Death of a Tall Man (32 page)

The party dwindled, eroding away. It re-formed as it dwindled; a halved group joined a group similarly depleted; the revived unit, again diminished, merged with another. Soon there would be only a single group, large at first, then growing smaller. Soon there was. A dozen people remained. Celia, who was staying at the apartment instead of returning to her hotel; Curtis Grainger, who remained very close to Celia, who looked at her so often, with protective concern; Breese Burnley and her mother, Fay; Phipps, who now, as the group shrank, left Breese to her mother and turned to Freddie herself; a scattering who did not wish the party to end as yet. Uncle William's aide was one of the scattering, and the girl he had found. (The girl was the daughter of Captain Arrhhhh, on duty in BuPers in Washington, or of Commander Arummmm, assigned to the Third Naval District.)

The scattering diminished. Uncle William's aide, who was handsome, suave, very savvy, took the girl away, after casting one last, quick glance at the perfection of Breese Burnley. A civilian who had been in the Navy once, but only as a reserve, went suddenly, perhaps having had almost too much champagne. The dozen became nine; the nine became only what you might call “themselves.” “Now we're by ourselves,” Freddie thought, instinctively, and then, momentarily, wondered why she so united them. The answer was instant. They were all people about Bruce Kirkhill. He was their center.

They would not have made a group, save for Bruce Kirkhill, to whom all of them were something. It could be made to resemble a Shakespearian cast, she thought. Senator Bruce Kirkhill. Celia, daughter to the senator; Winifred Haven, called Freddie, fiancée to the senator; Vice Admiral Jonathan Satterbee, father to the senator's fiancée. (She had them out of order; women last in the Shakespearian cast.) Mrs. Fay Burnley, housekeeper to Senator Kirkhill, cousin to the senator's first wife, mother to Breese; Breese Burnley, photographers' model, daughter to the senator's housekeeper and—Freddie stopped herself. If there had once been a closer tie between Breese, “Bee-Bee,” and the senator, it did not any longer matter. What Bruce had done before they met, what, at any rate, he had done in that particular quarter was of no concern to her. They were not children, rushing inexperienced into each other's unskillful arms. Breese Burnley, then, daughter to the senator's housekeeper. Howard Phipps, secretary to the senator. Curtis Grainger, in love with the senator's daughter.

The last, Freddie thought, her hostessing done, piling up thoughts to fill emptiness, is inadequate. Curtis Grainger, in love with the senator's daughter; also son of Julian Grainger, utilities man (“big” utilities man), who made no secret of the fact that he thought Senator Bruce Kirkhill a menace to the American system, to free enterprise, basically to democracy itself. (The free enterprise in question was very worried about a flood-control power production development which might, if not stopped somehow, become the most dreadful thing, “another T.V.A.” Senator Kirkhill, dangerous man that he was, vociferously did not share Mr. Grainger's view. In the Senate he was the leading, and most efficient, advocate of this new “socialistic” development.) Curtis represented his father in New York; he did not, it appeared, share his father's views. At least, ideology formed no barrier between Curt Grainger and the senator's daughter.

They sat there, these people who, in this one aspect of their lives, were linked together, and waited. They were members of a cast waiting for the star; they were the people about Hamlet, with Hamlet missing. They drank very little; they said very little. They were, Freddie thought, waiting for the door buzzer. The maids had been sent to bed; Watkins, a little gray, waited, standing. “Go to bed, Watkins,” the admiral said. “Thank you, sir,” Watkins said, and went.

“But where
is
he?” Fay Burnley said, her voice aggrieved, as if the others were keeping something from her; as if all of them knew but she.

Fay Burnley spoke a little as her daughter spoke, with words heavily emphasized, darting at words. She had not always done that, Freddie thought. She had picked it up from her daughter, probably. She had decided that that was the way people spoke, the way the best people, the most knowledgeable people, spoke. She was in several respects a little like her daughter, only not so perfect, not capable, as Breese was when she chose, of posed quiet. One felt of Mrs. Burnley that she was, always, trying not to flutter.

She was in her forties. She had been Bruce Kirkhill's housekeeper—or was hostess better?—for a good many years. Ever since her husband died, Bruce told Freddie once. Her husband had been, long ago, Bruce Kirkhill's closest friend. And Fay was a cousin of Bruce's first wife. “It seemed like a good idea,” Bruce had told Freddie. “On the whole, I guess it was. Of course, Bee-Bee was a little thing then. So high.” Freddie could remember Bruce showing how high.

“Where
is
he?” Mrs. Burnley repeated, with emphasis. Long earrings swayed; blue eyes—so like her daughter's, yet so unlike—were almost violently alive, almost improbably bright.

“We don't know, darling,” Breese said. She was relaxed, leaning back in a deep chair, each line of her perfect body ready for the camera. (Miaow, Freddie thought. Miaow, Winifred Haven.) “Really we don't know.”

“He's all right, Mrs. Burnley,” Howard Phipps said. “Nothing happens to the chief. Something's held him up is all. Something's come up.”

“You don't
know
,” Mrs. Burnley told him. Her voice was suddenly sharp. It was intended, Freddie thought, to put Howard Phipps in his place, whatever his place was. Phipps shrugged; he shrugged for the benefit of the others, at this unreasonable attack.

Then, very suddenly, Celia began to cry. She did not cry loudly, she did not cry for others to notice. She had a small face, and it crumpled suddenly. Although she was not crying for others to notice, they all noticed her.

“Celia.
Darling,
” Fay Burnley said. “Of
course
he's all right.”

“Phipps,” the admiral said. “Call the Waldorf again. Perhaps he's there.”

Phipps took the order. He went to the library and left the door open behind him. They could hear his voice and they listened; they all looked at the open door and listened. The words were not distinct, but the tone was enough.

“Never mind,” he said. “I may call later. Hold the rooms.”

Phipps came back, shaking his head. His face, darkened by a heavy beard which the closest shaving could not wholly eradicate, was very serious.

“Hasn't checked in yet,” he said. The “yet” was the saving word; the “yet” was supposed to make it casual, to imply, somehow, that the delay was small, calculable. Not yet; in five minutes or so, in half an hour, the word said.

“Wumph!” Admiral Satterbee said. “Where
is
the man?”

Nobody answered; nobody had an answer. The admiral looked at his daughter, looked at her with concern, searchingly.

“I'm all right, Dad,” she said.

Celia was crying again. Curtis Grainger put an arm about her, held her close. He looked at the others, his glance insistent, demanding.

“We've got to d-do something,” he said. “T-try to find him.”

“Darling,” Breese Burnley said. “How?”

Admiral Satterbee did not, Freddie knew, much approve of Bee-Bee. But now he nodded.

“Quite,” he said. “What, Grainger?”

He waited, gave Curtis Grainger an opportunity.

“Can't go to the police,” the admiral said, when Curt made no use of the opportunity. “Man's a senator. Get in the papers.” He spoke the word “papers” with a peculiar inflection, as if the word soiled his tongue. “No idea about security. No idea at all. Mix us all up in it.”

“The pu-police wouldn't—” Grainger began, but the admiral cut him short by saying, “Nonsense!”

“Civilians,” he said. “Politicians.”

It seemed to be stalemate.

“We can't just
wait
,” Mrs. Burnley told them, with indignation. “Just
sit
here.”

The admiral looked at her without favor. He appeared to consider the look enough.

“Darlings,” Breese Burnley said. Her tone seemed to reflect calm, almost amusement. “Darlings. Bruce is a couple of hours late and everybody's in a dither. In a tail-spin. Beginning to talk of going to the police. Really, darlings. Can't a man be a little late? Even the great man?” She looked at Howard Phipps. “Even the chief?” she said.

There was nothing in her voice, nothing beyond inflections carefully cultivated, nothing but a careful avoidance of implication. But the admiral glared at her.

“If—” he began.

“No, Dad,” Freddie said. “It's all right.”

“Not all right,” the admiral told them all. “Party
for
him. Him and Freddie. No man's going to report late, unless—”

He stopped.

“Unless what, Dad?” Freddie said. “I think you're right. I'm afraid you're—unless what?”

“I don't know,” the admiral said. “Something urgent. Perhaps he's in some tight spot. See what I mean?”

“No,” Howard Phipps said. He seemed indignant. “I don't see what you mean, Admiral. The chief's in no spot.”

The admiral merely looked at Howard Phipps. His glance was measuring. But when he spoke, his voice was, for him, mild.

“Just suggested it,” he said. “I don't know anything, Phipps.”

“Dad,” Freddie said. “You're sure you don't? Don't—think you know something?”

“Wumph,” the admiral said. He looked at her, looked away. “Said I didn't,” he told her. The words had finality. But, Freddie thought, the words did not express truth; the words reiterated a lie. The admiral did think he knew something, did think that Bruce was not with them because he was in some “tight spot.”

Now wasn't the time; the admiral was not to be driven, even by his daughter. Not now, not with these others, could she bring up, demand explanation of, the telephone call she had overheard. Now she could do nothing. Now none of them could do anything, except wait. Even Curtis Grainger tacitly admitted that by silence. He held Celia close to him, his head bent over hers. She still was crying.

Then the door buzzer sounded; sounded once, briefly.

All of them turned toward the door leading to the foyer. Celia raised her head and looked toward the door; Phipps turned in his chair; Fay Burnley, whose back had been toward the door, twisted full around. Their faces, all their faces, for an instant were blank, fixed, held a kind of meaningless surprise and expectancy. It was as if they had been caught so, unready, by a photographer's flash bulb.

Then Freddie was on her feet, moving quickly, leaving the others. They focussed their eyes, then; they watched her, watched a slender young woman in a golden dress, walking with her shoulders high, her body erect.

It will be Bruce, Freddie Haven thought. Bruce has come. After all, he's come. It wasn't anything. But even as she thought this, she felt anxiety mounting again, becoming fear.

She was at the door, she reached for the knob. She made herself reach for the knob. She made herself turn the knob, pull the door toward her.

It was not Bruce Kirkhill. She had, and now she realized this, known it would not be Bruce. He rang in a quick sequence—buzz—buzz—buzz. Not like this; not once, briefly.

The man was tall, dark, in a dark gray overcoat. He took off a gray slouch hat. His face was thin and sensitive, now it was grave.

“Is Miss Kirkhill here?” he said. “Miss Celia Kirkhill?”

She did not say anything. She could not say anything.

“I'm from the police,” the man said. He said it hesitantly, unhappily. “I'm a detective sergeant.” He looked at Freddie Haven. His eyes were dark and, now, troubled. “Detective Sergeant Blake,” he said. “You're not Miss Kirkhill?”

Wordless, Freddie shook her head. Then she managed to speak.

“She's here,” she said. Come in. It's—it's about—her father?”

“I hope not,” Sergeant Blake said. “I hope not, Miss—”

“Haven,” Freddie said. “Mrs. Haven. Celia's here, Sergeant.” Then, again, she said, “Come in, please.”

Sergeant Blake came in. He dropped his hat on a chair. He did not remove his overcoat. It was damp, Freddie noticed. It was still snowing, then. The thought was meaningless, out of place.

She went ahead of Sergeant Blake into the living room. Celia was already on her feet. Her hands were clenched; a handkerchief was clenched in one of them. Curtis Grainger was rising, to stand beside her. But he did not touch her. He let her stand alone, facing the tall, dark man in the damp overcoat, the man who looked at them with a troubled face.

“Miss Kirkhill,” he said to Celia. “You are Miss Kirkhill? Senator Kirkhill's daughter?”

The girl nodded. She nodded quickly, so that he would go on quickly.

“There's been an—accident,” he said. “I've been sent to ask you—”

“Father!” the girl said. “An accident to Father?”

“We don't know,” Sergeant Blake said. His voice was gentle. He was, Freddie thought—thought through a swirling of thoughts, in a kind of blackness through which thoughts swirled—trying to be reassuring. “That's why I've been sent. We'll have to ask you to—to look at—” He stopped.

“He's dead!” Celia said.
“Dad's dead!
”

Blake shook his head, quickly.

“We hope not,” he said. “That is, a man's dead. It may not be—not be your father, Miss Kirkhill. We hope—”

Now it was blackness which was swirling; swirling, narrowing, hemming Freddie in.

“Winifred,” a voice said, beyond the blackness. “Winifred!” It was her father's voice. She reached out for it with her mind, reached for its solidity in this swirling blackness. With a terrible effort, she forced the blackness back. She could see them again, see her father, moving toward her; see Blake turning his head toward her. It had been only seconds, then; only seconds of fighting the blackness.