Death of an Angel (13 page)

“I can't,” Dorian Weigand said, “think what it is you read, Mr. Wyatt. Or—are these just things you write?”

“You know,” Wyatt said. “You're quite a girl. It's too bad you're married to this policeman.”

“Listen, Sam,” Jerry said. “I know you like to talk. Just listen. As I understand it, you and this housekeeper—Mrs. Lem—
Hem
mins—found Fitch's body. You and she went upstairs together, she knocked on the door, opened it when there was no answer, and you both found Fitch dead. Was that the way it was?”

“Sure,” Wyatt said. “We saw he was dead, and she was pretty much knocked out and I went downstairs and called a doctor. She told me who to call. Man had an office in the building. Then I went back. Told this Bill of yours how it was.”

“Yes,” Jerry said. “But—you keep leaving Mrs. Hemmins out of it.”

“Don't know why,” Wyatt said. “She was there, all right. I suppose—” He hesitated. “I suppose I dramatize it,” he said. “Habit forming, dramatization.”

“Mrs. Hemmins,” Pam North said slowly, “says you had a cold—she thought it was a cold—
before
she let you in. But if it was cats, not a cold, then—”

“Mrs. Hemmins got it wrong,” Wyatt said. “I had that out with Captain Weigand. I was perfectly all right until I got into the apartment, where the cat was.” He looked at Pam, then at Jerry and Dorian. His eyes were a little narrowed. “That's the way it was,” he said.

And then he pushed his glass back. There was decisiveness in the movement. “If nobody wants another?” he said, and, at almost the same instant, beckoned the nearest waiter, asked—rather abruptly—for a check. There was, unexpectedly, a certain awkwardness in the few moments of waiting for change; in the time it took Wyatt to select a bill and coins for a tip. It was evident that Sam Wyatt had got his talking done.

But, when they all stood to leave, he seemed to sense this and said, with less than his customary abruptness, that he had almost forgotten he had an appointment. The others made polite sounds to this, further polite sounds in payment for their drinks.

Outside, since they declined to be “dropped somewhere,” they watched Sam Wyatt get into a cab. And, as the cab drew away from the curb, they watched a sedan, of no particular appearance, start up from a little way down the block and fall in behind the cab.

“I think,” Pam North said, “that maybe Mr. Wyatt is right to be scared.”

Mr. and Mrs. James Nelson occupied a suite at the Barclay. Acting Captain William Weigand, temporarily of Homicide East, was invited up, and went up. He was received by Mrs. Nelson, who was slim in a black dress, who had short gray hair, who met Weigand at the door. She said it was so good of him to come. She said that she was so sorry her husband had had to step out. She enquired, after she had said, “Please, sit down, captain,” whether she could not get him something. She said, “They're so very prompt here. Such an excellent hotel.”

Bill was not in need of anything. He was inspected, not obviously, but he thought thoroughly, through attentive brown eyes. He waited for it. Alicia Nelson smiled. “Really,” she said, “you're not quite what I expected.”

That, Bill Weigand had heard before. To that, he had never thought of a responsive answer. He smiled, instead.

“I am so glad,” Alicia Nelson said, “that it is somebody like you. I'm sure we speak the same language.”

Bill was not. He did not say he was not. He made a rejoinder which was vague and, he hoped, encouraging. He decided that Mrs. Nelson's black dress, in style and material—how interested women always were in material, and in what they called “detail”—would please Dorian, who was not easily pleased. He thought it had been chosen with care, and without regard for cost. He thought that a suite at the Barclay, presumably for a weekend, would run high.

“Are you sure I can't have them bring something?” Mrs. Nelson said. “If only a cup of tea?”

“Quite sure,” Bill said, remembering he spoke the same language.

“And you're really in charge of the investigation into poor Brad's death?” she said.

Bill told her how that was. Deputy Chief Inspector Artemus O'Malley was in charge. He himself was—well, active.

“O'Malley,” Mrs. Nelson said. “Oh.”

“You have,” Bill said, “some information to give us?”

“Really,” she said, “I'm not sure. We felt—my husband and I, that is—somebody would want to confer with us. Since we happen to be in town—but only until tomorrow—we felt it would be convenient if we talked here. For everyone. At home there are so many things to do, you know.” She interrupted herself to smile. She smiled very briefly. “The club takes so
much
of my time,” she said. “And James, of course—” But she did not end by saying anything about the demand on James's time. Instead, she said that her husband would be so sorry to miss Captain Weigand.

“Now,” she said, “how can we help, captain? Help your investigation of this shocking, shocking thing?”

“If I knew the answer to that—” Bill said, and shrugged just perceptibly. He trusted he was speaking the right language. It appeared, however, that he was not. Mrs. Nelson looked at him, evincing no great comprehension. “We haven't really got far enough to know what questions to ask,” Bill told her.

“But surely,” Mrs. Nelson said. “It's been more than twenty-four hours. I supposed that, in that time, the police would—well, have theories, at least. Perhaps already be quite sure, only lack proof.”

So that was it, Bill thought, and found the thought interesting. Summoned not to be informed, but to inform. He said that, as to theories—He said there were, obviously, certain possibilities. He said, “Have you a theory yourself, Mrs. Nelson?”

“James and I have been thinking and thinking,” Mrs. Nelson said. “Everybody was so
fond
of Brad. He was such a dear boy. Not as experienced as he might have been, I'm afraid. Taken in by people. But a dear boy.”

“Taken in?” Bill said.

“I'm afraid so,” Mrs. Nelson said. “Both James and I felt he
was
being, so often. A man—a
nice
man—with so much money—You must know it is, captain.”

He was readmitted to the language league. He nodded his head. He asked if she had anything specific in mind.

“Not really,” she told him. “Captain—I really
need
a cup of tea. Or even a cocktail. This has all been a strain, of course. We were so fond of poor, dear Brad. Won't you change your mind?”

Bill permitted himself to change his mind. He permitted himself to accept the offer of a cocktail. Mrs. Nelson used the telephone. She said she so loved the Barclay. She said it had such great dignity, but at the same time so much comfort. She said that, so often, one did not find the two combined. She said that James would be so
sorry
to miss the captain. One does not, Bill decided, discuss the significant if the arrival of a serving person is imminent.

The serving person arrived. He brought a glass jug, embedded in ice. Two cocktail glasses were upended in the ice. The drinks were very cold. The serving person thanked them and departed.

“Only,” Mrs. Nelson said, “I find theater people so
difficult
to understand. As I am sure you must.”

Bill Weigand was tempted to tell her that some of his best friends were theater people. He refrained. He sipped his drink, and nodded, which might approve the drink or accept Mrs. Nelson's views.

“For a boy like poor Brad,” she said. “Just a boy, really. Brought up so differently, of course. Good schools, and all that. And then to be
plunged
into this—this
superficial
life.”

When Alicia Nelson saw a word in passage, she pounced on it.

“Plunged?” Bill said. “Was he, Mrs. Nelson?”

“First this other actress,” she said. “Then Mr.—what is his name? Strothers?” Bill nodded. “To get him to invest money, of course. But I'm afraid Brad was
impressed
. Really
impressed
. Because people like Mr. Strothers are so different, of course. So much more—in a way, worldly. You do know what I mean, don't you? ‘Twenty-one' and all that. Chi-chi.”

The term was one Bill thought had been retired years before. But he nodded again.

“And,” Mrs. Nelson said, “they
are
attractive, in a way. One has to admit that. This first young woman—so vivacious.”

“Miss Shaw?” Bill said, and was looked at in surprise.

“Of course not,” Alicia Nelson said. “The first one. Phyllis something.”

“Barnscott? The girl in the play?”

“Girl? Well, I suppose one might call her that. A—youngish woman, at any rate. Pretty, of course. But, in such a
showy
way, don't you think?”

Bill had not yet met Miss Barnscott.

By this, Mrs. Nelson appeared greatly surprised. She supposed of course—She broke off. Of course, the captain knew his own business best. But she would have thought. In view of—everything. Bill waited, thinking this might be another thing he had been summoned for. He sipped the excellent martini. He was rewarded.

Not that Mrs. Nelson meant to suggest anything, put any ideas in the captain's head. But he
had
asked if she and James had any theories. They had, of course, been unable to avoid thinking of this—this “girl.”

She knew, Bill decided, precisely where she wanted to go. She knew how she wanted to get there. He drank very slowly—and noticed that she did not drink at all. Her eyes remained attentive to his face, which did not noticeably respond.

Phyllis Barnscott had, Mrs. Nelson said, been the first of the theater people to cross the path of Bradley Fitch, so well brought up, so essentially innocent. And, of course, so rich. How the paths had crossed, Mrs. Nelson did not pretend to know. What poor dear Brad had seen in her—that she could not pretend to understand. “But I've barely met her and, anyway, it's so difficult to see what
men
see.” It was evident that he had seen enough.

“They went
everywhere
together for—oh, months,” she said, and the emphasis on the word “everywhere” was special, was almost a little lingering. “I mean, the places they
would
go. You can imagine how poor dear Peggy must have felt.” She paused, then. “Peggy Latham,” she said. “Such a quiet girl. So—different. Interested in such different things. Horses and dogs, you know.”

“Yes,” Bill said. “He was engaged to Miss Latham, I understand? When he met Miss Barnscott?”

“Oh,” she said. “Even after that. When he was—well, I'm afraid there's no word but ‘infatuated.' But Peggy was so understanding. Such an understanding girl. She still expected Brad to—come back to her. Everybody did, of course, I mean, that is, all of us did. What Miss Barnscott expected—well, it's so hard to tell about people like that, isn't it? Even if you know them. Perhaps a great deal. And then to be simply
dropped
for Miss Shaw. To have to stand there and hear poor Brad announce that he was going to marry Miss Shaw. When everybody
knew
what they'd been to each other.”

She looked at Bill Weigand expectantly.

“A woman like that,” she said. “Without background. Without the
basic
things. The basic
certainties
. To be humiliated, before all her friends. Who can tell what she might do? And—I'm afraid—she knew her way around poor Brad's apartment. Far
too
well. Where he kept things and—” She paused. “Surely you must have thought of the possibility.”

“There are a great many possibilities,” Bill told her. “You must realize that. Miss Latham was equally—humiliated, I'd imagine. Not so publicly, perhaps, but—”

“Peggy?”
Mrs. Nelson said. “A girl like
Peggy?
”

“I don't know Miss Latham,” Weigand told her. “Or Miss Barnscott.”

“Obviously not,” Mrs. Nelson said. “Obviously. To suggest that a girl like Peggy Latham, brought up as she's been. With her background.”

“As I said, I don't know her. No doubt you're right. You mentioned Mr. Fitch's money, Mrs. Nelson. Hinted various people were—attracted by it.” (He hoped he was still speaking the same language.) “As a relative, you probably know who will inherit?”

“Oh,” she said, “several of us. But—I suppose since I'm the closest—” She let it go at that, delicately. “Of course,” she added, “Brad didn't confide in us about his will. Still, it's obvious, isn't it? Since he didn't live to marry this Miss Shaw? Assuming he really planned to.”

She smiled then, and shook her head, as at a naughty boy.

“I hope,” she said, “you're not getting ideas, captain? Ridiculous ideas?”

“We have to think of everything,” Bill said, temperately. “If he had married Miss Shaw, and
then
died, things would have been different for his relatives.”

She ceased smiling. Her face expressed astonishment; what Bill took to be hauteur. She said, now in a cold voice, now not to a naughty boy,
“Really!”
It was clear to Bill that he was speaking another language.

“I'm afraid, captain,” she said, “that you don't really understand people like us.”

“I told you,” Bill said, “that there are several possibilities. You must realize we have to consider all of them. However farfetched.”

“Certain people don't do certain things,” Mrs. Nelson said firmly, but it appeared that she was somewhat mollified. “I'm sure you realize that, Captain Weigand. And, of course, it isn't as if any of us were—differently situated.”

Meaning, Bill decided, “needed the money.” He said, “Of course. I realize that.” He said, “You didn't know Miss Barnscott, you say?”

“Barely,” Mrs. Nelson said. “Such different circles, even when she was so much with poor Brad. I'd met her—oh, months ago. And then at this dreadful party the poor dear boy gave. Such odd people. She seemed to be with a man named Tootle, of all things. But there—one mustn't be intolerant.”