“That too. But years ago when I first met her, about the same time Fletcher did, she was a good-looking woman. This is hard to believe, I know, but she was. All the fat came later when Fletcher wouldn’t have her. I painted her once, when she was thin ... it was when I was still doing portraits. She was quite lovely in a pale blond way. I painted her nude.”
I could hardly believe it. “If she was so pretty and so much in love with him why didn't he fall for her?”
“He ... he just didn't.” The pause was significant. I thought I knew what he didn’t want to say. “But she’s been in love with him ever since. I think they quarreled our first day here.”
“About that?”
“About something.”
“I can’t see her commiting murder fifteen years after being turned down.”
“Your imagination is your own problem,” said Brexton. He got to his feet. “I’m going to bed,” and with a nod to the two on the couch, he left the drawing room.
This was the cue for all of us. Randan asked me if I wanted to go to the Club with him. I said no, that I was tired. Miss Lung waited to be invited to the Club hers-If but, when the invitation did not come, she said she would have to get back to her authorial labors . . . the readers of “Book-Chat” demanded her all.
I went upstairs with her. On the second floor landing one of the plain-clothes men was seated, staring absently into space. Miss Lung bade us both good night cheerily and, with a long lingering look at the servant of the public, she oozed into her room, no doubt disappointed that his services did not include amatory dalliance with Mary Western Lung.
I went to my own room and quickly shoved the bureau against the connecting door. Then I telephoned Liz, only to find she was out.
I went over and looked out the window gloomily and thought of Liz, wondering whether or not I should join Randan, who was just that moment getting into his car, and make the round of the clubs. I decided not to. I had an idea there might be something doing in the next few hours, something I didn’t want to miss out on.
Fully clothed, I lay down on my bed and turned the light out. I thought about what Brexton had told me, about what he hadn't told me. Very neatly, he’d provided Miss Lung with a motive. Not so neatly, he'd allowed me to discover what would, no doubt, be an important piece of evidence for the prosecution: that Allie Claypoole and he were in love, that the two of them, as easily as not, could've killed her brother for any number of reasons, all ascertainable.
3
I awakened with a start.
I had gone to sleep and not moved once which explained why my neck ached and my whole body felt as though I’d just finished a particularly tough set of calisthenics. I don’t know what awakened me. I won’t say premonition ... on the other hand a stiff neck sounds prosaic.
The first I did was to look at my watch, to see how long I’d slept: it was exactly midnight according to the luminous dial.
I switched on the light beside my bed and sat up, more tired than when I’d dropped off to sleep.
I had half expected a call from Liz. The fact I hadn’t received one bothered me a little. I found I was thinking altogether too much about her.
Suddenly the thought of a stiff shot of brandy occurred to me, like a mirage to a dying man in the Gobi. I had to have one. It was just the thing to put me back to sleep.
I opened the door and stepped out into the dimly lit hall. At the far end, the plain-clothes man sat, staring dreamily at nothing. He shook his head vigorously when he saw me, just to show he was awake.
“Just going to get something,” I said cheerfully.
He grunted as I passed him. I went downstairs. The lights were still on in the drawing room. I remember this surprised me.
I had just poured myself some brandy when Miss Lung, pale and flurried, arrayed in her pink awning, materialized in the doorway.
“Where is the nurse? Have you seen the nurse?”
“What nurse?” I looked at her stupidly.
“The nurse who...”
“Someone looking for me?” A brisk female voice sounded from the main hall. Miss Lung turned as the nurse, whiteclad and competent, appeared with a covered tray.
“Yes, I was. A few minutes ago I went into Rose’s room to see how she was ... I know that nobody’s allowed to do that but I just didn’t care. Anyway, she wasn’t in her bed. I rapped on Allie’s door and there wasn’t any answer there either and I was afraid...”
“I’m the night nurse,” said the white figure. “We change at midnight. I was in the kitchen getting a few things ready. As for Miss Claypoole she is under morphine and wouldn’t be able to hear you. .
“But Rose? Where on earth can she be?”
“We’ll find out soon enough." We made an odd procession going up those stairs. The angular angel of mercy, the billowy plump authoress of “Book-Chat,” and myself with a balloon glass of brandy in one hand.
The guard stirred himself at the sight of this procession. “I told her she wasn’t supposed to go in there but..."
Miss Lung interrupted him curtly. “This is Mrs. Veering’s house, my good man, not the city jail.”
We went into Mrs. Veering’s room first and found our hostess, handsome in black lace, sitting up in bed reading a detective story. She was dead sober for once and not at all like her usual self. She was precise, even formidable.
“What on earth is everybody doing . . she began but Miss Lung didn’t let her finish.
“Oh, Rose, thank heavensl I was terrified something had happened to you. I was in here a few minutes ago and you were nowhere in sight; then I rapped on Allie’s door.” She indicated the connecting door, “and there wasn’t any answer. I couldn’t’ve been more terrified!”
“I was in the bathroom,” said Mrs. Veering, an unpleasant edge to her voice. “I’m perfectly all right, Mary. Now do go to bed and we’ll have a nice chat tomorrow. I still feel shaky after my attack.”
“Of course I will, Rose, but before I go you must . . .” while the two women were talking, the nurse had opened the connecting door and gone into Allie's room. She had left the door half open and I maneuvered myself into a position where I could look in. I was curious to see how Allie looked.
I saw all right.
The nurse was already on the telephone. “Doctor? Come quickly. An injection. I don't know what. I think she’ll need an ambulance.”
Before the law intervened to keep us all out, I was at AHie’s bedside.
She lay on her back, breathing heavily, her face gray and her hands twitching at the coverlet. The nurse was frantically examining a hypodermic needle.
“What happened?”
“Someone’s given her an injection.” The nurse managed to pump a last drop of fluid from the hypodermic on a piece of cotton. “It’s ... oh God, it’s strychnine!”
4
This time the questioning was general. There were no private trips to the alcove.
Greaves joined us an hour to the dot after the ambulance took Allie to the hospital.
Mrs. Veering was on hand, pale and hard-eyed, her own attack forgotten in the confusion. Miss Lung was near hysteria, laughing and giggling uncontrollably from time to time. Brexton was jittery. He sat biting his knuckles, his old faded dressing gown pulled up around his ears, as though to hide his face. Randan, who’d arrived during the confusion, sat with a bewildered look on his face while Greaves explained to us what had happened.
“She’ll be all right,” were his first words. He paused to see how the company responded: relief in every face . . . yet one was acting. Which?
Greaves went on, not looking at anyone in particular. “Somebody, at midnight exactly, got into Miss Claypoole’s room and attempted to give her an injection of strychnine. Luckily whoever did this did a sloppy job. Very little was introduced into the artery, which saved her life.” He pulled out a tablet of legal-size paper.