Death Likes It Hot (22 page)

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 advise 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.

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.”

“Just an ordinary knife, very sharp. A kind of kitchen knife with a bone handle and Brexton’s initials on it.”

“Initials?” That was it! “Were they prominent?”

“Yes, they were pretty big. What’re you up to, Sargeant?” He looked at me suspiciously.

“I may have a surprise for you.”

“Like what?”

“Like the real killer.”

Greaves snorted. “We got him and don’t you go rocking the boat. We have enough trouble without your interference. Elmer Bush’s told me about the way you operate. I told him if you tried anything.…”

“Elmer is my best friend,” I said, hardly able to contain my delight. “One other question and then I’m through. Sunday morning Claypoole said he went to the John Drew Theater to look at the paintings. Well, I happen to know the theater was closed that morning, I figure he went to see you.”

“What if he did?” Greaves squirmed uncomfortably.

“I have a hunch he drove over to Riverhead and told you Brexton murdered his wife. I believe your district Attorney, misled by you, is building his case and political ruin on that visit.”

“I don’t like your tone, Sargeant.” Greaves had turned
very red. “But since you know so much already I’ll tell you that, yes, Claypoole came to see me and he accused Brexton. I don’t think Brexton knew it … that’s why he killed him that same night, to keep him quiet, not knowing it was already too late. I should’ve acted right away. I realize that now but I didn’t think anything could happen in a house with two M.C.I. men on hand. Anyway it’s all over. Nobody can save your friend Brexton,” said Greaves, quietly folding his napkin and placing it beside his plate.

“He’s not my friend; he’s also not your clay pigeon, Greaves.”

“Now look here.…” but Mrs. Veering had got to her feet; she led us all into the drawing room for coffee.

I got Allie Claypoole away from Randan for a moment. “You’re not giving in, are you?”

“About Paul?” She sighed and sat down shakily. I sat down beside her. “I don’t know what to think. Greaves has been with me all morning. He’s trying to make me believe Paul tried to murder me but I can’t … I just
won’t
believe it.”

“Good,” I said. “You stick by what you feel. You’re right.”

She clenched her slender white hands into two fists. “But if Paul didn’t who
could’ve
done it?”

“The same person who killed your brother.”

“Do you know who it is?”

I nodded. She looked at me with real terror in her eyes. Then Greaves, suspecting I might be intimidating a valuable witness, joined us and I excused myself.

I was about to go telephone 1770 House to see if they might have a room for the night when Randan, with a smirk, said: “What happened to you and Liz? Suddenly you both just disappeared and Miss Lung tells me you didn’t come home at all last night. I looked around for you when I left but you’d gone by then.”

“Miss Bessemer and I spent the night with the
Times
crossword puzzle at the New Arcadia Motel,” I said and walked away.

I made a reservation for that night by telephone. Then I
slipped out of the house by way of the front door. I wanted one more look around before I finished my case.

I walked among the umbrellas on the terrace, sad-looking in the gray fog which had already blotted out the ocean only a few yards away. It was as thick a fog as I’d ever seen. The umbrellas looked like monsters, looming in the mist.

Then I took out my watch and began to walk, at a good pace, down the beach to the Club.

Five minutes later I reached the Club.

It was a strange walk. I couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of me. If it hadn’t been for a cluster of rotten black pilings which marked the beginning of the Club beach I shouldn’t have known where I was. The Club House was invisible. There was no sound from its general direction.

I had the impression of being packed in cotton wool. I almost felt that if I put my hand out I could touch the fog, a gray heavy damp substance.

Far out to sea, I heard the horn of a ship, lonely and plaintive. Well, it would soon be over, I told myself. I was oddly depressed. I had solved the case but there was no elation, only relief and perhaps a certain fear.

I made my way back slowly. I followed the edge of the water which eddied black upon the white sand. If I hadn’t, I would’ve got lost for there were no landmarks: nothing but white sand and gray fog.

I timed my return trip so that I’d know when I was abreast the North Dunes. Otherwise I knew I might keep on until Montauk without ever knowing where I was.

I was three minutes and two seconds from the Club when a figure appeared, tall and dark. We both stopped at the water’s edge: each had been following the water line. Then Randan approached. He was carrying my suitcase.

“I thought you were talking a walk,” he said amiably. “I followed you.”

“You thought I’d walk to the Club?”

He nodded. “It’s a nice walk, isn’t it? Perfect for a foggy day.”

“I like the fog.” I glanced at the suitcase in his hand: this was it at last. I knew what was coming. “Not such a good walk, though, if you’re carrying something.”

“Like your suitcase?” He grinned.

“Or like your uncle.”

The smile faded from his face. We were only a yard apart and yet his features were faintly blurred by the intervening fog, white and enveloping. We stood within a circle of visibility whose diameter was not more than a yard. Somewhere far above, in another world, the afternoon sun was shining. We were like the last survivors of a disaster, alone with our secrets.

A wave broke close to us. Water swirled about our shoes. Simultaneously we moved farther up the shore, each keeping the other in range. Was he armed? The question repeated itself over and over in my brain. If he was.…

“You know a great deal,” said Randan. He put the suitcase down. He was wearing a trench coat, I noticed … very sensible, I thought inanely, keep the damp out: fog caressed us like damp cotton; my clothes were soaked, and not only from fog.

“I have my suspicions,” I said, trying to sound casual. “But they don’t do me much good since there’s no evidence of any kind.” Anything to throw him off the track. I was positive he was armed. I planned a sudden break up the beach, into the fog. One leap and I’d be out of sight. But if he were armed.…

“You’re not stupid,” Randan sounded somewhat surprised.

“Thanks. Unfortunately neither are you. There’s no way of making a case against you. I think I know exactly what happened but there’s no proof of any kind. You thought of everything.” But he was too smart for such flattery. I was talking fast, to no point. My suitcase in his hand meant this was the pay-off.

“Tell me what you know, Sargeant.” The question was put quietly, without emphasis.

“Not enough.”

“Tell me anyway.” He put his hand in the pocket of his
coat. I went death-cold: was he armed? was he armed?