“In what way could she have been brought into the case?” “She couldn’t, ever; what I said had to do . . . well, with other things, with her and me and her brother. I was only threatening: it was the worst thing I could think to say to him. Funny, I’d even forgotten I’d said it, until you mentioned it.”
I was now fairly sure of the line the District Attorney would take. This was a help.
Then the jailer appeared. A fat policeman who waggled some keys and told me my time was up.
“Good luck,” I said as we parted.
Brexton chuckled. “I'll need it.” He picked up his sketch pad again. “I think you’re moving in the right direction, Mr. Sargeant.” But the policeman had me out of the cell block before I could ask him what he meant.
It was sundown when I got back to the house and parked Randan’s car in the drive. It was pleasant not to be observed by policemen. They were all gone. Only Miss Lung, Mrs. Veering, Randan and myself were in the house, not counting servants.
I found Randan alone in the drawing room, writing furiously in a notebook, a highball beside him.
“Oh, hello.” He looked up briefly to make sure I wasn’t all broken up from an automobile accident. “Car all right?”
“Car’s fine . . . ran over a small child but you’ll he able to square it with the parents: they seemed a broad-minded, modern couple.” I fixed myself a martini.
“I’m writing up the case," said Randan, dotting a period firmly and shutting the notebook. “Going to do a serious piece on it.”
I changed the subject. “Where are the beautiful ladies?” “Making themselves more beautiful. Dinner’s early tonight, in half an hour. Oh, your friend Liz called and asked me to ask you to join her at the party they’re giving Alma Edderdale in Southampton tonight. I said I’d drive you down...” “And got yourself invited too?”
Randan looked pained by my bad taste. “I was only trying to be helpful.”
“I’m sure of that. By the way, I saw Brexton this afternoon.” “In jail? I didn’t know they'd let anybody in.”
“I have influence. Did you try to see him too?”
Randan nodded. “Yes, I wanted to check on something. I’m beginning to get a little doubtful about the case,” he added importantly.
“Doubtful? I thought you agreed with Greaves that Brexton. . .
“I’m not so sure now. I . . . well, I overheard something this afternoon, here in the house. I don’t like to appear to be an eavesdropper but . .
“But you listened to a conversation not meant for your ears. Perfectly common human trait . . . after all, what is history but a form of eavesdropping?" Fortunately, this was a rhetorical question. Randan ignored it.
“I heard Mrs. Veering talking to a lawyer.”
“To Brexton’s lawyer?”
“Yes . . . but they weren’t talking about the murders. They were talking about a will, about Mrs. Brexton’s will. It seems she left half her estate to her aunt, to Mrs. Veering. The other half she left to Claypoole. Her husband didn’t get anything. Seems he even agreed to the will beforehand. Now what I was wondering . .
CHAPTER EIGHT
1
DINNER was a forced affair. Luckily, Miss Lung was in an ebullient mood and kept us in stitches with her “book-chat.” I tried not to look at Mrs. Veering who had decided to have just a touch of Dubonnet against doctor’s orders. She was so well lit by the time coffee was served that Randan and I were able to slip away without much explanation to anyone, except Miss Lung who was roguish.
It took almost half an hour to get from Easthampton to Southampton.
The moon was down and the night sky was partly obscured by clouds moving in from the north.
We didn’t talk much, both occupied with our thoughts. At one point Randan tried to pump me about the tax case but I wasn’t giving him any of my cherished leads. This was one story I intended to have all to myself.
It was just as we were getting out of the car in front of the mansion on Gin Lane where the party was being held, that Randan said: “I guess we both knew who did it.”
I nodded. “We should’ve figured it out sooner. There were enough loose ends left flapping.”
“I thought it was skillfully done.” He switched off the ignition. “When did you catch on?"
“With Alma Edderdale yesterday. She let the cat out of the bag, talking about Rose’s tax problems.”
Randan nodded. “It ties in. You going to tell Greaves? Before the Special Court?”
I shook my head. “No, I’ll try and work it out for the Globe first. Then, when I think I’ve got it plotted just right, I’ll talk to Greaves . . . that way I’ll be sure to have the story before anybody.”
We went to the party. I was feeling just fine, walking on clouds of fatuity.
The ballroom (it was, so help me, a ballroom) was a vast affair with parquet floors and huge pots of ferns and three chandeliers and a gallery where musicians played soft music. Everybody, as they say, was there.
I paid my respects to Lady Edderdale who stood with a bewildered expression beside her host, a man who had made his millions mysteriously in World War II ... no doubt stealing tires and selling them to the black market.
“Ah, yes, Mr...” she sighed as we shook hands, my name forgotten. “I have such an awful time with names but I never forget a face. When did you leave London?”
I got away as soon as I could and went through the milling throng to a dining room where a buffet, complete with four chefs, had been prepared and here, as I expected, was my light of love, gorging herself on smoked turkey and surrounded by a circle of plump, bald, dimpled batchelors.
“Peter! You could make it.”
“With you any time,” I said in my best vulgar Marlon Brando voice. The bachelors looked at me nervously; a stud trotting through a circle of horses to the nearest mare.
The mare looked particularly radiant in white and gold, wearing family diamonds which made me wonder if perhaps a marital alliance might be in order.
I glared at the bachelors and they evaporated. We were left with smoked turkey and champagne and Cole Porter from the orchestra in the ballroom and no one but people to interrupt our bliss.
“Why did you go running off like that this afternoon?” Liz looked at me curiously; I prayed for a jealous scene. But there was none. In fact, she didn’t even wait for an excuse.
“I hear it’s all over. Somebody told me Brexton won’t have a chance, that they got a full confession.”
“Are you sure?” This would be, as they said, the ultimate straw.
“No, I’m not really. It’s just the rumor going around.”
“What’re you doing after this, hon?” I spoke out of the side of my mouth; the other side was full of food.
“Tonight?” Well, I’m going home as every proper girl should.”
“Let’s go to bed.”
“Bed?” she said this in such a loud startled voice that one
of the chefs noticeably paled. “Bed?” she repeated in a lower voice. “I thought you only liked to romp among the cactuses . . . or maybe you mean a bed of nails somewhere...”
“Young women should never attempt irony,” I said coldly. “It’s not my fault that, through bad management, you haven’t been able to provide me with the wherewithal to make love properly, preferably in a gilded cage. You do have an income, don’t you?"
“I want to be loved only for my money,” she said, nodding agreeably. “After all beauty passes. Characters grow mean. But money, properly invested, is always lovable.”