Hildegarde Withers Makes the Scene (18 page)

“I’ve been taking a bath.”

“So I see. Always a commendable project.”

“Have you been down to breakfast?”

“Yes. I’m afraid that I’m an early riser. Did I disturb you?”

“Oh, no. On the contrary, I must be a terrible nuisance. It was kind of you to take me under your wing.”

“Nonsense. To be honest, I was much more tempted to take you over my knee.”

Lenore’s face fell into a contrite expression that was somehow short of convincing. “I know. I’ve caused you no end of anxiety and trouble.”

“Have you called your father?”

“Yes. I talked a fortune with Father and Mother both. They feel much better now. I assured them that everything is all right.”

“Perhaps you are optimistic. As the old saying goes, you are not out of the woods yet.”

“What? Oh, I see. You mean because I was with Captain Westering when he died.”

“That’s what I mean. You may be out of the critical stage, but your condition remains grave.”

“Everything will work out. You’ll see to that.”

“Indeed! I wish I could share your confidence.”

“Al told me all about you. How you used to help the police in New York and all. He said you’re a ring-tailed wonder.”

“Aloysius is a good boy, but his judgment is hardly infallible. As his impoverished description of me indicates, he also tends to be crude. Why are you standing there in that towel? I definitely have the impression that you have nothing that needs to be hidden. I suggest that you get dressed and go down for your breakfast.”

“That’s a good suggestion. I’m famished.”

“I can recommend the sausage and eggs.”

Lenore abandoned her towel and got into her clothing, of which, Miss Withers thought, there was precious little. In a matter of minutes the young virgin was on her way downstairs, and the elderly one was reaching for the telephone. In another minute, after a minimum of difficulty with a mildly inquisitive policeman, she was talking with Captain Kelso.

“How are you this morning, Miss Withers? And how’s the leading suspect? Keeping her under your thumb, I hope.”

“My dear Captain Kelso, a person guilty of murder does not sleep like a baby and sing in the bathtub like a tone-deaf canary. But I haven’t called you to talk nonsense. I am wondering if you would care to call on a young lady with me.”

“Sorry. I’ll be up to my ears. What young lady?”

“Leslie Fitzgerald. A superior artist, that one. I’m most curious about her.”

“Maybe you can get her to do your portrait.” Captain Kelso laughed a leer. “Only don’t let her paint you like she did Alura.”

“Never fear. I’m no Duchess of Alva.”

“Who?”

“Skip it. Is Miss Fitzgerald still being held aboard the yacht?

“No. Nobody’s being held. You can’t hold free citizens forever, you know. Not even kooks. Of course, most of them are living aboard until this thing’s settled. They haven’t got any place else in town to stay.”

“Miss Fitzgerald, I understand, has a studio.”

“Right.”

“Do you object to my calling on her without you?”

“Help yourself. There’s no law against making calls.”

“Do you have the address of her studio?”

“Just a minute.”

The open line buzzed in Miss Withers’ ear while Captain Kelso, she assumed, consulted his limp-backed notebook. In thirty seconds he was back with an address on the Embarcadero.

“That’s in the block below the Ferry Building,” he said. “I understand a lot of artists have studios around there.”

Miss Withers thanked him and hung up. She selected a hat, a magnificent creation designed to stun the observer, adjusted it with care in front of the mirror, and sat down again to await the return of Lenore. Time passed. Lenore did not come. Miss Withers looked at her watch and made a little clucking sound of impatience. She got up and left the room and rode an elevator down to the lobby.

In the dining room, she found Lenore dawdling over coffee which had grown too cold to drink. The reason for her dawdling was not hard to see. In fact, it stuck out like a scarecrow in a cornfield. Sitting across the table from her, leaning forward with his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands and an expression of the most disgusting entrancement on his face, was Al Fister. Miss Withers, approaching, was no distraction.

“Aloysius,” she said, “what are you doing here so early in the day?”

Al started, transferring his gaze reluctantly from Lenore to Miss Withers. “You promised,” he said, his voice pained. “You promised, and you keep breaking your promise. You keep calling me Aloysius.”

“I call you Aloysius only when you
act
and
look
like Aloysius. Answer my question.”

“Just reporting for duty, Miss Withers.”

Miss Withers made a sound perilously close to a raspberry. “Since when has it been your duty to watch Lenore like a hungry vulture? I didn’t extricate her from one threat just to introduce her to a worse one.”

“Miss Withers,” said Al reproachfully, “you’re shooting me down.”

“Nonsense. We’re wasting time. Lenore and I must go out. If you insist, you may come along.”

“Where are you going?”

“You will learn in good time.”

Miss Withers, without further ado, turned and walked briskly out of the dining room. Al and Lenore followed far arear, dragging their heels. They caught up at the entrance to the hotel, where Miss Withers was waiting while the doorman hailed a cab. When the cab pulled up, Miss Withers climbed into the back, Al and Lenore after her.

“The Embarcadero,” Miss Withers instructed the driver.

“Where on the Embarcadero?”

“The Ferry Building will do. I’ll get out there.”

Shortly thereafter she was out, paying off the driver as Al and Lenore stood by. Having paid the fare, including a modest tip, she turned to the pair, with particular attention to Al.

“Al,” she said, “have you had your breakfast?”

Al shook his head. “I was going to eat at the hotel, but you drug us away before I could.”

“There is, I believe, a lunchroom under the Ferry Building. Go eat. Lenore will keep you company. In spite of the nauseating axiom to the contrary, one cannot live on love. After you’ve eaten, wait for me. I’ll not be long. Indeed, inasmuch as I’m not expected, I may return immediately.”

“Expected by who?”

“
Whom
! Young man, if you’re going to fraternize with a Bennington student, even one apparently inclined toward idiocy, you had better make a reasonable effort to become literate.”

“All
right
, Miss Withers. Whom?”

“A young lady. An artist. She has a studio in the next block. Her name, which will mean nothing to you, is Leslie Fitzgerald.”

“Look, Miss Withers.” Al’s homely, appealing face was concerned. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

“Quite sure.”

“Maybe I’d better come along with you.”

“You will not be needed. Nor, to put it bluntly, wanted. Don’t worry. There is no danger involved, and if there were, I know perfectly well how to take care of myself. You take care of Lenore. After all, I made an absurd promise to Captain Kelso, and I had better make a gesture at least toward keeping it.”

With which assurance Miss Withers marched off. She crossed the street and entered a block of shabby buildings which somehow achieved, or perhaps retained, the raffish air of earlier, bawdier days. Across the wide thoroughfare of the Embarcadero, the great piers of the waterfront jutted into the bay. Facing them along the ragged little block were seamen’s bars, rooming establishments and clothing stores. Miss Withers passed a remarkably long, narrow and dark bar, and immediately afterward was climbing narrow stairs in a decaying building to a closed door at the upper end of the flight. She rapped imperiously on the door.

After a long wait, just as she was about to repeat her rapping, the door swung inward to reveal Leslie Fitzgerald, a faint frown of irritation on her thin, lovely face. She had obviously been interrupted at work, for she was wearing a pair of paint-smeared Levis and an old sweatshirt much too large for her slender body, and in her hands was a large rag with which she rubbed her fingers with a circular washing motion that was further evidence of her irritation. Miss Withers, though unrepentant, was not offended. She approved of people who were sufficiently devoted to their work to resent having it interrupted.

“Forgive me for disturbing you,” she said, “but I would like to talk with you for a few minutes.”

“I’m sorry.” Leslie Fitzgerald made no effort to disguise her impatience. “I’m busy, and I have no time. Perhaps you could return later.”

“I assure you that it’s important. If you could spare me only a few minutes ...”

“What do you want? Do you want to buy a painting?”

“That may be, but it isn’t the reason for this intrusion. I would like to talk with you about the death of Captain Westering.”

All this while, as she stared at Miss Withers, a look of puzzlement had been encroaching on the irritation in Leslie Fitzgerald’s face. Now both gave way suddenly before a flood of recognition. “Of course! I kept thinking I’d seen you somewhere recently. You were with Captain Kelso aboard the
Karma
.”

“That’s correct. Miss Hildegarde Withers. May I come in?”

“I suppose so. I don’t enjoy being rude, but I dislike stopping my work when it’s going well.”

“I quite understand. I’ll be as brief as possible.”

Leslie Fitzgerald stepped aside, and Miss Withers walked past her into a large loft flooded with light that poured in through a skylight and through a vast expanse of glass in the north wall. The room seemed bare, Spartan-like, with a couch and a few pieces of furniture clustered in a corner. Unframed canvases leaned against the walls. Near the center of the room, in a wide uncluttered space, an easel was turned toward the glass. Dust motes danced in the flood of light.

“Will you have some coffee?” Leslie Fitzgerald asked.

“No, thank you.”

“Perhaps you’d better come over here and sit down. As you see, there isn’t much of any place else.”

She led Miss Withers to the cluster in the corner and gestured toward a chair, which Miss Withers occupied. Leslie Fitzgerald sat on the couch, which apparently served her at night as a bed.

“Now,” she said, “what is it that you want to talk with me about? Do you represent the police?”

“No. Not officially. I came here, however, with the knowledge and permission of Captain Kelso. Yesterday I saw some of your work. I thought it was excellent.”

“Thank you.” Leslie Fitzgerald’s tone, while polite, clearly suggested skepticism of Miss Withers’ qualifications as an art critic. “But surely you didn’t come here just to tell me that.”

“The murals in the Royal Edward, I mean. Alura O’Higgins’ restaurant. Of the two, I was most struck by the one in the bar. Quite remarkable.”

The expression of puzzlement was again creeping into Leslie Fitzgerald’s face. “Frankly,” she said, “I shouldn’t have imagined that that particular painting would have been your cup of tea.”

“Young lady, I may
look
like an old maid, and I may
act
like an old maid, but it would be a mistake to assume that I
think
like an old maid. I am not offended by the human body, and frequently I even find it admirable.”

Leslie Fitzgerald laughed. “I’m sorry. It was stupid of me to imply such a thing. The figure is Alura herself, you know. I did it here in the studio.”

“I recognized her. I wonder why she chose herself as a subject?”

“Why not? She was a superb model. Besides, I am sure it amuses her to see herself there on the wall. Alura is an exceptional woman. Like all exceptional women, or exceptional men, for that matter, she is not without vanity.”

“How long had you known Alura O’Higgins before she commissioned you to do the murals?”

“Not long. We met at a cocktail party. She seldom goes to such things, and neither do I, but we both happened to go to this one. It gave us a kind of common ground. We met and had quite a long conversation, and a week or so later she showed up here at the studio. She looked at the work I had available, and before she left she had given me the commission for the murals. Since then she has been instrumental in getting me numerous lucrative commissions.”

“You’re too modest. Surely your work sells itself.”

“It’s good to think so.”

“You’ve remained her friend?”

“I’m very fond of her. And she, I think, of me.”

“Was it she who persuaded you to make the pilgrimage with Captain Westering aboard the
Karma
?”

“Not at all. I learned of the voyage through Alura, but she didn’t urge me to join. I feel very strongly about the war in Vietnam, as all sensitive people should, and it was my own decision to go. I felt it was my duty to help make such a grand gesture. It was a kind of commitment, and even when it began to look as if it were surely an ill-fated effort, I was determined to go through with it. To tell the truth, Alura was opposed to my making the voyage. She said it was more important for me to stay here and dedicate myself to my art. After peace talks were arranged, she was particularly insistent. She said the whole point of the voyage was gone, and perhaps it was. Nevertheless, I was committed. If the
Karma
had sailed, I’d have sailed with her.”

“What did you think of Captain Westering?”

Leslie Fitzgerald did not answer. She got up and hefted an electric percolator, which was unplugged and seemed to be empty. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup of coffee?” she said.

“Quite sure, thank you.”

“I believe I would, if you don’t mind. I’m quite addicted to coffee, I’m afraid.”

“It’s a much more innocent addiction than others you might have.”

“That’s true, isn’t it? If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go brew a pot.”

Carrying the percolator, she disappeared through a door into what must have been a small kitchen. Miss Withers, in a moment, could hear the sound of running water. Leslie Fitzgerald would have to empty the basket of old grounds, rinse the basket and the pot, refill the one with fresh grounds and fill the other with water. It would take a minute or two. Miss Withers was up in a flash, thumbing through a disorderly litter of preliminary sketches on an ancient library table near the wall where the canvases leaned. Her action was not directed toward a specific objective. Indeed, the action was almost instinctive. Miss Withers, in brief, was an insatiable snoop who had learned from experience that curiosity, although it may have killed the cat, often paid unexpected dividends to uninhibited spinsters. Which was, as it turned out, true in this case. She was holding the dividend in her hands at arm’s length, inspecting it intently, when Leslie Fitzgerald returned, plugged in the percolator, and sat down again on the couch.