Synopsis: “The Night Before Christmas” is a short story by Robert Bloch published in 1980 in the anthology Dark Forces. Arnold Brandon, a struggling painter, receives a commission that could boost his career: to paint the portrait of Louise, the elegant wife of Carlos Santiago, an imposing and mysterious Argentine tycoon. From their first meeting, Santiago, with his commanding presence and shady past, provokes in Arnold a mixture of fascination and revulsion. As Arnold progresses with his work and Christmas approaches, the relationships between the three characters become increasingly complex, creating an atmosphere where power, jealousy, and secrets threaten to unleash a tragic storm.
The Night Before Christmas
Robert Bloch
(Full story)
I don’t know how it ends. Maybe it ended when I heard the shot from behind the closed door to the living room—or when I ran out and found him lying there.
Perhaps the ending came after the police arrived; after the interrogation and explanation and all that lurid publicity in the media.
Possibly the real end was my own breakdown and eventual recovery—if indeed I ever fully recovered.
It could be, of course, that something like this never truly ends as long as memory remains. And I remember it all, from the very beginning.
Everything started on an autumn afternoon with Dirk Otjens, at his gallery on La Cienega. We met at the door just as he returned from lunch. Otjens was late; very probably he’d been with one of his wealthy customers and such people seem to favor late luncheons.
“Brandon!” he said. “Where’ve you been? I tried to get hold of you all morning.”
“Sorry—an appointment—”
Dirk shook his head impatiently. “You ought to get yourself an answering service.”
No sense telling him I couldn’t afford one, or that my appointment had been with the unemployment office. Dirk may have known poverty himself at one time, but that was many expensive luncheons ago, and now he moved in a different milieu. The notion of a starving artist turned him off, and letting him picture me in that role was—like hiring an answering service—something I could not now afford. It had been a break for me to be taken on as one of his clients, even though nothing had happened so far.
Or had it?
“You’ve made a sale?” I tried to sound casual, but my heart was pounding.
“No. But I think I’ve got you a commission. Ever hear of Carlos Santiago?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Customer of mine. In here all the time. He saw that oil you did—you know, the one hanging in the upstairs gallery—and he wants a portrait.”
“What’s he like?”
Dirk shrugged. “Foreigner. Heavy accent.” He spoke with all of the disdain of a naturalized American citizen. “Some kind of shipping magnate, I gather. But the money’s there.”
“How much?”
“I quoted him twenty-five hundred. Not top dollar, but it’s a start.”
Indeed it was. Even allowing for his cut, I’d still clear enough to keep me going. The roadblock had been broken, and somewhere up ahead was the enchanted realm where everybody has an answering service to take messages while they’re out enjoying expensive lunches of their own. Still—
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe he’s not a good subject for me. A Spanish shipping tycoon doesn’t sound like my line of work. You know I’m not one of those artsy-craftsy temperamental types, but there has to be a certain chemistry between artist and sitter or it just doesn’t come off.”
From Dirk’s scowl I could see that what I was saying didn’t come off, either, but it had to be stated. I am, after all, an artist. I spent nine years learning my craft here and abroad—nine long hard years of self-sacrifice and self-discovery that I didn’t intend to toss away the first time somebody waved a dollar bill in my direction. If that’s all I cared about, I might as well go into mass-production, turning out thirty-five dollar clowns by the gross to sell in open-air shows on supermarket lots. On the other hand—
“I’d have to see him first,” I said.
“And so you shall.” Dirk nodded. “You’ve got a three-o’clock appointment at his place.”
“Office?”
“No, the house. Up in Trousdale. Here, I wrote down the address for you. Now get going, and good luck.”
****
I remember driving along Coldwater, then making a right turn onto one of those streets leading into the Trousdale Estates. I remember it very well, because the road ahead climbed steeply along the hillside and I kept wondering if the car would make the grade. The old heap had an inferiority complex and I could imagine how it felt, wheezing its way past the semicircular driveways clogged with shiny new Cadillacs, Lancias, Alfa-Romeos, and the inevitable Rolls. This was a neighborhood in which the Mercedes was the household’s second car. I didn’t much care for it myself, but Dirk was right; the money was here.
And so was Carlos Santiago.
The car in his driveway was a Ferrari. I parked behind it, hoping no one was watching from the picture window of the sprawling two-story pseudo-palazzo towering above the cypress-lined drive. The house was new and the trees were still small, but who was I to pass judgment? The money was here.
I rang the bell. Chimes susurrated softly from behind the heavy door; it opened, and a dark-haired, uniformed maid confronted me. “Yes, please?”
“Arnold Brandon. I have an appointment with Mr. Santiago.” She nodded. “This way. The Señor waits for you.”
I moved from warm afternoon sunlight into the air-conditioned chill of the shadowy hall, following the maid to the arched doorway of the living room at our left.
The room, with its high ceiling and recessed fireplace, was larger than I’d expected. And so was my host.
Carlos Santiago called himself a Spaniard; I later learned he’d been born in Argentina and undoubtedly there was Indio blood in his veins. But he reminded me of a native of Crete.
The Minotaur.
Not literally, of course. Here was no hybrid, no man’s body topped by the head of a bull. The greying curly hair fell over a forehead unadorned by horns, but the heavily lidded eyes, flaring nostrils, and neckless merging of huge head and barrel chest somehow suggested a mingling of the taurine and the human. As an artist, I saw in Santiago the image of the man-bull, the bull-man, the incarnation of macho.
And I hated him at first sight.
The truth is, I’ve always feared such men; the big, burly, arrogant men who swagger and bluster and brawl their way through life. I do not trust their kind, for they have always been the enemies of art, the book-burners, smashers of statues, contemptuous of all creation which does not spurt from their own loins. I fear them even more when they don the mask of cordiality for their own purposes.
And Carlos Santiago was cordial.
He seated me in a huge leather chair, poured drinks, inquired after my welfare, complimented the sample of my work he’d seen at the gallery. But the fear remained, and so did the image of the Minotaur. Welcome to my labyrinth.
I must admit the labyrinth was elaborately and expensively designed and tastefully furnished. All of which only emphasized the discordant note in the décor—the display above the fireplace mantel. The rusty, broad-bladed weapon affixed to the wall and flanked by grainy, poorly framed photographs seemed as out of place in this room as the hulking presence of my host.
He noted my stare, and his chuckle was a bovine rumble.
“I know what you are thinking, amigo. The oh-so-proper interior decorator was shocked when I insisted on placing those objects in such a setting. But I am a man of sentiment, and I am not ashamed.
“The machete—once it was all I possessed, except for the rags on my back. With it I sweated in the fields for three long years as a common laborer. At the end I still wore the same rags and it was still my only possession. But with the money I had saved I made my first investment —a few tiny shares in a condemned oil tanker, making its last voyage. The success of its final venture proved the beginning of my own. I spare you details; the story is in those photographs. These are the ships I came to acquire over the years, the Santiago fleet. Many of them are old and rusty now, like the machete—like myself, for that matter. But we belong together.”
Santiago poured another drink. “But I bore you, Mr. Brandon. Let us speak now of the portrait.”
I knew what was coming. He would tell me what and how to paint,and insist that I include his ships in the background; perhaps he intended to be shown holding the machete in his hand.
He was entitled to his pride, but I had mine. God knows I needed the money, but I wasn’t going to paint the Minotaur in any setting. No sense avoiding the issue; I’d have to take the bull by the horns—
“Louise!”
Santiago turned and rose, smiling as she entered. I stared at the girl—tall, slim, tawny-haired, with flawless features dominated by hazel eyes. The room was radiant with her presence.
“Allow me to present my wife.”
Both of us must have spoken, acknowledging the introduction, but I can’t recall what we said. All I remember is that my mouth was dry, my words meaningless. It was Santiago’s words that were important.
“You will paint her portrait,” he said.
****
That was the beginning.
Sittings were arranged for in the den just beyond the living room; north light made afternoon sessions ideal. Three times a week I came—first to sketch, then to fill in the background. Reversing the usual procedure, I reserved work on the actual portraiture until all of the other elements were resolved and completed. I wanted her flesh tones to subtly reflect the coloration of setting and costume. Only then would I concentrate on pose and expression, capturing the essence. But how to capture the sound of the soft voice, the elusive scent of perfume, the unconscious grace of movement, the totality of her sensual impact?
I must concede that Santiago, to his credit, proved cooperative. He never intruded upon the sittings, nor inquired as to their progress. I’d stipulated that neither he nor my subject inspect the work before completion; the canvas was covered during my absence. He did not disturb me with questions, and after the second week he flew off to the Middle East on business, loading tankers for a voyage.
While he poured oil across troubled waters, Louise and I were alone.
We were, of course, on a first-name basis now. And during our sessions we talked. She talked, rather; I concentrated on my work. But in order to raise portraiture beyond mere representationalism the artist must come to know his subject, and so I encouraged such conversation in order to listen and learn.
Inevitably, under such circumstances, a certain confidential relationship evolves. The exchange, if tape-recorded, might very well be mistaken for words spoken in psychiatric therapy or uttered within the confines of the confessional booth.
But what Louise said was not recorded. And while I was an artist, exulting in the realization that I was working to the fullest extent of my powers, I was neither psychiatrist nor priest. I listened, but did not judge.
What I heard was ordinary enough. She was not María Cayetano, Duchess of Alba, any more than I was Francisco José de Goya y Lucientes.
I’d already guessed something of her background, and my surmise proved correct. Hers was the usual story of the unusually attractive girl from a poor family. Cinderella at the high-school prom, graduating at the stroke of midnight to find herself right back in the kitchen. Then the frantic effort to escape—runner-up in a beauty contest, failed fashion model, actress ambitions discouraged by the cattle-calls where she found herself to be merely one of a dozen duplicates. Of course there were many who volunteered their help as agents, business managers, or outright pimps; all of them expected servicing for their services. To her credit, Louise was too street-smart to comply. She still had hopes of finding her Prince. Instead, she met the Minotaur.
One night she was escorted to an affair where she could meet “important people.” One of them proved to be Carlos Santiago, and before the evening ended he’d made his intentions clear.
Louise had the sense to reject the obvious, and when he attempted to force the issue she raked his face with her nails. Apparently the impression she made was more than merely physical, and next day the flowers began to arrive. Once he progressed to earrings and bracelets, the ring was not far behind.
So Cinderella married the Minotaur, only to find life in the labyrinth not to her liking. The bull, it seemed, did a great deal of bellowing, but in truth he was merely a steer.
All this, and a great deal more, gradually came out during our sessions together. And led, of course, to the expected conclusion. I put horns on the bull.
Justification? These things aren’t a question of morality. In any case, Louise had no scruples. She’d sold herself to the highest bidder and it proved a bad bargain; I neither condemned nor condoned her. Cinderella had wanted out of the kitchen and took the obvious steps to escape. She lacked the intellectual equipment to find another route, and in our society—despite the earnest disclaimers of Women’s Lib—Beauty usually ends up with the Beast. Sometimes it’s a young Beast with nothing to offer but a state of perpetual rut; more often it’s an aging Beast who provides status and security in return for occasional coupling. But even that had been denied Louise; her Beast was an old bull whose pawings and snortings she could no longer endure. Meeting me had intensified natural need; it was lust at first sight.
As for me, I soon realized that behind the flawless façade of face and form there was only a vain and greedy child. She’d created Cinderella out of costume and coiffure and cosmetics; I’d perpetuated the pretense in pigment. It was not Cinderella who writhed and panted in my arms. But knowing this, knowing the truth, didn’t help me. I loved the scullery-maid.
Time was short, and we didn’t waste it in idle declarations or decisions about the future. Afternoons prolonged into evenings and we welcomed each night, celebrating its concealing presence.
Harsh daylight followed quickly enough. It was on December eighteenth, just a week before Christmas, that Carlos Santiago returned. And on the following afternoon Louise and I met for a final sitting in the sunlit den.
She watched very quietly as I applied last-minute touches to the portrait—a few highlights in the burnished halo of hair, a softening of feral fire in the emerald-flecked hazel eyes.
“Almost done?” she murmured.
“Almost.”
“Then it’s over.” Her pose remained rigid but her voice trembled.
I glanced quickly toward the doorway, my voice softening to a guarded whisper.
“Does he know?”
“Of course not.”
“The maid—”
“You always left after a sitting. She never suspected that you came back after she was gone for the night.”
“Then we’re safe.”
“Is that all you have to say?” Her voice began to rise and I gestured quickly.
“Please—lower your head just a trifle—there, that’s it—”
I put down my brush and stepped back. Louise glanced up at me. “Can I look now?”
“Yes.”
She rose, moved to stand beside me. For a long moment she stared without speaking, her eyes troubled.
“What’s the matter?” I said. “Don’t you like it?”
“Oh yes—it’s wonderful—”
“Then why so sad?”
“Because it’s finished.”
“All things come to an end,” I said.
“Must they?” she murmured. “Must they?”
“Mr. Brandon is right.”
Carlos Santiago stood in the doorway, nodding. “It has been finished for some time now,” he said.
I blinked. “How do you know?”
“It is the business of every man to know what goes on in his own house.”
“You mean you looked at the portrait?” Louise frowned. “But you gave Mr. Brandon your word—”
“My apologies.” Santiago smiled at me. “I could not rest until I satisfied myself as to just what you were doing.”
I forced myself to return his smile. “You are satisfied now?”
“Quite.” He glanced at the portrait. “A magnificent achievement. You seem to have captured my wife in her happiest mood. I wish it were within my power to bring such a smile to her face.”
Was there mockery in his voice, or just the echo of my own guilt?
“The portrait can’t be touched for several weeks now,” I said. “The paint must dry. Then I’ll varnish it and we can select the proper frame.”
“Of course,” said Santiago. “But first things first.” He produced a check from his pocket and handed it to me. “Here you are. Paid in full.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you—”
“You will find me a thoughtful man.” He turned as the maid entered, carrying a tray which held a brandy decanter and globular glasses.
She set it down and withdrew. Santiago poured three drinks. “As you see, I anticipated this moment.” He extended glasses to Louise and myself, then raised his own. “A toast to you, Mr. Brandon. I appreciate your great talent, and your even greater wisdom.”
“Wisdom?” Louise gave him a puzzled glance.
“Exactly.” He nodded. “I have no schooling in art, but I do know that a project such as this can be dangerous.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There is always the temptation to go on, to overdo. But Mr. Brandon knows when to stop. He has demonstrated, shall we say, the artistic conscience. Let us drink to his decision.”
Santiago sipped his brandy. Louise took a token swallow and I followed suit. Again I wondered how much he knew.
“You do not know just what this moment means to me,” he said. “To stand here in this house, with this portrait of the one I love—it is the dream of a poor boy come true.”
“But you weren’t always poor,” Louise said. “You told me yourself that your father was a wealthy man.”
“So he was.” Santiago paused to drink again. “I passed my childhood in luxury; I lacked for nothing until my father died. But then my older brother inherited the estancia and I left home to make my own way in the world. Perhaps it is just as well, for there is much in the past which does not bear looking into. But I have heard stories.” He smiled at me. “There is one in particular which may interest you,” he said.
“Several years after I left, my brother’s wife died in childbirth. Naturally he married again, but no one anticipated his choice. A nobody, a girl without breeding or background, but one imagines her youth and beauty enticed him.”
Did his sidelong glance at Louise hold a meaning or was that just my imagination? Now his eyes were fixed on me again.
“Unlike his first wife, his new bride did not conceive, and it troubled him. To make certain he was not at fault, during this period he fathered several children by various serving-maids at the estancia. But my brother did not reproach his wife for her defects; instead he summoned a physician. His examination was inconclusive, but during its course he made another discovery—my brother’s wife had the symptoms of an obscure eye condition, a malady which might some day bring blindness.
“The physician advised immediate surgery, but she was afraid the operation itself could blind her. So great was this fear that she made my brother swear a solemn oath upon the Blessed Virgin that, no matter what happened, no one would be allowed to touch her eyes.”
“Poor woman!” Louise repressed a shudder. “What happened?”
“Naturally, after learning of her condition, my brother abstained from the further exercise of his conjugal rights. According to the physician it was still possible she might conceive, and if so perhaps her malady might be transmitted to the child. Since my brother had no wish to bring suffering into the world he turned elsewhere for his pleasures. Never once did he complain of the inconvenience she caused him in this regard. His was the patience of a saint. One would expect her to be grateful for his thoughtfulness, but it is the nature of women to lack true understanding.”
Santiago took another swallow of his drink. “To his horror, my brother discovered that his wife had taken a lover. A young boy who worked as a gardener at the estancia. The betrayal took place while he was away; he now spent much time in Buenos Aires, where he had business affairs and the consolation of a sympathetic and understanding mistress.
“When the scandal was reported to him he at first refused to believe, but within weeks the evidence was unmistakable. His wife was pregnant.”
“He divorced her?” Louise murmured.
Santiago shrugged. “Impossible. My brother was a religious man. But there was a need to deal with the gossip, the sly winks, the laughter behind his back. His reputation, his very honor, was at stake.”
I took advantage of his pause to jump in. “Let me finish the story for you,” I said. “ Knowing his wife’s fear of blindness, he insisted on the operation and bribed the surgeon to destroy her eyesight.”
Santiago shook his head. “You forgot—he had sworn to the pobrecita that her eyes would not be touched.”
“What did he do?” Louise said.
“He sewed up her eyelids.” Santiago nodded. “Never once did he touch the eyes themselves. He sewed her eyelids shut with catgut and banished her to a guesthouse with a servingwoman to attend her every need.”
“Horrible!” Louise whispered.
“I am sure she suffered,” Santiago said. “But mercifully, not for long. One night a fire broke out in the bedroom of the guesthouse while the servingwoman was away. No one knows how it started—perhaps my brother’s wife knocked over a candle. Unfortunately the door was locked and the servingwoman had the only key. A great tragedy.”
I couldn’t look at Louise, but I had to face him. “And her lover?” I asked.
“He ran for his life, into the pampas. It was there that my brother tracked him down with the dogs and administered a suitable punishment.”
“What sort of punishment would that be?”
Santiago raised his glass. “The young man was stripped and tied to a tree. His genitals were smeared with wild honey. You have heard of the fire ants, amigo? They swarmed in this area—and they will devour anything which bears even the scent of honey.”
Louise made a strangled sound in her throat, then turned and ran from the room.
Santiago gulped the rest of his drink. “It would seem I have upset her,” he said. “This was not my intention—”
“Just what was your intention?” I met the bull-man’s gaze. “Your story doesn’t upset me. This is not the jungle. And you are not your brother.”
Santiago smiled. “I have no brother,” he said.
****
I drove through dusk. Lights winked on along Hollywood Boulevard from the Christmas decorations festooning lampposts and arching overhead. Glare and glow could not completely conceal the shabbiness of sleazy storefronts or blot out the shadows moving past them. Twilight beckoned those shadows from their hiding places; no holiday halted the perpetual parade of pimps and pushers, chickenhawks and hookers, winos and heads. Christmas was coming, but the blaring of tape-deck carols held little promise for such as these, and none for me.
Stonewalling it with Santiago had settled nothing. The truth was that I’d made a little token gesture of defiance, then ran off to let Louise face the music.
It hadn’t been a pretty tune he’d played for the two of us, and now that she was alone with him he’d be free to orchestrate his fury. Was he really suspicious? How much did he actually know? And what would he do?
For a moment I was prompted to turn and go back. But what then? Would I hold Santiago at bay with a tire iron while Louise packed her things? Suppose she didn’t want to leave with me? Did I really love her enough to force the issue?
I kept to my course but the questions pursued me as I headed home.
The phone was ringing as I entered the apartment. My hand wasn’t steady as I lifted the receiver and my voice wasn’t steady either.
“Yes?”
“Darling, I’ve been trying to reach you—”
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing’s the matter. He’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Please—I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. But hurry—” I hurried.
And after I parked my car in the empty driveway, after we’d clung to one another in the darkened hall, after we settled on the sofa before the fireplace, Louise dropped her bombshell.
“I’m getting a divorce,” she said.
“Divorce…?”
“When you left he came to my room. He said he wanted to apologize for upsetting me, but that wasn’t the real reason. What he really wanted to do was tell me how he’d scared you off with that story he’d made up.”
“And you believed him?”
“Of course not, darling! I told him he was a liar. I told him you had nothing to be afraid of, and he had no right to humiliate me. I said I was fed up listening to his sick raving, and I was moving out. That wiped the grin off his face in a hurry. You should have seen him—he looked like he’d been hit with a club!”
I didn’t say anything, because I hadn’t seen him. But I was seeing Louise now. Not the ethereal Cinderella of the portrait, and not the scullery-maid—this was another woman entirely; hot-eyed, harsh-voiced, implacable in her fury.
Santiago must have seen as much, and more. He blustered, he protested, but in the end he pleaded. And when he tried to embrace her, things came full circle again. Once more she raked his face with her nails, but this time in final farewell. And it was he who left, stunned and shaken, without even stopping to pack a bag.
“He actually agreed to a divorce?” I said.
Louise shrugged. “Oh, he told me he was going to fight it, but that’s just talk. I warned him that if he tried to stop me in court I’d let it all hang out—the jealousy, the drinking, everything. I’d even testify about how he couldn’t get it up.” She laughed. “Don’t worry, I know Carlos. That’s one kind of publicity he’d do anything to avoid.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care.” The hot eyes blazed, the harsh voice sounded huskily in my ear. “You’re here,” she whispered.
And as her mouth met mine, I felt the fury.
****
I left before the maid arrived in the morning, just as I’d always done, even though Louise wanted me to stay.
“Don’t you understand?” I said. “If you want an uncontested divorce, you can’t afford to have me here.”
Dirk Otjens recommended an attorney named Bernie Prager; she went to him and he agreed. He warned Louise not to be seen privately or in public with another man unless there was a third party present.
Louise reported to me by phone. “I don’t think I can stand it, darling —not seeing you—”
“Do you still have the maid?”
“Josefina? She comes in every day, as usual.”
“Then so can I. As long as she’s there we have no problem. I’ll justshow up to put a few more finishing touches on the portrait in the afternoons.”
“And in the evenings—”
“That’s when we can blow the whole deal,” I said. “Santiago has probably hired somebody to check on you.”
“No way.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Prager’s nobody’s fool. He’s used to handling messy divorce cases and he knows it’s money in his pocket if he gets a good settlement.” Louise laughed. “Turns out he’s got private investigators on his own payroll. So Carlos is the one being tailed.”
“Where is your husband?”
“He moved into the Sepulveda Athletic Club last night, went to his office today—business as usual.”
“Suppose he hired a private eye by phone?”
“The office lines and the one in his room are already bugged. I told you, Prager’s nobody’s fool.”
“Sounds like an expensive operation.”
“Who cares? Darling, don’t you understand? Carlos has money coming out of his ears. And we’re going to squeeze out more. When this is over, I’ll be set for life. We’ll both be set for life.” She laughed again.
I didn’t share her amusement. Granted, Carlos Santiago wasn’t exactly Mr. Nice. Maybe he deserved to be cuckolded, deserved to lose Louise. But was she really justified in taking him for a bundle under false pretenses?
And was I any better if I stood still for it? I thought about what would happen after the divorce settlement was made. No more painting, no more hustling for commissions. I could see myself with Louise, sharing the sweet life, the big house, big cars, travel, leisure, luxuries. And yet, as I sketched a mental portrait of my future, my artist’s eye noted a shadow. The shadow of one of those pimps prowling Hollywood Boulevard.
It wasn’t a pretty picture.
But when I arrived in the afternoon sunshine of Louise’s living room, the shadow vanished in the glow of her gaiety.
“Wonderful news, darling!” she greeted me. “Carlos is gone.”
“You already told me—”
She shook her head. “I mean really gone,” she said. “Prager’s people just came through with a report. He phoned in for reservations on the noon flight to New Orleans. One of his tankers is arriving there and he’s going to supervise unloading operations. He won’t be back until after the holidays.”
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“Prager sent a man to LAX. He saw Carlos take off. And all his calls are being referred to the company office in New Orleans.”
She hugged me. “Isn’t that marvelous? Now we can spend Christmas together.” Her eyes and voice softened. “That’s what I’ve missed the most. A real old-fashioned Christmas, with a tree and everything.”
“But didn’t you and Carlos—”
Louise shook her head. “Something always came up at the last minute—like this New Orleans trip. If we hadn’t split, I’d be on that plane with him right now.
“Did you ever celebrate Christmas in Kuwait? That’s where we were last year, eating lamb curry with some greasy port official. Carlos promised, no more holiday business trips, this year we’d stay home and have a regular Christmas together. You see how he kept his word.”
“Be reasonable,” I said. “Under the circumstances what do you expect?”
“Even if this hadn’t happened, it wouldn’t change anything.” Once again her eyes smoldered and her voice harshened. “He’d still go and drag me with him, just to show off in front of his business friends. ‘Look what I’ve got—hot stuff, isn’t she? See how I dress her, cover her with fancy jewelry?’ Oh yes, nothing’s too good for Carlos Santiago—he always buys the best!”
Suddenly the hot eyes brimmed and the strident voice dissolved into a soft sobbing.
I held her very close. “Come on,” I said. “Fix your face and get your things.”
“Where are we going?”
“Shopping. For ornaments—and the biggest damned Christmas tree in town.”
****
If you’ve ever gone Christmas shopping with a child, perhaps you can understand what the next few days were like. We picked up our ornaments in the big stores along Wilshire; like Hollywood Boulevard, this street too was alive with holiday decorations and the sound of Yuletide carols. But there was nothing tawdry behind the tinsel, nothing mechanical about the music, no shadows to blur the sparkle in Louise’s eyes. To her this make-believe was reality; each day she became a kid again, eager and expectant.
Nights found her eager and expectant too, but no longer a child. The contrast was exciting, and each mood held its special treasures. All but one.
It came upon her late in the afternoon of the twenty-third, when the tree arrived. The deliveryman set it up on a stand in the den and after he left we gazed at it together in the gathering twilight.
All at once she was shivering in my arms.
“What’s the matter?” I murmured.
“I don’t know. Something’s wrong—it feels like there’s someone watching us.”
“Of course.” I gestured toward the easel in the corner. “It’s your portrait.”
“No, not that.” She glanced up at me. “Darling, I’m scared. Suppose Carlos comes back?”
“I phoned Prager an hour ago. He has transcripts of all your husband’s calls up until noon today. Carlos phoned his secretary from New Orleans and said he’ll be there through the twenty-seventh.”
“Suppose he comes back without notifying the office?”
“If he does he’ll be spotted—Prager’s keeping the airport staked out, just in case.” I kissed her. “Now stop worrying. There’s no sense being paranoid—”
“Paranoid.” I could feel her shivering again. “Carlos is the one who’s paranoid. Remember that horrible story he told us—”
“But it was only a story. He has no brother.”
“I think it’s true. He did those things.”
“That’s what he wanted us to think. It was a bluff, and it didn’t work. And we’re not going to let him spoil our holiday.”
“All right.” Louise nodded, brightening. “When do we decorate the tree?”
“Christmas Eve,” I said. “Tomorrow night.”
****
It was late the following morning when I left—almost noon—and already Josefina was getting ready to depart. She had some last-minute shopping to do, she said, for her family.
And so did I.
“When will you be back?” Louise asked.
“A few hours.”
“Take me with you.”
“I can’t—it’s a surprise.”
“Promise you’ll hurry then, darling.” Her eyes were radiant. “I can’t wait to trim the tree.”
“I’ll make it as soon as possible.”
But “soon” is a relative term and—when applied to parking and shopping on the day before Christmas—an unrealistic one.
I knew exactly what I was looking for, but it was close to closing-time in the little custom-jewelry place where I finally found it.
I’d never bought an engagement ring before and didn’t know if Louise would approve of my choice. The stone was marquise-cut but it looked tiny and insignificant in comparison with the diamonds Santiago had given her. Still, people are always saying it’s the sentiment that counts. I hoped she’d feel that way.
When I stepped out onto the street again it was already ablaze with lights and the sky above had dimmed from dusk to darkness. On the way to my car I found a phone booth and put in a call to Prager’s office.
There was no answer.
I might have anticipated his office would be closed—if there’d been a party, it was over now. Perhaps I could reach him at home after I got back to the house. On the other hand, why bother? If there’d been anything to report he’d have phoned Louise immediately.
The real problem right now was fighting my way back to the parking lot, jockeying the car out into the street, and then enduring the start-stop torture of the traffic.
Celestial choirs sounded from the speaker system overhead.
“Silent night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright—”
The honking of horns shattered silence with an unholy din; none of my fellow drivers were calm and I doubted if they were bright.
But eventually I battled my way onto Beverly Drive, crawling toward Coldwater Canyon. Here traffic was once again bumper-to-bumper; the hands of my watch inched to seven-thirty. I should have called Louise from that phone booth while I was at it and told her not to worry. Too late now; no public phones in this residential area. Besides, I’d be home soon.
Home.
As I edged into the turnoff which led up through the hillside, the word echoed strangely. This was my home now, or soon would be. Our home, that is. Our home, our cars, our money, Louise’s and mine—
Nothing is yours. It’s his home, his money, his wife. You’re a thief. Stealing his honor, his very life—
I shook my head. Crazy. That’s the way Santiago would talk. He’s the crazy one.
I thought about the expression on the bull-man’s face as he’d told me the story of his brother’s betrayal and revenge. Was he really talking about himself? If so, he had to be insane.
And even if it was just a fantasy, its twisted logic only emphasized a madman’s cunning. Swearing not to blind a woman by touching her eyes, and then sewing her eyelids shut—a mind capable of such invention was capable of anything.
Suddenly my foot was flooring the gas pedal; the car leaped forward, careening around the rising curves. I wrenched at the wheel with hands streaked by sweat, hurtling up the hillside past the big homes with their outdoor decorations and the tree-lights winking from the windows.
There were no lights at all in the house at the crest of the hill—but when I saw the Ferrari parked in the driveway, I knew.
I jammed to a stop behind it and ran to the front door. Louise had given me a duplicate house key and I twisted it in the lock with a shaking hand.
The door swung open on darkness. I moved down the hall toward the archway at my left.
“Louise!” I called. “Louise—where are you?”
Silence.
Or almost silence.
As I entered the living room I heard the sound of heavy breathing coming from the direction of the big chair near the fireplace.
My hand moved to the light switch.
“Don’t turn it on.”
The voice was slurred, but I recognized it.
“Santiago—what are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you, amigo.”
“But I thought—”
“That I was gone? So did Louise.” A chuckle rasped through the darkness.
I took a step forward, and now I could smell the reek of liquor as the slurred whisper sounded again.
“You see, I know about the bugging of the phones and the surveillance. So when I returned this morning I took a different route, with a connecting flight from Denver. No one at the airport would be watching arrivals from that city. I meant to surprise Louise—but it was she who surprised me.”
“When did you get here?” I said.
“After the maid had left. Our privacy was not interrupted.”
“What did Louise tell you?”
“The truth, amigo. Ihad suspected, of course, but I could not be sure until she admitted it. No matter, for our differences are resolved.”
“Where is Louise? Tell me—”
“Of course. I will be frank with you, as she was with me. She told me everything—how much she loved you, what you planned to do together, even her foolish wish to decorate the tree in the den. Her pleading would have melted a heart of stone, amigo. I found it impossible to resist.”
“If you’ve harmed her—”
“I granted her wish. She is in the den now.” Santiago chuckled again, his voice trailing off into a spasm of coughing.
But I was already groping my way to the door of the den, flinging it open.
The light from the tree-bulbs was dim, barely enough for me to avoid stumbling over the machete on the floor. Quickly I looked up at the easel in the corner, half-expecting to see the painting slashed. But Louise’s portrait was untouched.
I forced myself to gaze down at the floor again, dreading what I might see, then breathed a sigh of relief. There was nothing on the floor but the machete.
Stooping, I picked it up, and now I noticed the stains on the rusty blade—the red stains slowly oozing in tiny droplets to the floor.
For a moment I fancied I could actually hear them fall, then realized they were too minute and too few to account for the steady dripping sound that came from—
It was then that Santiago must have shot himself in the other room, but it was not the sudden sound which prompted my scream.
I stared at the Christmas tree, at the twinkling lights twining gaily across its huge boughs, and at the oddly shaped ornaments draped and affixed to its spiky branches. Stared, and screamed, because the madman had told the truth.
Louise was decorating the Christmas tree.
THE END
