On the street, she found a cab and was going home in it when it occurred to her that she ought to be going, instead, to Hester’s. If anyone were at home, it would probably be only Lester, and Lester, although a dear boy, would be of no value in a crisis like this, and might actually, on the contrary, be a positive hindrance. Hester, however, was another proposition entirely. Hester was cool and clever and thought of things. Flo was about to lean forward and give the driver new directions, but she realized then that there was no justification for assuming that Hester would be at home this time of night, since she rarely was, and it would be better, on second thought, to call and find out before going there. If Hester were at home, she might even be prevailed upon to come to Flo’s instead of the other way around.
Hester, as it developed, was not at home. She was right at Flo’s all the time, which just shows you that it is possible for things to break good right in the middle of breaking bad. Hester and Lester, neither having anything better to do, were drinking gimlets and listening to recordings on the stereo. This wasn’t much to be doing, admittedly, but Hester, who had been busy, had simply neglected to make proper arrangements, and Lester, who had been in communication with King Louie again, couldn’t think of any other place that would be safer under the circumstances. When Flo entered, Hester rolled off her stomach and sat up on the floor, where she had been lying.
“Mother,” she said, “where have you been?”
“Hello, darling,” Flo said. “You can’t imagine how glad I am that you are here. I’ve been to dinner with a man.”
“In that case, why are you home so early? You must have eaten and run.”
“I ran without eating, to tell the truth, and that’s what I want to talk with you about!”
“There’s no good in talking with me about it. You simply have to run from some men, that’s all. Unless, of course, you choose to be agreeable. I must say, however, that most of them can at least wait until after dinner.”
“That’s not what I mean, Hester.” Flo sat down and took a deep breath and held it several seconds, which was a little trick she practiced to calm her nerves. “This man was hardly in a condition to make advances.”
“Why not? He must have been dead.”
“That’s exactly what he was. How on earth did you know?”
“Oh, come, Mother. Why must you exaggerate everything? Tell me the truth.”
“Hester, you can’t exaggerate death. It’s impossible.”
“What man are you talking about?”
“Willis Brewster.”
“Brewster!” Lester, who had been brooding silently to the accompaniment of a piano and a clarinet and a bass fiddle, turned his head and stared at Flo owl-eyed. “You mean you went to dinner with old Brewster!”
“That’s what I said. Lester, why don’t you listen? I’m not in a humor to repeat everything.”
“By God, it’s incredible. Why would you go to dinner with old Brewster? For that matter, why would anybody?”
“Well, it’s all the fault of you and Hester. You kept egging me on to corrupt him for the good of the family, and I’ve been trying. With surprising success, too, I might add.”
“We didn’t egg you on to have dinner with him. That’s a bit too much to ask of your own mother.”
“Oh, he wasn’t too bad, really. Quite lively and full of interesting ideas. Anyhow, Brewster is dead. I went to his apartment to have dinner, and there he is at this instant lying behind the sofa with his head knocked in.”
“His head knocked in!” said Hester. “Killed?”
“That’s what I said. Didn’t I? At least, I meant to say it.”
“Mother, don’t you have any restraint whatever? You didn’t have to go to the extreme of having dinner with old Brewster, as Lester said, but what’s more to the point, you didn’t have to kill him.”
“I didn’t kill him. Why should I?”
“For the same reason anyone else might have,” said Lester. “Because he was a sour old devil who frequently needed it.”
“However that may be, I didn’t do it.”
“If you didn’t,” Hester said, “who did?”
“I don’t know. Someone else.”
“I wonder,” Lester said, “if it could have been Uncle Homer? He was always threatening old Brewster with some kind of violence.”
“If so, Homer will simply have to get out of it the best he can. I am concerned with getting out of it myself.”
“You’re already out of it, aren’t you? Did anyone see you there, or anything?”
“I don’t think so. After I decided not to call the police, I just came away. Was it the right thing, Hester?”
“We will see in good time whether it was or not. Mother, I wish you wouldn’t get into such difficulties. I have enough to think about as it is.”
“I was only trying to help. It’s unkind of you, Hester, to criticize me for doing what you and Lester kept urging me to do.”
“Well, you might have used a little more discretion about it. However, there is no good in crying over spilled milk.”
“What I want to know is what else I should do. Is there anything?”
“Not that I can think of. Old Brewster will be found after a while, and we will see what develops then. What worries me is that everything seems to be getting out of hand. In the beginning, Senorita Fogarty was the only one we wanted eliminated, but everyone else is being eliminated, one by one, instead. It’s all very confusing, I must say.”
17
While Flo did nothing, the police were doing something. If they did not actually get started until the next morning, it was only because Brewster was not brought to their attention until then. Their attention was requested by the superintendent of the apartment building, whose own attention had been dramatically requested by a maid who was part of a housekeeping service offered for a fee to interested tenants. Armed with an electric sweeper, a bundle of rags and a bottle of furniture polish, she had entered Brewster’s quarters at nine o’clock, expecting him to be abroad on his business, and had found him, instead, still lying behind the sofa where Flo had left him. The maid, once comprehension set in, abandoned her equipment and took off down the hall making a noise very much like a siren. She was intercepted by the superintendent, who was on patrol in the hall, and it was only a short while thereafter when an official squad under the command of Detective-Lieutenant Sylvester Bones appeared on the scene. Two hours later, following a preliminary investigation that culminated in the removal of Brewster to more appropriate quarters, Lieutenant Bones, like a bird dog on a scent, was ringing the bell at Flo’s.
As a matter of observation, Bones looked somewhat like a bird dog. He was long and lean, and he had sad brown eyes lined up between a pair of generous ears that appeared to be constantly on the verge of flapping. In addition, his nose had a disconcerting habit of twitching periodically. This was really a kind of tic, but it looked like sniffing, and the tendency was to give him credit for sensory skills that he did not in fact have. The bell was answered by Flo, summoned by it from the kitchen, where she had been in the act of spooning coffee into a pot to start her day.
“Mrs. Jarbelo?” said Bones.
That was Flo’s last name, carried over from her departed husband, and she acknowledged it.
“If you’re selling something,” she added, “there is nothing I want to buy, and besides, there’s a rule against salesmen. There’s a sign in the lobby that says so.”
“I’m not a salesman. I’m a policeman. My name is Lieutenant Bones. May I come in and talk with you?”