“Yours improperly invested? In gilt-edged or at least deckle-edged securities?”
“Yes, but I didn’t know you cared.”
“So much so that I am willing to put you up for the night at the New Arcadia Motel, a center of illicit sexuality only a few miles from here.”
“What will my family say?”
“That you are wanton. The money’s in your name, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes, Mummy had her second husband make me a trust fund . . . sweet, wasn't it?”
“Depends entirely on the amount.” I started to put my arm stealthily around her when Elmer Bush came roaring down upon us.
“How’s the boy? . . . say now! Is this the same pretty little girl I met today on the beach, Miss Liz Bessemer?”
“The same pretty little girl,” agreed Liz with a dazzling smile. “And this, I suppose, is still the famed Elmer Bush who, through the courtesy of Wheat-mushlets, is heard over N.B.C. once a week?”
That slowed him up. “Quite a bright little girl, isn’t she, Pete? You’re some picker, boy. Well, I guess lucky in love unlucky in crime. Ha! Ha!” While we were doubled up with merry laughter at this sally, Liz stole quietly away.
“Say, didn’t mean to barge in on you and the girl friend.” Elmer positively smacked his lips as he followed Liz with his eyes as she strolled into the ballroom: all eyes were upon her, her shoulders bare and smooth above the white and gold dress.
“No, Elmer, I’d rather see you any day.”
“Some kidder.” Elmer was perfunctory now that there was no one around to impress except me and he knew of course I wasn’t one of his fans. “Want you to do me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“I’d like to get an interview with Mrs. Veering. I can’t get through to her. She’s playing hard to get... God knows why since she’s a real publicity hound. Now if you would ...”
“But Elmer, we’re rivals.” I pretended surprise. “After all I’m still trying to get myself out of a hole...”
“This is for the Globe. Not for me.” He stood there, noble, 112
self-sacrificing. ... I half expected to hear the soft strains of the Marseillaise in the background.
“Well, I’m sorry, Elmer, but you’ll have to get her on your own.”
“Now look here, Sargeant, I've been sent here by the Globe, same paper that’s been paying you for those dumb articles on why Brexton didn’t do the murder. I can tell you one thing: you don’t stand any too well around the office. Now if I tell them you’ve been cooperative, really helpful, they might not write you off as a complete loss.” He stared at me, hard and menacing, the way he does when he attacks the enemies of a certain senator who is trying to root out corruption and Communists.
“Elmer,” I said quietly, “I hate you. I have always hated you. I will always continue to hate you. There is nothing I would not do to show you the extent and beauty of my hatred. I would throw you a rock if you were drowning. I would . .
“Always the kidder,” said Elmer with a mechanical smile to show that he knew I was joking. “Well, I’m not kidding. The paper expects you to cooperate. If you don’t you might just as well give up all ideas of working for them again.”
“Suppose I’m right?” I was getting tired of him fast but I realized my situation was hopeless anyway if I didn’t produce the real story, and soon. He was out to cut my throat, as they say in the profession.
“That Brexton didn’t kill his wife and Claypoole?” Elmer looked at me pityingly.
“I wouldn’t bank too much on Claypoole’s accusation, before he died.” My shot in the dark hit the target.
Elmer blinked. “Know about that, eh?”
“That’s right. I also know the prosecution is going to build its case on Claypoole having said Brexton murdered his wife...”
“He told the whole story to the police the day he was murdered.” Elmer looked smug, just as though he had done it all himself with his little hatchet. I was glad to hear my guess confirmed. Elmer had served his purpose.
2
“I’m sure they’ll check up on me, just to be unpleasant.” Liz sat with nothing on in front of the dressing table, arranging her hair: she is one of those women who do their hair and face before dressing. I lay on the bed, blissful, enjoying the morning sun which fell in a bar of light across my belly. It had been an excellent night . . . morning too. Nothing disturbed me.
“What do you care?” I said, yawning.
“I don’t really.” I watched her shoulder blades as she made mysterious passes at her hair and face, her back to me. “It’s just that when I said I was staying with friends in Southampton I shouldn’t’ve mentioned Anna Trees. They’re bound to see her and my aunt will ask her about my overnight stay and ...”
“And you’re worrying too much. Besides, I’m sure your aunt would approve of the New Arcadia. Clean sheets. Private bathroom. View of a roadhouse and U.S. Route One as well as the company of a red-blooded American boy. , . . Come here.”
“Not a chance in the world, Peter.” She rose with dignity and slipped on her silk pants. “You’ve had your kicks, as they say . . . brutish, prancing goat...”
“I never prance.” I wanted her again but she had other plans. Sadly, I got up myself and went into the bathroom to take a shower. When I came out, Liz was fully dressed and going through the wastebasket in the preoccupied way women have when they are minding some one else’s business.
“Ah, ah,” I said sharply, the way you do to a child. “Might find something dirty. Don’t touch.”
“Nonsense.” Liz pulled out a newspaper and a cigarette butt. “Just as I thought: marijuana. I thought I smelled something peculiar.”
“Well, don’t touch it. I thought all women were mortally afraid of germs.”
“Stop generalizing.” Liz dropped the butt back into the wastebasket and opened the newspaper absently. I got dressed.
A sharp sound from Liz halted me. “Is this Claypoole?” she asked, holding up the paper for me to see.
I took it from her. It was a Monday edition of The Journal American. There were several photographs of the principals involved in our local killing. One was of Claypoole. I nodded, giving her the paper back; I combed my hair in the dusty mirror. “What about it?”
“Well, I know him.”
“Kn ew him. So what? A lot of people did.”
“No, but I saw him only recently. I didn’t really know him but I think I met him ... or ran into him, or something.” She paused, confused, poring over the newspaper intently. “I know!” She squealed.
“Well?”
“It was Sunday night, at the Club . . . before I went on to Evan Evans’ party. I dropped in with some people, with a boy I know. We looked around just to see who was there. It was dead, you know the way Sunday night is, so I had my escort drive me over to Evan’s . . . anyway, before I left I remembered seeing him. Claypoole, ever so distictly. He was awfully good-looking in an older way; I noticed him because he was by himself, in a plain suit. Everybody else was dressed. He was standing all alone in the door which opens onto the terrace...”
“You didn’t speak to him?”
“No, I just caught the one glimpse.”
“What time was it?”
“Time? Well, not much after twelve thirty.”
I was excited. “You realize that you may be the last person to’ve seen him alive?”
“Really?” She was properly impressed. “I don’t suppose it proves anything, does it? He must’ve strolled over from the North Dunes. Peter, I’m starved, let’s get some breakfast.”
Stealthily, we left the New Arcadia Motel, the way hundreds of couples every week did, their unions blessed only by the gods of love, the sterner bonds of society momentarily severed or ignored.