“Oh, you and Sherry should have compared notes,” said Dorothy.
And so on. But when the grandfather’s clock in the hall boomed out the hour and they all realized that it was ten, not nine, Dorothy got to her feet. “I had no idea it was so late, and we have a big day tomorrow, Wilma,” said Dorothy.
“I’ll go upstairs with you,” said Geraldine.
“I’ll be up after a while,” said Wilma. “Bing is going to fix me a highball, aren’t you, Bing?”
“If you say so,” said Bing.
“Well, then I’ll say goodnight to you two,” said George. “But don’t keep your Aunt Wilma up too late. We’re all rather tired, you know. Goodnight, Wilma.” He kissed her cheek. “Goodnight, son. I think we’ll all want to have breakfast at eight-thirty. In your rooms, if you like, but Arthur McHenry is coming here at ten, Wilma.”
He went upstairs with Dorothy and Geraldine, and said goodnight to them on the second-story landing. He went to his dressing-room, closed the door, and undressed. He was tired, but not sleepy. With the exception of Dorothy James, they were a disquieting lot, and he had seen enough of them for one day. More than enough, in the case of his cocky son and his drunken sister-in-law. For the moment he had seen enough of Geraldine, too, but he was accustomed to her, and whenever he wanted to, he could get away from her for a few days. Unprepared by the immediate train of thought, he found that he was thinking of his brother; now, for the first time, came a full realization of the death of Pen. Until now, until he could think of Pen as a lifeless body deep in a grave and covered with patted-down earth, the fact of Pen’s death had been incomplete. The murder and suicide, the events succeeding them, carried with them a vitality of their own; but Pen in a grave was flesh and blood that was his flesh and blood and a cold reminder of the unacceptable inevitable. For the very first time in his life, George Lockwood believed that he could die, too. As he considered his life at the moment, he very nearly wanted to—and then he thought of Ernestine. He had always loved her, in a formal way, but now she meant something else to him. He wondered if he would be making a mistake to send for her. It would be a great mistake if she were to offer some plausible reason for not coming.
Through the closed door he could hear the tiny strain of music from Geraldine’s radio, just enough to make him aware of her futile presence. All she was now was the thin sound of a saxophone, playing an unrecognizable tune in a dance-hall in Detroit, Michigan. In other times she would be other things, but she was only that now. He had a book in his lap, a copy of Life on the Mississippi, which he knew well enough to open anywhere and close any time. It was one of a dozen such books that he kept in his dressing-room; they did not make demands to interfere with cogitation, and they did not keep him awake. The thin sound of Geraldine’s radio had faded away, and the hall clock struck eleven. It was possible that he had dozed off, and he was not sure. He went out into the hallway; all the lights that had been on were still on, on the second story and on the first. He listened outside Geraldine’s door, and heard nothing.
He returned to his dressing-room and locked the door from the inside. He kicked off his bedroom slippers and slid open the panel that guarded the hidden stairway. He went down to his study and let himself in, so far unobserved and unobservable to anyone in the hall. He opened the study door cautiously, and now he heard Wilma’s voice. He could not make out what she was saying, and then as he continued to listen he realized that she was not saying anything. The sounds she was making were murmurs of pleasure. He moved closer to the doorway of the little room and looked in. There on the deep sofa was Wilma, and his son was sucking her breast. She was stroking the top of his head. “Now me you,” she said. Quickly George Lockwood returned to his study and made his way back to his dressing-room.
They had been leading up to it all evening, but George Lockwood had never been sure that they themselves knew it. He was now sure that Dorothy James had known it. Funny little Dorothy James had probably known it from the moment Bing arrived at his father’s house, and known it with such conviction that she had abandoned hope of frustrating it. George Lockwood put on his slippers and went to Geraldine’s room. She was asleep, but he stayed.
In the morning they all breakfasted at their various times and occupied themselves until Arthur McHenry completed his business and the others were ready to leave. Bing’s borrowed Cadillac was at the front door, and Dorothy James and Wilma Lockwood were settling in the back seat. Geraldine was standing at the rear door of the automobile, engaging in the last-minute conversation between hostess and parting guests. George Lockwood was standing in the driveway, on the other side of the car.
His son went to him, hand outstretched. “Well, Father, I don’t know when we’ll be seeing each other again,” he said.
George Lockwood did not immediately speak. He looked at his son steadily. “You must be very proud of yourself,” he said.
Bing frowned. “What?”
“I said, you must be very proud of yourself.”
Bing looked away. “I could cut my throat,” said Bing.
“But you won’t,” said his father.
“No, I won’t,” said Bing. He got in the car and closed the door.
Geraldine linked her arm with her husband’s and they waved at the car until it had passed through the gate. “Well, that’s over,” said Geraldine.
BOOK •3•
ONE
GEORGE LOCKWOOD was now ready to devote more time and thought to his daughter Ernestine, and in this he was assisted by Pen Lockwood’s last will and testament. It was a simple document, as simple as Pen had always appeared to be, and yet it contained two bequests that were as puzzling to George as any departure from routine on Pen’s part was apt to be. In a man as simple as Pen, the slightest deviation became an eccentricity.
In his will Pen established an iron-bound trust fund for Wilma. The income was to go to her throughout her lifetime, and upon her death two-thirds of the principal was to go to Princeton, and one-third to St. Bartholomew’s. So far, a conventional, Pen-like document. But the surprises were in two bequests of $50,000 each to be paid to his nephew, George B. Lockwood Junior, and his niece, Ernestine Lockwood. These were to be paid in cash as soon as practicable after his death.
Pen’s gross estate was estimated to be in the neighborhood of $1,800,000, and the bequests to his nephew and niece were therefore not likely to make a conspicuous dent in the bulk of his fortune. Nevertheless the thinking behind the bequests was puzzling to George. Pen had been fond of his nephew and niece, and they of him, and a polite token of their mutual affection was more or less to be expected. Ten thousand dollars apiece would have served that purpose; fifty thousand, to be paid in cash before the establishment of Wilma’s trust fund, was quite another matter; especially since Pen had known that his nephew and niece had inherited about $400,000 apiece from their Lockwood grandfather, and in all probability would some day inherit from George. Why did Pen Lockwood feel impelled to supply his brother’s children with so much ready cash?
The date of the will did not make the puzzle easier. It had been signed eight months before Pen’s death, or at a time in which Pen could have had knowledge of Bing’s prosperity and was quite definitely aware that Ernestine preferred New York and Europe to Swedish Haven. Certainly she had made no secret of her intention to live what she called her own life, and her attitude toward Geraldine was one of hostility that remained quiescent so long as they did not have to be in the same house for more than a week at a time. Ernestine had a room of her own in the Swedish Haven house, and Geraldine was careful not to disturb its contents, but it had seldom been occupied. Presumably Pen had been told of Ernestine’s distaste for her stepmother, and even if he had only guessed it, the guess was not extraordinarily shrewd.