“But, Elmer, we’re rivals.” I pretended surprise. “After all I’m still trying to get myself out of a hole.…”
“This is for the Globe. Not for me.” He stood there, noble, self-sacrificing.… I half expected to hear the soft strains of the Marseillaise in the background.
“Well, I’m sorry, Elmer, but you’ll have to get to her on your own.”
“Now look here, Sargeant, I’ve been sent here by the Globe, same paper that’s been paying you for those dumb articles on why Brexton didn’t do the murder. I can tell you one thing: you don’t stand any too well around the office. Now if I tell them you’ve been cooperative, really helpful, they might not write you off as a complete loss.” He stared at me, hard and menacing, the way he does when he attacks the enemies of a certain senator who is trying to root out corruption and Communists.
“Elmer,” I said quietly, “I hate you. I have always hated you. I will always continue to hate you. There is nothing I would not do to show you the extent and beauty of my hatred. I would throw you a rock if you were drowning. I would.…”
“Always the kidder,” said Elmer with a mechanical smile to show that he knew I was joking. “Well, I’m not kidding. The paper expects you to cooperate. If you don’t you might just as well give up all ideas of ever working for them again.”
“Suppose I’m right?” I was getting tired of him fast but I realized my situation was hopeless anyway if I didn’t produce the real story, and soon. He was out to cut my throat, as they say in the profession.
“That Brexton didn’t kill his wife and Claypoole?” Elmer looked at me pityingly.
“I wouldn’t bank too much on Claypoole’s accusation, before he died.” My shot in the dark hit the target.
Elmer blinked. “Know about that, eh?”
“That’s right. I also know the prosecution in going to build its case on Claypoole having said Brexton murdered his wife.…”
“He told the whole story to the police the day he was murdered.” Elmer looked smug, just as though he had done it all himself with his little hatchet. I was glad to hear my guess confirmed. Elmer had served his purpose.
II
“I’m sure they’ll check up on me, just to be unpleasant.” Liz sat with nothing on in front of the dressing table, arranging her hair: she is one of those women who do their hair and face before dressing. I lay on the bed, blissful, enjoying the morning sun which fell in a bar of light across my belly. It had been an excellent night … morning too. Nothing disturbed me.
“What do you care?” I said, yawning.
“I don’t really.” I watched her shoulder blades as she made mysterious passes at her hair and face, her back to me. “It’s just that when I said I was staying with friends in Southampton I shouldn’t’ve mentioned Anna Trees. They’re bound to see her and my aunt will ask her about my overnight stay and.…”
“And you’re worrying too much. Besides, I’m sure your aunt would approve of the New Arcadia. Clean sheets. Private bathroom. View of a roadhouse and U.S. Route One as well as the company of a red-blooded American boy.… Come here.”
“Not a chance in the world, Peter.” She rose with dignity and slipped on her silk pants. “You’ve had your kicks, as they say … brutish, prancing goat.…”
“I never prance.” I wanted her again but she had other plans. Sadly, I got up myself and went into the bathroom to take a shower. When I came out, Liz was fully dressed and going through the wastebasket in the preoccupied way women have when they are minding some one else’s business.
“Ah, ah,” I said sharply, the way you do to a child. “Might find something dirty. Don’t touch.”
“Nonsense.” Liz pulled out a newspaper and a cigarette butt. “Just as I thought: marijuana. I thought I smelled something peculiar.”
“Well, don’t touch it. I thought all women were mortally afraid of germs.”
“Stop generalizing.” Liz dropped the butt back into the wastebasket and opened the newspaper absently. I got dressed.
A sharp sound from Liz halted me. “Is this Claypoole?” she asked, holding up the paper for me to see.
I took it from her. It was a Monday edition of The Journal American. There were several photographs of the principals involved in our local killing. One was of Claypoole. I nodded, giving her the paper back; I combed my hair in the dusty mirror. “What about it?”
“Well, I know him.”
“Knew him. So what? A lot of people did.”
“No, but I saw him only recently. I didn’t really know him but I think I met him … or ran into him, or something.” She paused, confused, poring over the newspaper intently. “I know!” She squealed.
“Well?”
“It was Sunday night, at the Club … before I went on to Evan Evans’ party. I dropped in with some people, with a boy I know. We looked around just to see who was there. It was dead, you know the way Sunday night is, so I had my escort drive me over to Evan’s … anyway, before I left, I remember seeing him, Claypoole, ever so distinctly. He was awfully good-looking in an older way; I noticed him because he was by himself, in a plain suit. Everybody else was dressed. He was standing all alone in the door which opens onto the terrace.…”
“You didn’t speak to him?”
“No, I just caught the one glimpse.”
“What time was it?”
“Time? Well, not much after twelve thirty.”
I was excited. “You realize that you may be the last person to’ve seen him alive?”
“Really?” She was properly impressed. “I don’t suppose it proves anything, does it? He must’ve strolled over from the North Dunes. Peter, I’m starved, let’s get some breakfast.”
Stealthily, we left the New Arcadia Motel, the way hundreds of couples every week did, their unions blessed only by the gods of love, the sterner bonds of society momentarily severed or ignored.
We found a pleasant inn just south of the village of Easthampton where we ate a huge breakfast. It was an odd morning with a white mist high overhead through which the sun shone diffused, bright but not concentrated.
“I love those spur-of-the-moment adventures,” said Liz, eating more eggs than I’ve ever seen a slender girl eat before.
“I hope you don’t have a great many of them.”
“As many as I can squeeze in without being untidy,” she said comfortably, leaving me to guess whether she was serious or not.
“I suppose, next thing, you’ll tell me you do this all the time, in motels.”
“There’s an awfully disagreeable streak of Puritanism in you, Peter. I worry about it.”
“I just want to be able to think of you as being all mine, clean from the word go.”
“From the word go, yes.” Liz beamed at me over coffee. She was a beautiful creature, more like an act of nature than a human being … I thought of her in elemental terms, like the wind or the sky, to wax lyrical. Usual laws of morality didn’t apply to her.
I changed the subject … just looking at her upset me. “How much longer do you intend to stay down here?”
Liz sighed. “Tomorrow I go back. I tried to talk them into letting me stay longer but they wouldn’t. I don’t think any magazine should try to put out issues in the hot weather. Nobody’ll read them.”
“Who reads fashion magazines? Women just buy them to look at the pictures of clothes.”
“Well, it’s an awful strain working in New York in the hot weather. I was supposed to go back yesterday but I got an extra day. When will you be back?”
“Friday. I’ll have to stay here for the Special Court, to testify. I’ll go back to New York right afterwards.”
“What an interesting week end it turned out to be,” said Liz, putting ice from her drinking glass into her coffee cup. “I don’t know why I never ask for iced coffee when I hate it hot. Peter, do you really think Brexton’s innocent?”
I nodded.
“But if he didn’t do it, who did?”
“Somebody e
lse.”
“Oh, don’t be silly! Who could possibly have done it?”
“Somebody with a motive.”
“Well, you must have some idea who it was if you’re so certain it wasn’t Brexton.”
“Oh, I know who did it all right.” And I did. I had known for nearly half an hour.
Liz’s eyes grew round. “You mean you’re sitting right here having breakfast with me like this and you know who killed Mrs. Brexton and Claypoole?”
“I can’t see what having breakfast with you has to do with it but, yes, I know who the murderer is. Thanks to you.”
“To me? What have I done?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
Liz looked at me as though she wasn’t sure whether or not to telephone for a squad of men in white. She tried the practical approach. “What’re you going to do about it now that you think you know everything?”
“Now that I know, not think. I’m not sure. I have to tie up some ends first. Even then I may not be able to prove what I know.”
“Oh, Peter, tell me! Who is it?”
“Not on your life.” I paid for breakfast and stood up. “Come on, dear. I’ve got to take you home.”
“I have never in my life known such a sadist.” Liz was furious and persistent but I wouldn’t tell her anything. She hardly spoke to me when we pulled up in front of the North Dunes and I got out. She slid haughtily into the driver’s seat. “It’s been very nice, Mr. Sargeant.”
“I’ve had a swell time too.”
“Beast!” And Liz wheeled out of the driveway on two wheels, the gears screeching with agony. Smiling to myself, I went into the house. I had a tough day ahead of me.
III
No one but the butler was in sight when I arrived. He bade me good morning and made no comment about my night out. I went upstairs to my bedroom and immediately telephoned Miss Flynn.
“I have undertaken the Tasks assigned,” she said, in her stately way. “The following are the Results of my Herculean Labors.” She gave me several pieces of information; one was supremely useful. I told her to expect me Friday afternoon and, after a bit of business, we rang off.
I was surprisingly calm. The identity of the killer had come to me that morning with Liz. Something she said had acted like a catalyst: everything fell into place at once … all those bits of disconnected information and supposition had, with one phrase, been fused into a whole and I knew with certainty what had happened, and why.
I packed my suitcase; then I went downstairs and left it in the hall. I was not going to spend another night in this house.
On the terrace, watching the mist grow dense, become fog, was Miss Lung. She was sitting quite alone with a brilliant Guatemala shawl about her shoulders.
She jumped when I approached. “Oh, Mr. Sargeant. What a start you gave me! A little bird told me you didn’t come home last night.”
“The little bird was on the beam,” I said, sitting down beside her. “Looks like a storm coming up.”
She nodded. We both looked out to sea, or rather at the line of gun-metal gray breakers: the horizon was gone already and fog was rolling in from the sea in billows. It was suddenly chilly, and uncomfortably damp.
“We have had such lovely weather,” said Miss Lung nostalgically. “I suppose this must be the end of summer. It comes like this, doesn’t it, all at once.”
“Not until later, about the time of the equinox,” I said absently, watching her out of the corner of my eye. She was unusually pale, her book-chat manner entirely discarded. I could almost imagine the slender good-looking woman imprisoned beneath the layers of fat and disappointment. “You were very fond of Mr. Claypoole, weren’t you?”
“What makes you ask?” She looked at me, startled.
“I’m curious about this case, that’s all. I’ve always thought there were some very important facts the police didn’t know.”
“I’m sure there’s a great deal of importance the police don’t know,” said Miss Lung sharply. “And I’m in favor of keeping them ignorant, aren’t you?”
“In general, yes. That was what you meant, though, wasn’t it? About not wanting too close an investigation … you remember the other day when you told me.…”
“Yes, I remember. I have nothing criminal to hide. It’s certainly no secret about Fletcher and me. I’m sure if it hadn’t been for Allie (whom I adore, believe me) we might have married once. She wouldn’t let him; then Mildred tried, and failed too … that’s all.”
“Yet why should that bother you? I mean what difference would it make if it should all come to light, about you and Fletcher?”
Miss Lung paused before answering; then she said, with an odd look in her eyes, “I’ll tell you exactly what I feared, Mr. Sargeant, but you must promise me never to refer to this to anyone, certainly never to write about it in the press. Do you promise?”
“Well … yes, I promise.”
“I was afraid that if the police should start prying around in our past, Fletcher’s, Paul’s, mine, they would sooner or later discover that Paul Brexton painted me, fifteen years ago, in the … well the altogether. You must know that I have fans everywhere in the United States and Canada and if that painting should ever come to light and be reproduced in the Yellow Press I would be absolutely finished as the authoress of ‘Book-Chat.’ You see now my fear of investigation?”
It was all I could do to keep from laughing. “I see exactly what it is you feared. As a matter of fact, I did hear about the painting.”
“You see? Already people have begun to talk about it! Ever since this hideous business started I’ve been in mortal dread of someone unearthing that picture. In my last conversation with Paul before he was taken to jail, I implored him to keep silent on that subject, come what may.”
“I’m sure he will. I hear, by the way, it was quite a good painting.”
“I was not ever thus,” said Miss Lung, with a brief return to her sly-boots self.
We chatted a while longer. Then I went into the house. Everything was shaping up nicely. So nicely that I was scared to death.
On the second floor, I slipped into Brexton’s old room. No one saw me. The room had been straightened and now looked perfectly ordinary. I checked the lock of the door to what had been Allie’s room (another key replaced the one the prosecution had taken for an exhibit); the lock worked smoothly. Then I went to the window and examined the screen. As I expected, there were scratches on the sill, at either corner. Long regular scars in the weathered wood. Tentatively, I pressed my finger against the screen: it was loose. I was not able to check the other windows for, as I was about to enter Allie’s room, Mrs. Veering appeared in the doorway.
“Mr. Sargeant!” She seemed genuinely surprised. “What are you doing in there?”
“I … I was just looking for something,” I stammered stupidly.
“In this room? I can’t think what,” she said flatly, as though suspecting me of designs on the flat silver. “Mary Western told me you were back. I’d like to talk to you.”
“Certainly.” We went downstairs to her alcove off the drawing room.
She was all business, a tumbler of Dubonnet on the desk in front of her. “I’ve decided to go ahead with the party,” she said.
I was surprised. “I thought.…”
“At first, I thought it would be in bad taste. Now I think I can’t afford to back out of it. People expect one to carry on.” She took a long swallow of Dubonnet, carrying on.
“You may be right,” I said. “I’m afraid though I won’t be able to handle it. I’m due in New York Friday.…”
“Oh. Well, I’m sorry. If it’s a matter of fee.…” She seemed disturbed by my refusal.
“No, it’s not that at all. I just have an awful lot of work piling up and.…” I made a series of glib and, I hoped, plausible excuses. I couldn’t tell her my real reason; she would find out soon enough.
“I’m very sorry. I hope at least you’ll still be kind enough to a
dvise me now.”
I said that I would and we had a brisk business talk in which I confided to her what I’d felt all along: that she was quite capable of mapping out a publicity campaign on her own. She took this without elation or demur.
“Thank you. I do my best. As you probably know, I have had certain tax difficulties lately.” She looked at me shrewdly to see how I’d react; I didn’t bat an eye; I looked at her as though it was the first I’d heard of these troubles.
She continued, satisfied apparently with my silence. “People have actually started a rumor that I’ve been wiped out financially. Well, it isn’t true and for that reason I don’t dare not give this party. I sent the invitations out this morning.”
So that was it. She was spending Mildred’s money before she got it. I couldn’t blame her under the circumstances … it was an act of God.
IV
To my surprise Allie Claypoole and Greaves showed up together for lunch.
She was pale and she walked as though she were unsure of her legs, like an invalid new-risen. Greaves was jubilant in a restrained, official way.
“Certainly is nice to see everybody like this,” he said. “Not official or anything like that.”
“We’re always happy to see you, Mr. Greaves,” said Mrs. Veering smoothly from the head of the table. The butler passed champagne around. It was quite a luncheon.
Randan and Allie sat next to each other and talked in low voices through most of the lunch while the rest of us either listened to Mary Western Lung or drank our champagne in silence.
It wasn’t until dessert that I was able to turn to Greaves who was on my left and ask a question which could not be heard by the rest of the table: Miss Lung was loudly recounting a bit of scandal which had taken place at a meeting of the Ladies’ Paintbox and Typewriter Club.
“What did the knife look like?” I asked in a low voice.
Greaves looked surprised. “Knife?”
“Yes, the one they found beside Claypoole. I never got a close look at it.”