I said that I did. I also said that I could hardly see what the famous author of “Book-Chat” had to fear from an investigation.
“No more perhaps than the rest of us who are innocent . . . and no less.” She was mysterious. She was also plainly uneasy.
“Im afraid we’re all in for it anyway,” I said, sounding practical. "I don’t think my reporting makes much difference one way or another. We’re all in for some rough questioning . . . that is, if Brexton doesn't confess or something dramatic happens.”
“Why make it worse? I'm convinced he killed Mildred. . .
“You weren’t originally.”
“Only because I couldn’t believe that such a thing had happened, could happen. Now my only hope is to see this thing quickly ended and Brexton brought to justice. He was tempted . . . God knows: 1 know. Mildred had not been herself for a year. She was becoming simply impossible. The night before she died she got hysterical ... at darling Rose, of all people, and attacked her with a knife . . . the very same knife Brexton used to kill Fletcher. Oh, it was terrible! Her attacking Rose I mean. Rose screamed: it woke us all up, remember? and then of course Brexton came rushing in and stopped . . .”
I was now listening with, I must confess, my mouth open with surprise. I didn’t want to arrest her incoherent flow for fear she might clam up; at the same time I knew that what she was saying was extremely important.
When she paused for breath, I asked with affected calm, “That's right, Mildred and Mrs. Veering stayed in the drawing room after we went up to bed, didn’t they?”
“Why yes . . . that's when the quarrel started. Rose told me about it later. Brexton had gone to bed and I suppose Rose was scolding Mildred about her behavior when Mildred just lost her head and rushed at her with a knife . . . poor darling! Rose was out of her mind with terror. She screamed and Brexton came rushing in and slapped Mildred. It was the only thing to do when she was in one of her passions. Then he took her off to bed and Rose came upstairs, telling us not to worry . . . you remember that.”
“I wonder how Mildred happened to have the knife . . . it’s a kind of palette knife, isn’t it ... in the drawing room?”
Miss Lung shrugged. “With a madwoman, you never know. Rose of course was positive Mildred wanted to kill her. She has been like that for years about many people and we’ve always humored her ... I mean you know how Rose is: impulsive, and of course her little vice doesn’t make for one hundred per-cent rationality, does it? But it seems that this time Rose was right and Mildred did attack her. ..."
“Why?”
“That is none of our business,” said Miss Lung coldly. “But I will say that they were great friends before her breakdown. Rose was loyal to her afterwards when many people didn’t want to have her around. She even invited them here for the week end so that Mildred might have a chance to relax and get a grip on herself. Then of course the girl attacks her. Its hardly fair. My point is that things like that are no one's business but Rose’s . . . they shouldn’t be written about by gossip columnists, especially since I’m convinced the whole terrible thing is really very simple. I only hope the police act quickly before . . .”
“Before another incident? another murder?”
She looked almost frightened. “No, I didn’t mean that exactly.” But she wouldn't go on. “I hope we're not too late for dinner.” She made a production out of studying the heart-shaped gold watch she wore on a chain over her heart. Then, talking “Book-Chat,” we went downstairs and joined the other guests.
Greaves sat in the center of the sofa, looking like an unsuccessful experiment in taxidermy. He had changed to a blue serge suit which smelled of mothballs and was strewn with lint like snow upon a midnight clear. He was being a member of the party tonight, not a policeman and he was, figuratively speaking, watching every fork. The others played along as though he were an old friend. No mention was made of the murders. The conversation was forced but general. Brexton was in excellent form which, considering the fact his head was well in the noose, was surprising. I wondered if he was saving up a surprise or two.
I found out one significant bit of news right off; Mrs. Veering, over the martini (ray, said: “Poor Allie is still unconscious. I’m sick with worry about her.”
“Hasn’t she come to at all?”
“Oh yes, regularly . . . it’s only the dope which keeps her out. You see, when she comes to, she starts to rave! It’s simply horrible. We’re so helpless . . . there’s nothing anyone can do except pray.”
“Have you seen her?”
“No, they won’t let anybody in except the doctor, and the nurse. I have demanded a consultation and I think perhaps they’ll have to have one. Mr. Randan’s agreed of course as the next of kin.”
“Consultation?”
“To see what's wrong with her.”
“You mean . . .”
“She may have lost her reason.” And on that cheerful note, we went in to dinner.
I remember looking about the table that night with some care. The odds were that the murderer was among us, quietly eating stewed tomatoes and lobster Newburg. But which one? Brexton was the calmest, no doubt banking heavily on that perfect alibi: if he was telling the truth, and we’d soon know from Allie Claypoole herself, he would be safe . . . unless of course the business was even more bizarre than any of us suspected and the two of them, like the Macbeths, had together done in her beloved brother for reasons too lurid for the family trade.
Just as the dessert was brought in, Mrs. Veering, with a strange bland smile, got to her feet and pitched head forward onto the table.
There was a stunned silence. Her tumbler landed on the thick carpet with a hollow sound. Flowers from the centerplace scattered everywhere.
Miss Lung shrieked: a thin pale noise like a frightened lovebird.
The rest of us sat frozen in our chairs while Greaves leaped from his chair and pulled her chair back from the table. “Don’t anybody move," he said.
2
But this was not the crisis he or anyone had anticipated. The butler came rushing in with digitalis and Mrs. Veering recovered sufficiently to say, with a ghastly parody of her social smile, “I’ll be all right . . . heart . . . bed.”
She was carried upstairs and the trained nurse undressed her while Greaves ordered a doctor.
Our ever diminishing party then sat rigidly about the drawing room, drinking brandy and waiting for Greaves who, with one of his plain-clothes men, was investigating Mrs. Veering’s glass, her food, the table, the servants.
Miss Lung was the most affected. I was afraid she might have a stroke herself. “Poor Rose! Knew it would . . . told her . . . never listens ... the strain, the awful strain . . . can’t be helped . . . everything possible, always, from the very beginning . . . alcohol . .
Greaves joined us within the hour. He seemed genuinely puzzled. "Mrs. Veering is all right, we’re happy to report. She has a cardiac condition, a chronic one. She had an attack and . . .”
“Drugged!” Miss Lung looked at him, her eyes wide and glassy. “I know she was drugged . . . like poor Mildred, or worse: poison!”
This is what we had all been thinking.
Greaves, without hesitation, went to the table where the whisky was kept and, regulations or no regulations, poured himself a stiff drink.
Then he joined our tense circle. “She was not drugged and she was not poisoned. She is resting comfortably. Her doctor is with her now. She may have to stay in bed a day or two but that’s all.”