Death Likes It Hot

  “Logical but not likely. Even allowing the rest was true, which it isn’t, why would she help me kill her brother?”

  I fired in the dark. “Because she was in love with you.”

  Brexton’s gaze flickered. He lowered his eyes. His hands closed tight on the book in his lap. “You go too far, Mr. Sargeant.”

  “I’m involved in this too,” I said, astonished at my luck: by accident I had hit on something no one apparently knew. “I’d like to know where we stand, that’s all.”

  “None of your business,” he snapped, suddenly flushed, his eyes dangerously bright. “Allie isn’t involved in any of this. There’ll be hell to pay if anybody tries to get her mixed up in it … that goes for the police who are just as liable to court action as anyone.”

  “For libel?”

  “For libel. This even goes for newspapermen, Mr. Sargeant.”

  “I had no intention of writing anything about it. But I may have to … I mean, if Greaves should start operating along those lines. He’s worried; the press is getting mean. He’s going to have to find somebody to indict in the next few days.”

  “He has somebody.”

  “You mean you?”

  “Yes. I don’t mind in the least. But there won’t be a conviction. I’ll promise you that.” He was grim.

  I couldn’t get him to elaborate; I tried another tack. “If neither you nor Allie killed Claypoole, that leaves only three suspects … Miss Lung, Mrs. Veering and Randan. Why would any of those three have wanted to kill Claypoole?”

  Brexton looked at me, amusement in his eyes. “I have no intention of giving the game away, even if I could, which is doubtful. I’m almost as much in the dark as you and the police. I’ll give you one lead though,” he lowered his voice. “Crime of passion.”

  “What do you mean?”

  With one quick gesture of his powerful right hand he indicated Miss Lung. “She was in love and she was spurned, as they say.”

  “In love with whom?”

  “Fletcher Claypoole, and for many years.”

  “I thought she was in love with the whole male sex.”

  “That too. But years ago when I first met her, about the same time Fletcher did, she was a good-looking woman. This is hard to believe, I know, but she was. All the fat came later when Fletcher wouldn’t have her. I painted her once, when she was thin … it was when I was still doing portraits. She was quite lovely in a pale blond way. I painted her nude.”

  I could hardly believe it. “If she was so pretty and so much in love with him why didn’t he fall for her?”

  “He … he just didn’t.” The pause was significant. I thought I knew what he didn’t want to say. “But she’s been in love with him ever since. I think they quarreled our first day here.”

  “About that?”

  “About something.”

  “I can’t see her committing murder fifteen years after being turned down.”

  “Your imagination is your own problem,” said Brexton. He got to his feet. “I’m going to bed,” and with a nod to the two on the couch, he left the drawing room.

  This was the cue for all of us. Randan asked me if I wanted to go to the Club with him. I said no, that I was tired. Miss Lung waited to be invited to the Club herself but, when the invitation did not come, she said she would have to get back to her auctorial labors … the readers of “Book-Chat” demanded her all.

  I went upstairs with her. On the second floor landing one of the plain-clothes men was seated, staring absently into space. Miss Lung bade us both good night cheerily and, with a long lingering look at the servant of the public, she oozed into her room, no doubt disappointed that his services did not include amatory dalliance with Mary Western Lung.

  I went to my own room and quickly shoved the bureau against the connecting door. Then I telephoned Liz, only to find she was out.

  I went over and looked out the window gloomily and thought of Liz, wondering whether or not I should join Randan, who was just that moment getting into his car, and make the round of the clubs. I decided not to. I had an idea there might be something doing in the next few hours, something I didn’t want to miss out on.

  Fully clothed, I lay down on my bed and turned the light out. I thought about what Brexton had told me, about what he hadn’t told me. Very neatly, he’d provided Miss Lung with a motive. Not so neatly, he’d allowed me to discover what would, no doubt, be an important piece of evidence for the prosecution: that Allie Claypoole and he were in love, that the two of them, as easily as not, could’ve killed her brother for any number of reasons, all ascertainable.

  III

  I wakened with a start.

  I had gone to sleep and not moved once which explained why my neck ached and my whole body felt as though I’d just finished a particularly tough set of calisthenics. I don’t know what awakened me. I won’t say premonition … on the other hand a stiff neck sounds prosaic.

  The first thing I did was to look at my watch, to see how long I’d slept: it was exactly midnight according to the luminous dial.

  I switched on the light beside my bed and sat up, more tired than when I’d dropped off to sleep.

  I had half expected a call from Liz. The fact I hadn’t received one bothered me a little. I found I was thinking altogether too much about her.

  Suddenly the thought of a stiff shot of brandy occurred to me, like a mirage to a dying man in the Gobi. I had to have one. It was just the thing to put me back to sleep.

  I opened the door and stepped out into the dimly lit hall. At the far end, the plain-clothes man sat, staring dreamily at nothing. He shook his head vigorously when he saw me, just to show he was awake.

  “Just going to get something,” I said cheerfully.

  He grunted as I passed him. I went downstairs. The lights were still on in the drawing room. I remember this surprised me.

  I had just poured myself some brandy when Miss Lung, pale and flurried, arrayed in her pink awning, materialized in the doorway.

  “Where is the nurse? Have you seen the nurse?”

  “What nurse?” I looked at her stupidly.

  “The nurse who.…”

  “Someone looking for me?” A brisk female voice sounded from the main hall. Miss Lung turned as the nurse, white-clad and competent, appeared with a covered tray.

  “Yes, I was. A few minutes ago I went into Rose’s room to see how she was … I know that nobody’s allowed to do that but I just didn’t care. Anyway, she wasn’t in her bed. I rapped on Allie’s door and there wasn’t any answer there either and I was afraid.…”

  “I’m the night nurse,” said the white figure. “We change at midnight. I was in the kitchen getting a few things ready. As for Miss Claypoole she is under morphine and wouldn’t be able to hear you.…”

  “But Rose? Where on earth can she be?”

  “We’ll find out soon enough.” We made an odd procession going up those stairs. The angular angel of mercy, the billowy plump authoress of “Book-Chat,” and myself with a balloon glass of brandy in one hand.

  The guard stirred himself at the sight of this procession. “I told her she wasn’t supposed to go in there but.…”

  Miss Lung interrupted him curtly. “This is Mrs. Veering’s house, my good man, not the city jail.”

  We went into Mrs. Veering’s room first and found our hostess, handsome in black lace, sitting up in bed reading a detective story. She was dead sober for once and not at all like her usual self. She was precise, even formidable.

  “What on earth is everybody doing …” she began but Miss Lung didn’t let her finish.

  “Oh, Rose, thank heavens! I was terrified something had happened to you. I was in here a few minutes ago and you were nowhere in sight; then I rapped on Allie’s door.” She indicated the connecting door, “and there wasn’t any answer. I couldn’t’ve been more terrified!”

  “I was in the bathroom,” said Mrs. Veering, an unpleasant edge to her voice. “I’m perfectly all right,
Mary. Now do go to bed and we’ll have a nice chat tomorrow. I still feel shaky after my attack.”

  “Of course I will, Rose, but before I go you must …” while the two women were talking, the nurse had opened the connecting door and gone into Allie’s room. She had left the door half open and I maneuvered myself into a position where I could look in. I was curious to see how Allie looked.

  I saw all right.

  The nurse was already on the telephone. “Doctor? Come quickly. An injection. I don’t know what. I think she’ll need an ambulance.”

  Before the law intervened to keep us all out, I was at Allie’s bedside.

  She lay on her back, breathing heavily, her face gray and her hands twitching at the coverlet. The nurse was frantically examining a hypodermic needle.

  “What happened?”

  “Someone’s given her an injection.” The nurse managed to pump a last drop of fluid from the hypodermic on a piece of cotton. “It’s … oh God, it’s strychnine!”

  IV

  This time the questioning was general. There were no private trips to the alcove.

  Greaves joined us an hour to the dot after the ambulance took Allie to the hospital.

  Mrs. Veering was on hand, pale and hard-eyed, her own attack forgotten in the confusion. Miss Lung was near hysteria, laughing and giggling uncontrollably from time to time. Brexton was jittery. He sat biting his knuckles, his old faded dressing gown pulled up around his ears, as though to hide his face. Randan, who’d arrived during the confusion, sat with a bewildered look on his face while Greaves explained to us what had happened.

  “She’ll be all right,” were his first words. He paused to see how the company responded: relief in every face … yet one was acting. Which?

  Greaves went on, not looking at anyone in particular. “Somebody, at midnight exactly, got into Miss Claypoole’s room and attempted to give her an injection of strychnine. Luckily whoever did this did a sloppy job. Very little was introduced into the artery, which saved her life.” He pulled out a tablet of legal-size paper.

  “Now I’m going to ask each of you, in order, to describe where he or she was at midnight. Before I start, I should say for those who are newcomers to this house that on the second floor there are seven bedrooms, each with its own bath. The hall runs down the center of the floor with a window at either end. On the west side is the staircase and three bedrooms. On the north, farthest from the stairs, is Mr. Sargeant’s room. Next to him is Miss Lung. Next to her is an empty room and south of that of course is the stairs. Three bedrooms and a stairwell on the west side.” He paused a moment; then: “All contiguous bedrooms open into one another, by connecting doors in the rooms themselves … not through the bathrooms which do not connect.”

  “I can’t see what all this has to do with what’s happened,” said Mrs. Veering irritably.

  “It has a great deal … as I hope to show you in a few minutes.” Greaves made some marks none of us could see on the tablet. “Now, on the other side of the hall, the east side overlooking the ocean, there are four bedrooms. The north bedroom belongs to Mr. Randan. The next to Mrs. Veering. The next to Miss Claypoole and the last to Mr. Brexton. Both Mr. Brexton and Mrs. Veering are in bedrooms which have doors which open into Miss Claypoole’s room.”

  “The door in my room is locked,” said Brexton suddenly. His voice made us all start.

  “That’s correct,” said Greaves quietly. “It was locked this morning by me, from Miss Claypoole’s side of the door. The key was not in the lock, however.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Brexton’s voice was hard.

  “All in good time. And don’t interrupt, please. Now I hope you will all be absolutely honest. For your own safety.”

  There was a grave silence. Greaves turned to me. “Where were you at midnight?”

  “In bed, or maybe just waking up.”

  “Do you always sleep fully dressed?”

  “Not always. I just dozed off. I hadn’t intended to go to sleep but I did, probably around eleven or so.”

  “I see. And you say you woke up at twelve.”

  “That’s right. I looked at my watch. I was surprised I’d been asleep. I turned on the light and decided that a drink of brandy might be just the thing to get me back to sleep.”

  “And you went downstairs?”

  “As you know.” I was aware that, while I talked, Greaves was recording everything in shorthand; this was an unexpected talent. I described to him what had happened.

  He then turned to Miss Lung. “We’ll move from room to room, in order,” he said. “Yours is next. Where were you at midnight?”

  “I … I was in Rose’s … in Mrs. Veering’s room, looking for her.”

  “Are you sure it was midnight?”

  “No, not exactly but I guess it must’ve been because I was only in there a few minutes and I saw Mr. Sargeant right afterwards. I was terrified when I didn’t find her. Then, when I knocked on Allie’s door and got no answer, I knew something must be wrong; I rushed off to find the nurse. The policeman on duty saw me.”

  “Unfortunately, he didn’t see you go in. He did see you come out. He was standing on the top stair, it seems, talking to the nurse going off duty, his back to the hall when you went into Mrs. Veering’s room, at ten minutes to twelve.”

  “I … I was only in there a very few minutes.”

  “Yet the nurse went off duty at ten minutes to, or rather left Mrs. Veering’s room at that time to meet her relief who was arriving downstairs. She paused to chat with the man on duty. While this was happening, you went across the hall from your room to Mrs. Veering’s, isn’t that right?”

  “Well, yes. I did notice the policeman was talking to somebody on the stair. I couldn’t see who it was.…”

  “Miss Lung, did you try to open the door between the two rooms?” There was a tense silence. Miss Lung was white as a sheet. Brexton sat on the edge of his chair. Mrs. Veering’s eyes were shut, as though to blot out some terrible sight.

  “I …”

  “Miss Lung did you or did you not try to open that door?”

  The dam broke. The cord of silence snapped. Miss Lung wept a monsoon. In the midst of her blubberings, we learned that she had tried to open the door and that it was locked, from the other side.

  It took several minutes to quiet Miss Lung. When she was at last subdued, Greaves moved implacably on. “Mr. Randan, will you tell me where you were at midnight?”

  Reluctantly, Randan tore his gaze from the heaving mound which was Mary Western Lung. “I was in my room.”

  “What time did you come back to the house?”

  “I don’t know. Quarter to twelve or so. The night nurse and I arrived at the same time. We came in the house together. We both went upstairs; she met the other nurse who was on duty and I went to my room. I was just about to get undressed, when the commotion started.”

  “When were you aware of any commotion?”

  “Well, I thought something was up even before I heard anything definite. I heard Sargeant’s door open and close. It’s right opposite mine so I could tell he was up. Then I heard somebody stirring next door to me … it must’ve been Miss Lung. I didn’t pay much attention until I heard them all running up the stairs.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I went out in the hall and asked the man on duty what was happening. He said he didn’t know. Then you appeared and.…”

  “All right.” Greaves turned to Mrs. Veering. “And where were you at.…”

  “I was sitting on the toilet.” The crude reply was like an electric shock. Miss Lung giggled hysterically.

  “You were there from ten minutes to twelve until twelve o’clock?”

  “I don’t carry a stop watch, Mr. Greaves. I was there until I finished and then I went back to bed. The next thing I knew, three maniacs were in my room.” This was a fairly apt description of our invasion.

  “Did you see or hear anything unusual during those ten minutes
?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Evidently Greaves hadn’t been prepared for such prompt negatives. He started to ask her another question; then he decided not to. She was looking dangerously angry. I wondered why.

  Greaves turned to Brexton and put the same question to him he had to the rest of us.

  “At twelve o’clock I was sound asleep.”

  “What time did you go to bed?”

  “I don’t know. Eleven … something like that.”

  “You heard nothing unusual from the next room, from Miss Claypoole’s room?”

  “Nothing in particular.”

  “Then what in general?”

  “Well … moving around, that’s about all. That’s before I went to sleep.”

  “And when you awakened?”

  “It was around midnight: I thought I heard something.”

  “Something like people running? or shutting doors?”

  “No, it was a groan … or maybe just my imagination or maybe even the noise of the surf. I don’t know. It’s what awakened me though. Then of course everybody started to rush around and I got up.”

  “This sound that you heard, where did it come from?”

  “From Allie’s room. I thought it was her voice too. I think now maybe it was.”

  “What did you do when you heard it?”

  “I … well, I sat up. You see there was only a few seconds interval between that and everyone coming upstairs.”

  Greaves nodded; his face expressionless. “That’s very interesting, Mr. Brexton. You didn’t by any chance try to open the door did you? the door between your room and Miss Claypoole’s?”

  “No, I knew it was locked.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Well, I … I tried it some time ago … the way you do with doors.”

  “The way you do, Mr. Brexton.”

  “It’s a perfectly natural thing to do.” Brexton flushed.

  “I’m sure, especially under the circumstances.” Greaves reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief which he unwrapped. It contained a key which he was careful not to touch. “What is this, Mr. Brexton?”