“You see? Already people have begun to talk about it! Ever since this hideous business started I’ve been in mortal dread of someone unearthing that picture. In my last conversation with Paul before he was taken to jail, I implored him to keep silent on that subject, come what may.”
“I’m sure he will. I hear, by the way, it was quite a good painting.”
“I was not ever thus,” said Miss Lung, with a brief return to her sly-boots self.
We chatted a while longer. Then I went into the house. Everything was shaping up nicely. So nicely that I was scared to death.
On the second floor, I slipped into Brexton’s room. No one saw me. The room had been straightened and now looked perfectly ordinary. I checked the lock of the door to what had been Allie’s room (another key replaced the one the prosecution had taken for an exhibit) ; the lock worked smoothly. Then I went to the window and examined the screen. As I expected, there were scratches on the sill, at either comer. Long regular scars in the weathered wood. Tentatively, I pressed my finger against the screen: it was loose. I was not able to check the other windows for, as I was about to enter Allie’s room, Mrs. Veering appeared in the doorway.
“Mr. Sargeant!” She seemed genuinely surprised. “What are you doing in there?”
“I ... I was just looking for something,” I stammered stupidly.
“In this room? I can’t think what,” she said flatly, as though suspecting me of designs on the flat silver. “Mary Western told me you were back. I’d like to talk to you.”
“Certainly.” We went downstairs to her alcove off the drawing room.
She was all business, a tumbler of Dubonnet on the desk in front of her. “I’ve decided to go ahead with the party,” she said.
I was surprised. “I thought . . .”
“At first, I thought it would be in bad taste. Now I think I can’t afford to back out of it. People expect one to carry on.” She took a long swallow of Dubonnet, carrying on.
“You may be right,” I said. “I’m afraid though I won’t be able to handle it. I’m due in New York Friday. , . .”
“Oh. Well, I’m sorry. If it’s a matter of fee...” She seemed disturbed by my refusal.
“No, it’s not that at all. I just have an awful lot of work piling up and ...” I made a series of glib and, I hoped, plausible excuses. I couldn't tell her my real reason; she would find out soon enough.
“I’m very sorry. I hope at least you’ll still be kind enough to advise me now.”
I said that I would and we had a brisk business talk in which I confided to her what I’d felt all along: that she was quite capable of mapping out a publicity campaign on her own. She took this without elation or demur.
“Thank you. I do my best. As you probably know, I have had certain difficulties lately.” She looked at me shrewdly to see how I’d react; I didn't bat an eye; I looked at her as though it was the first I’d heard of these troubles.
She continued, satisfied apparently with my silence. “People have actually started a rumor that I’ve been wiped out financially. Well, it isn’t true and for that reason I don’t dare not give this party. I sent the invitations out this morning.”
So that was it. She was spending Mildred’s money before she got it. I couldn’t blame her under the circumstances . . . it was an act of God.
4
To my surprise Allie Claypoole and Greaves showed up together for lunch.
She was pale and she walked as though she were unsure of her legs, like an invalid new-risen. Greaves was jubilant in a restrained, official way.
“Certainly is nice to see everybody like this," he said. “Not official or anything like that.”
“WeTe always happy to see you, Mr. Greaves,” said Mrs. Veering smoothly from the head of the table. The butler passed champagne around. It was quite a luncheon.
Randan and Allie sat next to each other and talked in low voices through most of the lunch while the rest of us either listened to Mary Western Lung or drank our champagne in silence.
It wasn't until dessert that I was able to turn to Greaves who was on my left and ask a question which could not be heard by the rest of the table: Miss Lung was loudly recounting a bit of scandal which had taken place at a meeting of the Ladies' Paintbox and Typewriter Club.
“What did the knife look like?" I asked in a low voice.
Greaves looked surprised. “Knife?”
“Yes, the one they found beside Claypoole. I never got a close look at it.”
“Just an ordinary knife, very sharp. A kind of kitchen knife with a bone handle and Brexton’s initials on it.”
“Initials?” That was it! “Were they prominent?”
“Yes, they were pretty big. What’re you up to, Sargeant?” He looked at me suspiciously.
“I may have a surprise for you.”
“Like what?” ’
“Like the real killer.”
Greaves snorted. “We got him and don’t you go rocking the boat. We have enough trouble without your interference. Elmer Bush’s told me about the way you operate. I told him if you tried anything . . .”
“Elmer is my best friend,” I said, hardly able to contain my delight, “One other question and then I’m through. Sunday morning Claypoole said he went to the olhn Drew Theater to look at the paintings. Well, I happen to know the theater was closed that morning, I figure he went to see you.
“What if he did?” Greaves squirmed uncomfortably.
“I have a hunch he drove over to Riverhead and told you Brexton murdered his wife. I believe your District Attorney, misled by you, is building his case and political ruin on that visit.”
“I don’t like your tone, Sargeant.” Greaves had turned very red. “But since you know so much already I’ll tel! you that, yes, Claypoole came to see me and he accused Brexton. I don’t think Brexton knew it . . . that’s why he killed him that same night, to keep him quiet, not knowing it was already too late. I should’ve acted right away. I realize that now but I didn’t think anything could happen in a house with two M.C.I. men on hand. Anyway it’s all over. Nobody can save your friend Brexton,” said Greaves, quietly folding his napkin and placing it beside his plate.
“He’s not my friend; he’s also not your clay pigeon, Greaves.”
“Now look here...” but Mrs. Veering had got to her feet; she led us all into the drawing room for coffee.
I got Allie Claypoole away from Randan for a moment. “You’re not giving in, are you?”
“About Paul?” She sighed and sat down shakily. I sat down beside her. “I don’t know what to think. Greaves has been with me all morning. He’s trying to make me believe Paul tried to murder me but I can’t ... I just won't believe it.”
“Good,” I said. “You stick by what you feel. You’re right.” She clenched her slender white hands into two fists. “But if Paul didn’t who could've done it?”
"The same person who killed your brother.”
“Do you know who it is?”
I nodded. She looked at me with real terror in her eyes. Then Greaves, suspecting I might be intimidating a valuable witness, joined us and I excused myself.
I was about to go telephone 1770 House to see if they might have a room for the night when Randan, with a smirk, said: “What happened to you and Liz? Suddenly you both just disappeared and Miss Lung tells me you didn’t come home at all last night. I looked around for you when I left but you’d gone by then.”
“Miss Bessemer and I spent the night with the Times crossword puzzle at the New Arcadia Motel,” I said and walked away.