We found a pleasant inn just south of the village of East-hampton where we ate a huge breakfast. It was an odd morning with a white mist high overhead through which the sun shone diffused, bright but not concentrated.
“I love those spur-of-the-moment adventures,” said Liz, eating more eggs than I’ve ever seen a slender girl eat before.
“I hope you don’t have a great many of them.”
“As many as I can squeeze in without being untidy,” she said comfortably, leaving me to guess whether she was serious or not.
“I suppose next thing, you’ll tell me you do this all the time, in motels.”
“There’s an awfully disagreeable streak of Puritanism in you, Peter. I worry about it.”
“I just want to be able to think of you as being all mine, clean from the word go.”
“From the word go, yes.” Liz beamed at me over coffee. She was a beautiful creature, more like an act of nature than a human being ... I thought of her in elemental terms, like the wind or the sky, to wax lyrical. Usual laws of morality didn’t apply to her.
I changed the subject . . . just looking at her upset me. “How much longer do you intend to stay down here?”
Liz sighed. “Tomorrow I go back. I tried to talk them into letting me stay longer but they wouldn’t. I don’t think any magazine should try to put out issues in the hot weather. Nobody’ll read them.”
“Who reads fashion magazines? Women just buy them to look at the pictures of clothes.”
“Well, it’s an awful strain working in New York in the hot weather. I was supposed to go back yesterday but I got an extra day. When will you be back?”
“Friday. I’ll have to stay here for the Special Court, to testify. I’ll go back to New York right afterwards.”
“What an interesting week end it turned out to be,” said Liz, putting ice from her drinking glass into her coffee cup. “I don’t know why I never ask for iced coffee when I hate it hot. Peter, do you really think Brexton’s innocent?”
I nodded.
“But if he didn’t do it, who did?”
“Somebody else.”
“Oh, don’t be sillyl Who could possibly have done it?” “Somebody with a motive.”
“Well, you must have some idea who it was if you’re so certain it wasn’t Brexton.”
“Oh, I know who did it all right.” And I did. I had known for nearly half an hour.
Liz’s eyes grew round. “You mean you’re sitting right here having breakfast with me like this and you know who killed Mrs. Brexton and Claypoole?”
“I can’t see what having breakfast with you has to do with it but, yes, I know who the murderer is. Thanks to you."
“To me?” What have I done?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
Liz looked at me as though she wasn’t sure whether or not to telephone for a squad of men in white. She tried the practical approach. “What’re you going to do about it now that you think you know everything?”
"Now that I know, not think. I’m sure. I have to tie up some ends first. Even then I may not be able to prove what I know.”
“Oh, Peter, tell me! Who is it?”
“Not on your life.” I paid for breakfast and stood up. “Come on, dear. I’ve got to take you home.”
“I have never in my life known such a sadist.” Liz was furious and persistent but I wouldn’t tell her anything. She hardly spoke to me when wre pulled up in front of the North Dunes and I got out. She slid haughtily into the driver’s seat. “It’s been very nice, Mr. Sargeant.”
“I’ve had a swell time too.”
“Beast!” And Liz wheeled out of the driveway on two wheels, the gears screeching with agony. Smiling to myself, I went into the house. I had a tough day ahead of me.
3
No one but the butler was in sight when I arrived. He bade me good morning and made no comment about my night out. I went upstairs to my bedroom and immediately telephoned Miss Flynn.
“I have undertaken the Tasks assigned,” she said, in her stately way. “The following are the Results of my Herculean Labors.” She gave me several pieces of information; one was supremely useful. I told her to expect me Friday afternoon and, after a bit of business, we rang off.
I was surprisingly calm. The identity of the killer had come to me that morning with Liz. Something she said had acted like a catalyst: everything fell into place at once ... all those bits of disconnected information and supposition had, with one phrase, been fused into a whole and I knew with certainty what had happened, and why.
I packed my suitcase; then I went downstairs and left it in the hall. I was not going to spend another night in this house.
On the terrace, watching the mist grow dense, become fog, 116
was Miss Lung. She was sitting quite alone with a brilliant Guatemala shawl about her shoulders.
She jumped when I approached. “Oh, Mr. Sargeant. What a start you gave me! A little bird told me you didn't come home last night.”
“The little bird was on the beam,” I said, sitting down beside her. “Looks like a storm coming up.”
She nodded. We both looked out to sea, or rather at the line of gun-metal gray breakers: the horizon was gone already and fog was rolling in from the sea in billows. It was suddenly chilly, and uncomfortably damp.
“We have had such lovely weather,” said Miss Lung nostalgically. “I suppose this must be the end of summer. It comes like this, doesn’t it, all at once.”
“Not until later, about the time of the equinox,” I said absently, watching her out of the corner of my eye. She was unusually pale, her book-chat manner entirely discarded. I could almost imagine the slender good-looking woman imprisoned beneath the layers of fat and disappointment. “You were very fond of Mr. Claypoole, weren’t you?”
“What makes you ask?” She looked at me, startled.
“I’m curious about this case, that’s all. I’ve always thought there were some very important facts the police didn't know.”
“I’m sure there’s a great deal of importance the police don't know,” said Miss Lung sharply. “And I’m in favor of keeping them ignorant, aren’t you?”
“In general, yes. That was what you meant, though, wasn’t it? About not wanting too close an investigation . . . you remember the other day when you told me...”
“Yes, I remember. I have nothing criminal to hide. It’s certainly no secret about Fletcher and me. I’m sure if it hadn't been for Allie (whom I adore, believe me) we might have married once. She wouldn’t let him; then Mildred tried, and failed too . . . that’s all.”
“Yet why should that bother you? I mean what difference would it make if it should all come to light, about you and Fletcher?”
Miss Lung paused before answering; then she said, with an odd look in her eyes, “I’ll tell you exactly what I feared, Mr. Sargeant, but you must promise me never to refer to this to anyone, certainly never to write about it in the press. Do you promise?”
“Well . . . yes, I promise.”
“I was afraid that if the police should start prying around in our past, Fletcher’s, Paul’s, mine, they would sooner or later discover that Paul Brexton painted me, fifteen years ago, in the . . . well the altogether. You must know that I have fans everywhere in the United States and Canada and if that painting should ever come to light and be reproduced in the Yellow Press I would be absolutely finished as the authoress of ‘Book-Chat.’ You see now my fear of investigation?”
It was all I could do to keep from laughing. “I see exactly what it is you feared. As a matter of fact, I did hear about the painting.”