Wilde Prescott distrusted his wife and thought she was cheating on him.
I was hired to surveille her and tracked her to a mansion where she was meeting with a man.
The problem was, I couldn't hear their conversation.
I tried video surveillance, telephoto lenses—but all to no avail.
Finally, I employed a hand-held parabolic mike, just so I could hear what was going on inside.
I felt like a real heel—Arabella Prescott was a beautiful redhead and very classy—she reminded me of Stephanie Powers from the old Hart to Hart TV series.
The more I saw of her, the more I became infatuated—talk about loving someone from afar!
I saw a movement behind the curtains of the downstairs living room. I pointed the dish at the leaded windows.
“Oh, he’s a professor, all right Richard—he 'professes' to love me.”
There’s shuffling and the sounds of teacups clinking. I hear Arabella’s voice again.
“Always quoting Lord Chesterfield—‘you know, Arabella,’ he’d say, ‘a woman is simply a child of a larger growth’—stuff like that.”
An older man’s voice cut in.
“Lord Chesterfield—that tedious old fart? Whatever is Wilde thinking? The man’s totally perverse.”
“Then he told me romance is a fairy tale—‘it’s just deceiving yourself,’ he said to me.”
As I listened to poor Arabella’s complaints, my antipathy toward Wilde Prescott began to mount.
The male voice continued:
“It’s what I told you the other day, Bella—In his eyes, the faithless man is a rake—the unfaithful wife a whore.”
I heard what sounded like a book slamming angrily and her inarticulate cry, Arghh!
She took a moment to calm down:
“He’d be jealous if he knew I was talking to you—he’s jealous of any man. He always thinks I’m cheating on him.”
“Ho, ho—that’s a joke—when it’s he who’s cheating on you—that lecher, that profligate, that womanizer! I did some checking on him, Dear Heart—on the father’s side the name is Prescott, but the mother’s maiden name is Rakehell.”
“I don’t get what you're saying, Richard.”
“The point is dearest, he comes from a long line of roués—it’s in his blood.”
At this point, I was frustrated, only hearing a conversation.
I put down the microphone, got out of the car and stole onto the grounds, hoping to creep closer to the window.
I managed to find a vantage point where I could see into the room through a small part in the drapes.
I was angling for the best view when I was startled by a voice behind me.
“May I ask what you’re doing?”
I turned and looked directly into Arabella’s huge green eyes. She was even more beautiful in person than in her picture. Her spellbinding eyes and sudden appearance caused me to be tongue-tied.
“You’d best talk—I have your license plate number—and I will report you to the police.”
The game was up. I couldn’t remember a time when I felt so foolish and clumsy.
“Wilde sent you to follow me, didn’t he? Are you a private investigator?”
I colored, right up to the roots of my hair. There was nothing to do, but come clean.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Prescott—but yes, your husband did retain me.”
Tears formed in her eyes and she averted her gaze. I felt like a complete heel.
She seemed so vulnerable and so wounded that I found myself approaching her and comforting her.
“I didn’t want to take the job—you’re not like the other women I follow—I feel so bad.”
“You think I’m cheating on Wilde, don’t you?”
“I heard you speaking with a man.”
“Come in,” she said, and turned and walked back inside.
I meekly followed her in.
“You were right, Richard—Wilde sent a detective to follow me.”
“That ignorant fool!”
The older gentleman stopped in mid-sentence as he saw me.
“Oh, damn! This isn’t supposed to happen.”
“What isn’t?” I asked.
I turned to look at Arabella and she just gave a little shrug and pointed to the picture above the mantle piece—a portrait of the distinguished white haired man standing before me.
“You’re Richard Carson!” I gasped, “ but you’re supposed to be dead.”
The man stared at Arabella.
“Go ahead, tell him,” she said.
“I am dead, young man.”
I looked back to Arabella and she shook her head and smirked.
“What can I say? The old lover’s triangle—a husband, a wife and a ghost.”
“Yes, a veritable ménage a trois, I’m afraid,” The older man said, “with one partner unfortunately deceased.”
I felt I was going to faint. This was not the secret lover I suspected and Arabella was not the cheat her husband believed she was.
