Death Likes It Hot

  “Sitting in the dark mostly, with Allie, on the porch.”

  “Did either of you leave the porch at that time, while the lights were out?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact both of us did, for short periods. I went to see the man on duty about the lights but I couldn’t find him. I guess he was hunting for the fuse box. Then I came back and Allie and I talked for a while. She left the room to get a book she’d brought me but forgotten to give me, an art book.…”

  “All this in the dark?”

  “There was a lot of moonlight. You could see perfectly well. She got the book from her room. We talked for a bit and then went to bed. The rest you know.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Mildred mostly.”

  “You didn’t talk about the possibility of marriage, did you? I mean between you and Allie.”

  “That’s nobody’s business,” said Brexton sharply.

  “I’m sorry.” I shifted ground. “What do you know about Mrs. Veering’s tax problems?”

  He gave me a slow, amused smile. “You know about that?”

  “Not much … just gossip. I gather she’s being stuck for a great deal.”

  “Quite a bit.” Brexton nodded. “Over a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Can she pay it?”

  “I suppose so, but it’ll wreck her income.”

  “How does she happen to have to pay all that?”

  “Well, the Veerings have a foundry out West. It does well enough and her interest in it pays her a large income. Her late husband’s brother runs the business and looks after everything. Rose has got a good business head herself. She started out as a secretary to old man Veering, the president of the company. He married her, died and left her his share. Now it seems that recently the brother pulled some fast business deals … mergers, that kind of thing. I’m not much on business … I do know it had something to do with a capital gains tax which really wasn’t, if you follow me. The government found out and now Rose and the brother both have to cough up a hundred thousand cash.…”

  “And Mrs. Veering hasn’t got it?”

  “Not without selling most of her interest in the foundry.”

  “Then you’d say she was in a tough spot?”

  “Yes, I’d say she was in a very tough spot.” Brexton spoke slowly, his eyes on the green branch which softly scraped the bars of the window.

  I played my hunch. “Was your wife a wealthy woman, Mr. Brexton?”

  He knew what I was up to but he gave no sign; he only looked at me without expression. “Yes, she was.”

  “She was wealthy on her own … not through Mrs. Veering? not through her aunt?”

  “That’s right. My wife’s money came from the other side of her family.”

  “Did Mrs. Veering try to borrow money from your wife?”

  Brexton stirred restlessly on the bunk; his hands clasped and unclasped. “Did Allie tell you this?”

  “No, I’m just playing a long shot.”

  “Yes, Rose tried to get Mildred to help her out of this tax settlement. Mildred refused.”

  Neither of us said anything for a moment; then: “Why did your wife refuse?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose it was too much money, even for her. They had a terrible scene the night before she was drowned. I guess you heard the screams. Both had awful tempers. Mildred attacked Rose with my palette knife (by the way, I never saw it again after that night … until it was found beside Fletcher’s body). I broke it up and calmed Mildred down.”

  “I should’ve thought it would have been the other way around: Mrs. Veering should have been the hysterical one, for having been turned down.”

  “They both were. They were a good deal alike, you know: mean-tempered, unbalanced. Mildred wanted to leave the house right then but I talked her out of it; by the next morning she was all right again.”

  “Do you think that was why your wife was invited … you were both invited for the week end … to help Mrs. Veering?”

  Brexton nodded. “I know it. I think that’s why Mildred got so angry. She knew Rose was getting tired of her behavior. Rose had dropped us flat for almost a year. Then, when this invitation came, Mildred was really kind of bucked up; she always regarded Rose as the social arbiter of the family and it hurt her when Rose wouldn’t see us any more. But then when she found out after dinner that first night that we’d only been asked down because Rose needed money, she blew up. I’m afraid I didn’t altogether blame her.”

  “Do you think your wife, under ordinary circumstances, would have let her have the money?”

  Brexton shrugged. “She might have. It was an awful lot though. But then I never did know how much money Mildred had. She always paid her bills and I paid mine. That was part of our marriage agreement.”

  “You had a written agreement?”

  “No, just an understood one. Mildred was a good wife for me … strange as that may seem to anybody who only knew her during this last year.”

  I shifted to the legal aspects of the situation. “What line do you think the prosecution will take?”

  “I’m not sure. Something wild, I think. My lawyers are pretty confident but then, considering what I’m paying them, they ought to be.” He chuckled. “They should be able to buy all the evidence they need. But, seriously, they can’t figure what Greaves has got on his mind. We thought Allie’s testimony would convince even the District Attorney’s office. Instead, they went right ahead and called the Special Court for Friday and stuck me in here.”

  “I suppose they’re going chiefly on motive; you killed your wife because you didn’t like her and wanted her money … maybe they’ll prove you wanted to marry Allie which would explain why she gave you an alibi.”

  “Except why should I want to kill her brother? the one person she was really devoted to?”

  “I think they’ll just pick a motive out of the air … whatever fits … and use the presence of your knife beside the corpse as primary evidence.”

  “Thin,” said Brexton, shaking his head.

  “Fortunately, the prosecution doesn’t know about the quarrel you had with Claypoole after your wife drowned. They probably know what we all know … that he cursed you when she died … but they don’t know about the fight you had in your room, the one I heard while sitting on the porch.”

  Brexton’s self-control was admirable. He showed no surprise, only interest. “You heard that?”

  “Most of it, yes. Claypoole blamed you for killing your wife. Not directly … at least I don’t think that’s how he meant it. I couldn’t be sure. The impression I got was that he was holding you responsible, in some way, and that he was going to expose you.”

  “Well, that was about it.” Brexton’s tone could not have been more neutral, less informative.

  “I haven’t any intention of telling the District Attorney this.”

  “That’s very nice of you.”

  “But I’d like to know what it meant … that conversation. What you meant when you said you’d tell everything too.”

  Brexton paused thoughtfully before answering; his quick, shrewd painter’s eyes studying me as though I were a model whose quality he was trying to fix exactly with a line. Then he said: “There’s not much to tell. Mildred hounded Fletcher for the last few years, trying to get him to marry her. He wasn’t interested though he’d been in love with her before she married me. Then, during the last year, he began to change. I think I know why. He started to see her. They took a trip to Bermuda together under assumed names. I found out … people always do. I gave Mildred hell, just on general principles. She promptly had a nervous breakdown; afterwards, she asked me for a divorce and I said not yet. I guess that was a mistake on my part. I wasn’t in love with Mildred but I liked her and I was used to her and I suspected Claypoole was interested in her only on account of her money. Allie had told me how their income had begun to shrink these last few years, like everybody else’s. I think Fletcher decided the time had co
me to get himself a rich wife. He was furious with me for standing in his way. Then, when Mildred drowned, he was positive I had something to do with it, to keep her money for myself, to keep her from marrying him. That’s all there was to it. He blew up and threatened to accuse me of murder.… I have a hunch he did, before he died, and I think that’s what Greaves is counting on to get me indicted.… Fletcher’s accusation of me before he himself was murdered.”

  Now it was making sense. “One other thing: what did you mean when you told him you’d drag Allie into the case if he accused you?”

  Brexton actually blushed. “Did I say that? I must’ve been near the breaking point. I’d never have done a thing like that.… I was just threatening, trying to warn him off.”

  “In what way could she have been brought into the case?”

  “She couldn’t, ever; what I said had to do … well, with other things, with her and me and her brother. I was only threatening: it was the worst thing I could think to say to him. Funny, I’d even forgotten I’d said it, until you mentioned it.”

  I was now fairly sure of the line the District Attorney would take. This was a help.

  Then the jailer appeared, a fat policeman who waggled some keys and told me my time was up.

  “Good luck,” I said as we parted.

  Brexton chuckled. “I’ll need it.” He picked up his sketch pad again. “I think you’re moving in the right direction, Mr. Sargeant.” But the policeman had me out of the cell block before I could ask him what he meant.

  It was sundown when I got back to the house and parked Randan’s car in the drive. It was pleasant not to be observed by policemen. They were all gone. Only Miss Lung, Mrs. Veering, Randan and myself were in the house, not counting servants.

  I found Randan alone in the drawing room, writing furiously in a notebook, a highball beside him.

  “Oh, hello.” He looked up briefly to make sure I wasn’t all broken up from an automobile accident. “Car all right?”

  “Car’s fine … ran over a small child but you’ll be able to square it with the parents: they seemed a broad-minded, modern couple.” I fixed myself a martini.

  “I’m writing up the case,” said Randan, dotting a period firmly and shutting the notebook. “Going to do a serious piece on it.”

  I changed the subject. “Where are the beautiful ladies?”

  “Making themselves more beautiful. Dinner’s early tonight, in half an hour. Oh, your friend Liz called and asked me to ask you to join her at the party they’re giving Alma Edderdale in Southampton tonight. I said I’d drive you down.…”

  “And got yourself invited too?”

  Randan looked pained by my bad taste. “I was only trying to be helpful.”

  “I’m sure of that. By the way, I saw Brexton this afternoon.”

  “In jail? I didn’t know they’d let anybody in.”

  “I have influence. Did you try to see him too?”

  Randan nodded. “Yes, I wanted to check on something. I’m beginning to get a little doubtful about the case,” he added importantly.

  “Doubtful? I thought you agreed with Greaves that Brexton.…”

  “I’m not so sure now. I … well, I overheard something this afternoon, here in the house. I don’t like to appear to be an eavesdropper but.…”

  “But you listened to a conversation not meant for your ears. Perfectly common human trait … after all, what is history but a form of eavesdropping?” Fortunately, this was a rhetorical question. Randan ignored it.

  “I heard Mrs. Veering talking to a lawyer.”

  “To Brexton’s lawyer?”

  “Yes … but they weren’t talking about the murders. They were talking about a will, about Mrs. Brexton’s will. It seems she left half her estate to her aunt, to Mrs. Veering. The other half she left to Claypoole. Her husband didn’t get anything. Seems he even agreed to the will beforehand. Now what I was wondering.…”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I

  DINNER was a forced affair. Luckily, Miss Lung was in an ebullient mood and kept us in stitches with her “book-chat.” I tried not to look at Mrs. Veering who had decided to have just a touch of Dubonnet against doctor’s orders. She was so well lit by the time coffee was served that Randan and I were able to slip away without much explanation to anyone, except Miss Lung who was roguish.

  It took almost half an hour to get from Easthampton to Southampton.

  The moon was down and the night sky was partly obscured by clouds moving in from the north.

  We didn’t talk much, both occupied with our thoughts. At one point Randan tried to pump me about the tax case but I wasn’t giving him any of my cherished leads. This was one story I intended to have all to myself.

  It was just as we were getting out of the car in front of the mansion on Gin Lane where the party was being held, that Randan said: “I guess we both knew who did it.”

  I nodded. “We should’ve figured it out sooner. There were enough loose ends left flapping.”

  “I thought it was skillfully done.” He switched off the ignition. “When did you catch on?”

  “With Alma Edderdale yesterday. She let the cat out of the bag, talking about Rose’s tax problems.”

  Randan nodded. “It ties in. You going to tell Greaves? before the Special Court?”

  I shook my head. “No, I’ll try and work it out for the Globe first. Then, when I think I’ve got it plotted just right, I’ll talk to Greaves … that way I’ll be sure to have the story before anybody.”

  We went to the party. I was feeling just fine, walking on clouds of fatuity.

  The ballroom (it was, so help me, a ballroom) was a vast affair with parquet floors and huge pots of ferns and three chandeliers and a gallery where musicians played soft music. Everybody, as they say, was there.

  I paid my respects to Lady Edderdale who stood with a bewildered expression beside her host, a man who had made his millions mysteriously in World War II … no doubt stealing tires and selling them to the black market.

  “Ah, yes, Mr.…” she sighed as we shook hands, my name forgotten. “I have such an awful time with names but I never forget a face. When did you leave London?”

  I got away as soon as I could and went through the milling throng to a dining room where a buffet, complete with four chefs, had been prepared and here, as I expected, was my light of love, gorging herself on smoked turkey and surrounded by a circle of plump, bald, dimpled bachelors.

  “Peter! You could make it.”

  “With you any time,” I said in my best vulgar Marlon Brando voice. The bachelors looked at me nervously: a stud trotting through a circle of horses to the nearest mare.

  The mare looked particularly radiant in white and gold, wearing family diamonds which made me wonder if perhaps a marital alliance might be in order.

  I glared at the bachelors and they evaporated. We were left with smoked turkey and champagne and Cole Porter from the orchestra in the ballroom and no one but people to interrupt our bliss.

  “Why did you go running off like that this afternoon?” Liz looked at me curiously; I prayed for a jealous scene. But there was none. In fact, she didn’t even wait for an excuse. “I hear it’s all over. Somebody told me Brexton won’t have a chance, that they got a full confession.”

  “Are you sure?” This would be, as they say, the ultimate straw.

  “No, I’m not really. It’s just the rumor going around.”

  “What’re you doing after this, hon?” I spoke out of the side of my mouth; the other side was full of food.

  “Tonight? Well, I’m going home as every proper girl should.”

  “Let’s go to bed.”

  “Bed?” She said this in such a loud startled voice that one of the chefs noticeably paled. “Bed?” she repeated in a lower voice. “I thought you only liked to romp among the cactuses … or maybe you mean a bed of nails somewhere.…”

  “Young women should never attempt irony,” I said coldly. “It’s not my fault
that, through bad management, you haven’t been able to provide me with the wherewithal to make love properly, preferably in a gilded cage. You do have an income, don’t you?”

  “I want to be loved only for my money,” she said, nodding agreeably. “After all beauty passes. Characters grow mean. But money, properly invested, is always lovable.”

  “Yours is properly invested? in gilt-edged or at least deckle-edged securities?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t know you cared.”

  “So much so that I am willing to put you up for the night at the New Arcadia Motel, a center of illicit sexuality only a few miles from here.”

  “What will my family say?”

  “That you are wanton. The money’s in your name, isn’t it?”

  “Oh yes, Mummy had her second husband make me a trust fund … sweet, wasn’t it?”

  “Depends entirely on the amount.” I started to put my arm stealthily around her when Elmer Bush came roaring down upon us.

  “How’s the boy? … say now! Is this the same pretty little girl I met today on the beach, Miss Liz Bessemer?”

  “The same pretty little girl,” agreed Liz with a dazzling smile. “And this, I suppose, is still the famed Elmer Bush who, through the courtesy of Wheat-mushlets, is heard over N.B.C. once a week?”

  That slowed him up. “Quite a bright little girl, isn’t she, Pete? You’re some picker, boy. Well, I guess lucky in love, unlucky in crime. Ha! Ha!” While we were doubled up with merry laughter at this sally, Liz stole quietly away.

  “Say, didn’t mean to barge in on you and the girl friend.” Elmer positively smacked his lips as he followed Liz with his eyes as she strolled into the ballroom: all eyes were upon her, her shoulders bare and smooth above the white and gold dress.

  “No, Elmer, I’d rather see you any day.”

  “Some kidder.” Elmer was perfunctory now that there was no one around to impress except me and he knew of course I wasn’t one of his fans. “Want you to do me a favor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’d like to get an interview with Mrs. Veering. I can’t get through to her. She’s playing hard to get.… God knows why since she’s a real publicity hound. Now if you would.…”