Manhunt. Volume 14, Number 1, February/March, 1966

In their place, Conrad brought discord and unhappiness. Into her home, in which she had perpetuated the old, silent-film world, there had crept the atmosphere of some off-beat foreign-language movie, macabre and bitter.

Much, of course, lay in the slyly malicious remarks Conrad made to everyone.

“Minnie,” he said one day at the luncheon table, “remember that time you and your husband and Jim Gallagher took the trip on your yacht?” He paused to pat his lips gently with a stiff white napkin. “Strange, how only the two of you returned — you and Jim. They never found your husband, did they?”

Minnie’s face was a dull, sickly white, and everyone industriously avoided looking at her.

Cora cast a furious look at Conrad, but he went on blandly spooning up his fruit cocktail. Minnie Gordon was a grandmother now, respectable and contented; her life in the old, wild days had nothing to do with her present placid existence. Cora felt a wave of murderous hatred for Conrad sweep over her.

Sometimes it was Cora herself who was the target of his remarks. “What a pity you never married, Cora,” he said slyly one day. “A pretty, famous woman like you! I’m sure any number of men would have been delighted to catch Cora Ransome.”

Cora’s cheeks went hot with anger, but she turned away without answering him, and heard his sneering little laugh behind her.

As the days went by, her mind seized upon the fanciful idea that he was a parasite upon her house. As he waxed younger and gayer and healthier-looking, the others became quieter, older, drained of energy. Conrad had, for each of the inhabitants of Mon Repos, his little subtle dig, his small, deadly shaft of wit tipped with venom. And from them, she soon realized, he was getting something more concrete than words.

On the day that George Masters asked her, apologetically, if she would mind if he delayed paying his rent until the end of the month, Cora knew that something must be done.

“George,” she said quietly. “Has Conrad been asking you for money?”

George answered evasively, “He borrowed fifty, for old times’ sake.”

Cora said nothing more, and went grimly about her work. The following afternoon, she saw Conrad Dillingham leaving Helen Johnson’s room. He was slipping something into his pocket, and there was that little smug, self-satisfied smile upon his face. Cora felt suddenly that she’d always hated that smile.

She went back to the big, quiet kitchen and started dinner preparations, but inside she felt such a burning anger as she had not experienced since her youth. Conrad was milking her people dry. Peeling potatoes viciously, she suddenly threw down her knife and marched off in search of him.

She found him in his room, and when he saw her expression, a look of genuine amusement crossed his face.

“Cora, Cora,” he admonished, “It doesn’t become you to lose your temper. You’re the gentle type.”

“Even the gentle type has a breaking point,” she said grimly. “Now I want the truth, Conrad. Have you been blackmailing my tenants?”

“Now however could I do that?” he asked. “Surely these dear people have nothing to hide.”

Cora clasped her hands together, so that their trembling wouldn’t show. “Everyone in the world has something to hide, and with these people, perhaps there’s a bit more. Those were wild old days we all shared. But they’re respectable, aging people now, with families who could be hurt by your snide tales. But I tell you, none of these people is well enough off to support you, Conrad Dillingham.”

He smiled. “That’s all very interesting. Now tell me, do you have anything to hide, Cora?”

“Never mind me. I’m not afraid of you, Conrad. Just leave my friends alone, if you want to remain in my house.”

She turned to leave, but not quickly enough to miss his parting shot. “Oh, I think you’ll keep me, Cora dear. I don’t think you really could turn me out, if it came to a showdown, do you?”

That evening, after the inept little maid had cleared away the dishes and stacked them in the dishwasher, Cora tidied the big, dark dining room and set the bowl of flowers back on the polished mahogany dining table. Then she went to stand in the living-room archway, her delicate little hands clasped in front of her.

“Anyone for films tonight?”

The old faces turned toward her like flowers to the sun, their false teeth flashed brilliant smiles, and the little murmur went round the room: “Yes, indeed, Cora. That would be wonderful!”

They all trooped into the projection room, and Walter set to work. Cora sat with her little feet — she had been famous for those tiny feet — close together.

Looking down, she said casually, “Do you remember ‘Murder Has Many Faces’? You were in it, Walter, and Minnie, and so was I. It was about an unusual form of murder, if you’ll remember. I wonder if you could find that one in the files, Walter?”

Everyone was strangely quiet tonight. They watched the movie, and Cora thought, with satisfaction, each of them seemed to tuck away its message into some remote corner of the brain.