bellevue.
An eternity seemed to pass. If only I had my cell phone. My nerves were shot and I was afraid I wouldn’t get far if I had to run again. I strained to listen, but my breathing was the only thing I could hear.
If he had gone the other way, I thought, it might be possible to sneak back home. I darted back to the gate and peeked around it to see if he had turned north on Bellevue. My eyes took in the glamorous heart of gilded age Newport: the endless row of Victorian street lamps, limestone walls, wrought-iron gates, high protective bushes – all bathed in misty, amber moonlight.
Oh, but there he was – not thirty feet away – just south of me on the other side of the street! When he saw me, a grim smile spread across his face as he raised the gun. In a blind panic, I stumbled out to the sidewalk before righting myself and dashing back up the driveway toward the chateau. I meant to run a zigzag pattern, but the first shot he fired convinced me to go faster, and that meant straight ahead.
I had seen a flash of light when I peeked around the entranceway. It wasn’t from his gun; maybe I was beginning to hallucinate a little from nervous tension. There it was again, and again. Then, I heard another shot – followed by searing pain. I dropped to my knees on the asphalt and fell face forward, panting.
Sam was shouting, his voice hoarse and frightening. But there were other voices too, and a barrage of gunshots. Pop Pop! And still I saw the flashing lights. When I heard someone running up behind me, I was prepared to die. At the very final moment, you know, it just doesn’t matter as much as you thought it would.
“Miss? Are you all right?”
A young policeman with a very kind face knelt beside me. I understood then what the flashing lights were about: his squad car.
“I’ve been shot,” I moaned.
“An ambulance is on its way. I’ll stay here with you until it comes.”
“Did you catch him?” I asked.
“We took him down, Miss. He’s dead.”
“Oh.”
“He said something before he died. It sounded like ‘Delilah.’ Do you know who that is?”
“No. No I don’t.”
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I thouroughly enjoyed it. There is a lot of dialogue which made me wonder where and what was happening sometimes. I did thouroughly enjoy the story though.
Cheers
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this is certainly laced with life and ernestness that so many here struggle to conjure up…possibly because of the father tie in…but, at any rate, i think once the narrative is completed, it should easily find its way into print…
You’re a very good writer and I enjoyed the intrigue of this story. You did a great job with the first person narrative and I am not sure I can offer many helpful suggestions, but I’ll try.
Because your narrative is first person, techniques like contractions and the word “It” at the start a sentence are negotiable, but are things you should consider doing away with.
The story contains a sequence of dialog with nine exchanges between Helena and Rupert before the narration touches base with the physical world. You might consider adding a few words of narration to acknowledge the physical world during that sequence.
The only awkward prose I found was two paragraphs before Rupert begs for his life, when you use the word “first” twice in three lines of text.
Again, I enjoyed your story with its superb action and suspense. Good work.
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