“Yes,” sighed Ellery, emptying his glass.
“It’s all Frank Lloyd’s fault! That grump! Turning on his best friends! Pop’s so furious he says he’ll never speak to Frank again.”
“It’s better to keep out of Lloyd’s way,” said Ellery with a frown. ”He’s a large animal, and he’s thoroughly aroused. An angry beast with a hysterical typewriter. I’ll tell your father myself.”
“Never mind. I don’t think he wants to talk to . . . anybody,” said Pat in a low voice. Then she burst out: “How can people be such vermin? Mom’s friends¯they don’t call her anymore, they’re whispering the vilest things behind her back, she’s being impeached by two of her organizations¯even Clarice Martin’s stopped calling!”
“The Judge’s wife,” murmured Ellery. ”Which suggests another interesting problem . . . Never mind. Have you seen Carter Bradford lately?”
“No,” said Pat shortly.
“Patty, what do you know about this woman Roberta Roberts?”
“The only decent reporter in town!”
“Strange what different conclusions she draws from the same facts.
Did you see this?” Ellery showed Pat a Chicago newspaper, flipped back to Roberta’s Column. A paragraph had been ringed, and Pat read it quickly:
The longer I investigate this case, the surer I feel that James Haight is a misunderstood, hounded man, a martyr to what is at best a circumstantial case and the victim of Wrightsville’s mobbism. Only the woman he is alleged by Wrightsville gossips to have tried to poison is standing by her husband foursquare, with never a doubt or a backward look. More power to you, Nora Wright Haight! If faith and love still mean anything in this wretched world, your husband’s name will be cleared and you will triumph over the pack.
“That’s a wonderful tribute!” cried Pat.
“A little emotional, even for a famous entrepreneuse of love,” said Mr. Queen dryly. ”I think I’ll explore this female Cupid.”
But exploration only confirmed the evidence of his eyes. Roberta Roberts was heart and soul behind the struggle to get Jim a just hearing. One talk with Nora, and they became fighters in a common cause.
“If you could only get Jim to come up here for a talk,” said Nora urgently. ”Won’t you try, Miss Roberts?”
“He’d listen to you,” Pat interposed. ”He said only this morning”¯Pat neglected to mention his condition when he said it¯”that you were the only friend he had in the world.”
“Jim’s a queer love,” said Roberta thoughtfully. ”I’ve had two talks with him, and I admit I haven’t got anything but his confidence. Let me take another crack at the poor dope.” But Jim refused to stir from the house.
“Why, Jim?” asked the newspaperwoman patiently. Ellery was present, and Lola Wright¯a more silent Lola these days.
“Lemme alone.” Jim had not shaved, under the stubble his skin was gray, and he had drunk a lot of whisky.
“You can’t just lie around the house like a yellow dog and let these people spit on you, Jim! See Nora. She’ll give you strength, Jim. She’s ill¯don’t you know that? Don’t you care?”
Jim turned a tortured face to the wall. ”Nora’s in good hands. Her family’s taking care of her. And I’ve done her enough harm already. Lemme alone!”
“But Nora believes in you, honey.”
“I’m not gonna see Nora till this is all over,” he muttered. ”Till I’m Jim Haight again in this town, not some lousy hyena.”
And he raised himself and fumbled for his glass, and drank, and sank back, and not all of Roberta’s urging and prodding could rouse him again.
When Roberta had gone and Jim was asleep, Ellery said to Lola Wright: “And what’s your angle, my dear Sphinx?”
“No angle. Somebody has to take care of Jim. I feed him and put him to bed and see that he has a fresh bottle of painkiller every once in a while.” Lola smiled.
“Unconventional,” said Mr. Queen, smiling back. ”The two of you, alone, in this house.”
“That’s me,” said Lola. ”Unconventional Lola.”
“You haven’t expressed any opinion, Lola¯”
“There’s been too much expression of opinion,” she retorted. ”But if you want to know, I’m a professional underdog-lover. My heart bleeds for the Chinese and the Czechs and the Poles and the Jews and the Negroes¯it’s leaking practically all the time; and every time one of my underdogs is kicked, it leaks a little more. I see this poor slob suffering, and that’s enough for me.”
“Apparently it’s enough for Roberta Roberts, too,” mumbled Ellery.
“Miss Love-Conquers-All?” Lola shrugged. ”If you ask me, that dame’s on Jim’s side so she can get in where the other reporters can’t!”
Chapter 18
St. Valentine’s Day: Love Conquers Nothing
Considering that Nora was bedridden as a result of arsenic poisoning, that John F. was finding his cronies shying away from him and transferring their business to Hallam Luck’s Public Trust Co., that Hermione was having the ladyfinger put on her, Pat was sticking close to Nora’s bedside, and even Lola had been jolted out of her isolation¯considering all this, it was wonderful how the Wrights kept bravely pretending, even among themselves, that nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
No one referred to Nora’s condition except as an “illness,” as if she were suffering from laryngitis or some mysterious but legal “woman’s complaint.” John F. talked business at his desk in his old dry way¯if he attended far fewer board meetings, it was because he was “tied up” . . . obviously; and the fact that he quite disappeared from the weekly luncheons of the Chamber of Commerce at Ma Upham’s was gravely excused on grounds of dyspepsia.
As for Jim¯he was not mentioned at all.
But Hermy, after the first emotional storms, did some calking and sail patching. No one was going to run her out of town. And grimly she began to employ her telephone again. When impeachment proceedings began at her Women’s Club, Madam President astounded everyone by making a personal appearance, in her smartest winter suit, and acting as if nothing had happened whatsoever. She was impeached notwithstanding; but only after various abalone ears burned and the ladies grew scarlet under the lash of Hermy’s scorn. And at home she took charge as of old. Ludie, who might have been expected to snarl back, instead went about with a relieved expression.
And by the beginning of February things took on such an air of normality that Lola actually returned to her nun’s flat in Low Village, and Nora being better, Pat assumed the task of cooking Jim’s meals and straightening Nora’s house.
On Thursday, February thirteenth, Dr. Willoughby said that Nora could get out of bed.
There was much joy in the household. Ludie baked a gargantuan lemon-meringue pie, Nora’s favorite; John F. came home early from the bank with a double armful of American Beauty roses (and where he got them, in Wrightsville, in February, he refused to say!); Pat stretched as if she were cramped and then washed her hair and did her nails, murmuring things like: “My God! How I’ve let myself go!” Hermy turned the radio on for the first time in weeks to hear the war news . . . It was like coming out of a restless sleep to find yourself safely awake.
Nora wanted to see Jim instantly; but Hermione refused to let her out of the house¯”The first day, dear! Are you insane?”¯and so Nora phoned next door. After a while she hung up, helplessly; there was no answer.