She raised her glass. The steady tremor in her hand made the brown liquor slosh around among the ice cubes. As if to demonstrate her self-control, she barely sipped at it. I sipped at mine, leaned on my elbow across the formica counter in the attitude of a bartender with a willing ear.
“What was the trouble, Isobel?”
“Trouble? You mean with Carl Stern?”
“Yes. He got pretty rough.”
“He hurt me,” she said, without self-pity. A taste of whisky had changed her mood, as a touch of acid will change the color of blue litmus paper. “Interesting medical facts. I bruise very easily.” She exhibited her arms. “I bet my entire body is covered with bruises.”
“Why would Stern do it to you?”
“People like him are sadists, at least a lot of them are.”
“You know a lot of them?”
“I’ve known my share. I attract them, apparently, I don’t know why. Or maybe I do know why. Women like me, we don’t expect too much. I don’t expect anything.”
“Lance Leonard one of them?”
“How should I know? I guess so. I hardly knew – I hardly knew the little mackerel.”
“He used to be a lifeguard here.”
“I don’t mess with lifeguards,” she said harshly. “What is this? I thought we were going to be friends, I thought we were going to have fun. I never have any fun.”
“Any more.”
She didn’t think it was funny. “They lock me up and punish me, it isn’t fair,” she said. “I did one terrible thing in my life, and now they blame me for everything that happens. Stern’s a filthy liar. I never touched his lover-boy, I didn’t even know that he was dead. Why would I shoot him? I have enough on my conscious – on my conscience.”
“Such as?”
She peered at my face. Hers was as stiff as a board. “Such as, you’re trying to pump me, aren’t you, such as? Trying to dig things out of me?”
“Yes, I am. What terrible thing did you do?”
Something peculiar happened to her face. One of her eyes became narrow and sly, one became hard and wide. On the sly side, her upper lip lifted and her white teeth gleamed under it. She said: “I’m a naughty, naughty, naughty girl. I watched them doing it. I stood behind the door and watched them doing it. Miracles of modern science. And I was in the room and behind the door.”
“What did you do?”
“I killed my mother.”
“How?”
“By wishing,” she said slyly. “I wished my mother to death. Does that take care of your questions, Mr. Questionnaire? Are you a psychiatrist? Did Simon hire you?”
“The answer is no and no.”
“I killed my father, too. I broke his heart. Shall I tell you my other crimes? It’s quite a decalogue. Envy and malice and pride and lust and rage. I’d sit at home and plan his death, by hanging, burning, shooting, drowning, poison. I’d sit at home and imagine him with them, all the young girls with their bodies and waving white legs. I sat at home and tried to have men friends. It never seemed to work out. They were exhausted by the heat and cold or else I frightened them. One of them told me I frightened him, the lousy little nance. They’d drink up my liquor and never come back.” She sipped from her glass. “Go ahead,” she said. “Drink up your liquor.”
“Drink up yours, Isobel. I’ll take you home. Where do you live?”
“Quite near here, on the beach. But I’m not going home. You won’t make me go home, will you? I haven’t been to a party for so long. Why don’t we go and dance? I am very ugly to look at, but I am a good dancer,”
“You are very beautiful, but I am a lousy dancer.”
“I’m ugly,” she said. “You mustn’t mock me. I know how ugly I am. I was born ugly through and through, and nobody ever loved me.”
The door opened behind her, swinging wide. Simon Graff appeared in the opening. His face was stony.
“Isobel! What kind of Walpurgisnacht is this? What are you doing here?”
Her reaction was slow, almost measured. She turned and rose from the stool. Her body was tense and insolent. The drink was shaking in her hand.
“What am I doing? I’m telling my secrets. I’m telling all my dirty little secrets to my dear friend.”
“You fool. Come home with me.”
He took several steps toward her. She threw her glass at his head. It missed him and dented the wall beside the door. Some of the liquid spattered his face.
“Crazy woman,” he said. “You come home now with me. I will call Dr. Frey.”
“I don’t have to go with you. You’re not my father.” She turned to me, the look of lopsided cunning still on her face. “Do I have to go with him?”
“I don’t know. Is he your legal guardian?”
Graff answered: “Yes, I am. You will keep out of this.” He said to her: “There is nothing but grief for you, for all of us, if you try to break loose from me. You would be really lost.” There was a new quality in his voice, a largeness and a darkness and an emptiness.
“I’m lost now. How lost can a woman get?”
“You will find out, Isobel. Unless you come with me and do as I say.”
“Svengali,” I said. “Very old-hat.”
“Keep out of this, I warn you.” I felt his glance like an icicle parting my hair. “This woman is my wife.”
“Lucky her.”
“Who are you?”
I told him.
“What are you doing in this club, at this party?”
“Watching the animals.”
“I expect a specific answer.”
“Try using a different tone, and you might get one.” I came around the end of the bar and stood beside Isobel Graff. “You’ve been spoiled by all those yes-men in your life. I happen to be a no-man.”
He looked at me in genuine shock. Maybe he hadn’t been contradicted for years. Then he remembered to be angry, and turned on his wife: “Did he come here with you?”
“No.” She sounded intimidated. “I thought he was one of your guests.”
“What is he doing in this cabaña?”
“I offered him a drink. He helped me. A man hit me.” Her voice was monotonous, threaded by a whine of complaint.
“What man hit you?”
“Your friend Carl Stern,” I said. “He slapped her around and pushed her down. Bassett and I threw him out.”
“You threw him out?” Graff’s alarm turned to anger, which he directed against his wife again: “You permitted this, Isobel?”
She hung her head and assumed an awkward, ugly posture, standing on one leg like a schoolgirl.
“Didn’t you hear me, Graff? Or don’t you object to thugs pushing your wife around?”
“I will look after my wife in my own way. She is mentally disturbed, sometimes she requires to be firmly handled. You are not needed. Get out.”
“I’ll finish my drink first, thank you.” I added conversationally: “What did you do with George Wall?”
“George Wall? I know no George Wall.”
“Your strong-arm boys do – Frost and Marfeld and Lashman.”
The names piqued his interest. “Who is this George Wall?”
“Hester’s husband.”
“I am not acquainted with any Hester.”
His wife gave him a swift, dark look, but said nothing. I fixed him with my steeliest glance and tried to stare him down. It didn’t work. His eyes were like holes in a wall; you looked through them into a great, dim, empty place.
“You’re a liar, Graff.”
His face turned purple and white. He went to the door and called Bassett in a loud, trembling voice. When Bassett appeared, Graff said: “I want this man thrown out. I don’t permit party-crashers–”
“Mr. Archer is not exactly a party-crasher,” Bassett said coolly.