I told her what had happened, marveling at the speed with which news spread in that community. I supposed the servants had passed it on since I knew no one in the house, none of the guests, would have breathed a word of it.
She was relieved that I hadn’t been stabbed. She was also alarmed. "I don’t think you should stay another night in that awful place, Peter. No, I mean it, really. It’s perfectly apparent that a criminal maniac is on the loose and. . .
“And when do I see you?"
“Oh. Well, what about late tonight? around midnight. I’m tied up with the family till then but afterward I’m invited to Evan Evans’ house ... the abstract sculptor. I could meet you there. It’s open house.” I took down the address and then, after promising her I wouldn’t get in the way of any more metal objects, she rang off.
I wandered back to the beach. From upstairs I could hear the clatter of Mary Western Lung’s feverish typewriter. The door to Brexton’s room was shut. Mrs. Veering was writing letters in the sunroom.
Everything was peaceful. Allie Claypoole was talking to a stranger when I rejoined her on the beach. “Oh, Mr. Sargeant, I want you to meet Dick Randan . . . he’s my nephew.”
The nephew was a tall gangling youth of twenty odd summers: he wore heavy spectacles and a seersucker suit which looked strangely out of place on that glaring beach. I made the expected comment about what a young aunt Allie was, and she agreed.
“Dick just drove down from Cambridge today...”
“Heard what had happened and came down to make sure everything was all right.” His voice was as unprepossessing as the rest of him. He sat like a solemn owl on the sand, his arms clasping bony knees. “Just now got here . . . quite a row,” he shook his head gloomily. “Bad form, this,” he added with considerable understatement.
“Dick’s taking his Master’s degree in history,” said Allie as though that explained everything. "You better run in the house, dear, and tell Rose you’re here.”
“Oh, I’ll stay in the village,” said the young historian.
“Well, go in and say hello anyway. I’m sure she’ll ask you to dinner.”
Wiping sand off his trousers, the nephew disappeared into the house. Allie sighed, "I should’ve known Dick would show 56
up. He loves disaster. I suppose it’s why he majored in history . . . all those awful wars and things.”
“Maybe he’ll cheer us up.”
“It’ll take more than Dick I’m afraid."
“You’re not much older than he, are you?”
She smiled. “Now that’s what I call a nice thing to hear. Yes, I’m a good ten years older.” Which made her thirty one or two, I figured with one of those rapid mental computations which earned me the reputation of a mathematical failure in school.
Then we went in swimming, keeping close to shore.
4
Miss Lung and I were the first to arrive for cocktails and type dress which made her look even more repellent than usual. She thought she was cute as a button though.
“Well, looks like we’re the first down. The vanguard.” I gave her a drink and agreed. I sat down opposite her though she’d done everything but pull me down beside her on the couch. I realize that, contrary to popular legend, old maids’ traditional lechery is largely an invention of the male but I can safely say that, in Miss Lung’s case, masculine irreverence was justified.
She sipped her martini; then, after spilling half of it on the rug, put it down and said, “I hope you’re recovered from your encounter with that unknown party.”
I said I was.
“I could hardly keep my mind on ‘Book-Chat.’ I was doing a piece on how strange it is that all the best penwomen with the possible exception of Taylor Caldwell possess three names."
I let the novelty of this pass. I was saved from any further observations by the appearance of Claypoole. He was pale and preoccupied. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in a week.
He made conversation mechanically. “The whole town’s buzzin,” he said. “I was down at the theater seeing the pictures there . . . some good things, too, by the way, though of course Paul would say they’re trash.”
“What’s trash? What would I call trash?” Brexton appeared in the doorway; he was even smiling, some of his old geniality returning. I wondered why. At the moment his neck was half inside a noose.
Claypoole looked at him bleakly. “I was talking about the pictures down at the John Drew Theater.”
“Oh. they’re trash all right,” said Brexton cheerfully, mixing himself a drink. “You’re absolutely right, Fletcher.”
“I liked them. I said you’d say they were. . .
“What they are. Well, here’s to art!”
“Art? I love it!” Mrs. Veering and Dick Randan came in together; the former was her usual cheery self, high as a kite. She introduced the Claypoole connection to Miss Lung and Brexton neither of whom knew him. The penwoman shifted her affections abruptly from me to the young historian. “So you’re at Harvard?” she began to purr and the youth was placed beside her on the couch. That was the end of him for that evening.
Allie was the last to join us. She sat by me. “Well, here we all are,” she said irrelevantly.
The company was hectically gay that night. We were all infected by this general mood. Everyone drank too much. I was careful, though, to watch and listen, to observe. I knew that someone in that room had clubbed me with possible intent to kill. But who? and why?
I watched their faces. Brexton was unexpectedly cheerful. I wondered if he’d arranged himself an alibi that afternoon while locked in his room. On the other hand, Claypoole seemed to be suffering. He had taken the death of Mildred harder than anyone. Something about him bothered me. I didn't like him but I didn't know why. Perhaps it was the strang relationship with his sister . . . but that was no business of mine.
Miss Lung responded to whatever was the mood of any group. Her giggles now rose like pale echoes of Valkyrie shrieks over the dinner table while Mrs. Veering, in a mellow state, nodded drunkenly from time to time. Randan stared about him with wide eyes, obviously trying to spot the murderer, uninfected by the manic mood.
It was like the last night of the world.
Even I got a little drunk finally alhough I’d intended to keep a clear head, to study everyone. Unfortunately, I didn’t know what to study.
We had coffee in the drawing room. While I was sitting there, talking absently to the nephew about Harvard, I saw Greaves tiptoe quietly across the hall. I wondered what he was up to.
“Did the murderer really slug you?” asked Randan suddenly, interrupting me in the middle of a tearful story about the old days when Theodore Spencer was alive and Delmore Schwartz and other giants brooded over the university.
“Yes.” I was short with him; I was getting tired of describing what had happened to me.
“Then you must possess some sort of information which he wishes to destroy.”
“Me? or the information?” Randan had expressed himself about as clearly as most history majors do.
“Both, presumably.”
“Who knows?" I said. “Anyway he’s wasting his time because I don’t know a thing.”
“It’s really quite exciting.” His eyes glittered black behind the heavy spectacles. “It presents a psychological problem too. The relationships involved are. ...” I got away as soon as was decently possible.
I told Mrs. Veering that I was tired and wanted to go to bed early; she agreed, adding it was a wonder I didn’t feel worse, considering the blow I’d received.
In the hall I found Greaves. He was sitting in a small upright ehair beside the telephone table, a piece of paper m one hand and a thoughtful expression on his face.