“Suppose I leave now and you phone me at the hotel, say twelve o’clock.”
“That might be safer. There’s really no telling what he’ll do, and I’d better get something to eat or I might just fall asleep and not hear the phone. Yes, you go now and I’ll phone you as soon after ten as I can. You’re at the Carstairs, as usual.”
She was a bit shaky from the Martinis as she put on a negligee, and when he was leaving she took his hand and led it over her body. “That’s so you’ll come back, with another present for me. I wish you didn’t have to leave, but this makes more sense. And you know me, I’m a sensible girl.” They were the last words he was to hear from her lips. She kissed him, and gently pushed him through the door, and he heard the chain lock being replaced.
He had dinner in his room at the Carstairs after a bath and a change into pajamas and dressing-gown. He fell asleep on the counterpane while trying to give his attention to a novel called Arrowsmith, by the author of Main Street and Babbitt, books which he had rather liked. He awoke with a stiff neck, saw by his watch that it was five past eleven, and got up and washed his face. He ordered a pot of coffee from room service, and wondered how long he would have to wait for Marian Strademyer’s call. The soreness in his neck disappeared as he moved about and his blood circulated more freely, and he found that the nap had refreshed him. Immediate desire for the pleasures that might await him with Marian was in the form of curiosity. In her mood, arid in his, extreme vigor would not be essential. As he sipped his coffee and became wider awake he permitted himself only vague anticipation of the plans she had been making for the remainder of the night. On the other hand, he was willing to consider in some detail the position she might occupy in his future. He would remove her from the office and from the life of his brother, but he felt he could persuade her to become his own mistress. With Geraldine as his wife he had a definite need of a mistress; and since he had been given such a candid look at Marian’s life, an understanding based on money and mutual tolerance would surely be acceptable to her. Pen’s mistake with Marian was in making demands that were unreasonable when love was one-sided. Between Marian and George love was not present. Love? George Lockwood wondered if he had ever loved anyone but Eulalie Fenstermacher. Preposterous name. But had anyone else ever loved him? “I must be getting old,” he muttered. An amusing thought after his performance earlier in the evening and his readiness for what was to come. Aging, yes, but not old. The Lockwood men did not get old that way; he recalled the scene that had been witnessed by Agnes when his father was visited by Mrs. Downs. Men who drank too much, who did not take proper care of themselves, lost their powers and got old at fifty. George was proud of his father. “Think of the old rascal,” he muttered. And almost the best part of it was that Mrs. Downs would still want to do that to him. Mrs. Downs must have been quite a woman herself.
The night sounds of midtown East Side New York had changed, and the clock in the wall and his watch agreed that midnight had passed. Any minute now she would telephone. He put on his shoes and socks and his underwear, laid out his shirt and necktie. A delicate relationship between him and the silent telephone had come into being. He could almost see her voice coming out of the mouthpiece, although in actuality the sound of her voice would come out of the receiver. Exactly what would she say? Would she be terse and eager, languidly humorous, or very angry at Pen for delaying her? There was now no doubt that Pen had gone to her apartment, little doubt that he had made a scene. The scene may very well have been dramatic and messy, with things said that were bound to have unpleasant consequences. George was thinking of the scene in the past tense, but it very well might still be going on. The one thing he could not do was telephone her and make matters worse. Why did a man like Pen get himself into such situations?
The reading matter in the room consisted of the Gideon Bible and the Sinclair Lewis novel, and George Lockwood was not interested in the words of the prophets or in medical intrigue. He grew unreasonably angry at the Carstairs breakfast menu, which only served to remind him that he expected to have breakfast in an apartment on Murray Hill, prepared by a voluptuous young woman who wanted to please him.
And then the damned thing rang.
He lifted the receiver and took a deep breath so as not to show his impatience. “Hello?” he said.
“George! Oh, thank goodness you’re there.” The voice was Geraldine’s.
“Of course I’m here. Why are you calling me at this hour?”
“You haven’t heard. I was sure you hadn’t. Oh, George, a terrible, terrible thing has happened. A terrible thing. It’s Pen, your brother Pen and some woman in your office.”
“Make sense, woman, for God’s sake.”
“I’m trying to,” she said. “Pen killed her, shot her with a pistol and then killed himself. Your nice brother. It’s so awful, George, and I’m here alone.”
“Where did you hear this?”
“From Wilma. Wilma phoned you here about, about fifteen minutes ago. The police are there and you’ve got to go to her. What shall I do? Shall I have Andrew drive me to New York? There are no trains.”
“Stay where you are. Now let me get this straight. Wilma telephoned you, or telephoned me, and got you on the phone.”
“The police went to her house and told her that her husband had killed a woman and committed suicide. Some woman in your office. Not his secretary but the woman with the German name.”
“Miss Strademyer?”
“That’s the name, yes.”
“When did this happen? Tonight, of course,” said George.
“It must have been around ten o’clock. Wilma didn’t want to talk to me, she wanted to talk to you. You must go up there right away, George. She’s in a state of I don’t know what?”
“Did they both die right away?”
“How would I know that? They were both dead when the police got there. All that you can find out when you talk to Wilma. You don’t want me to wake up Andrew—”
“Stay where you are till I get in touch with you. Where is Ernestine?”
“Ernestine? She’s either in Rome or on her way there. Her last letter said she planned to be in Rome I think just about now. I’ll have to find her letter and check on that.”
“All right, do that tonight before you go to bed. Then get Arthur McHenry on the phone.”
“Tonight?”
“Well, first thing in the morning.”
“What will we need a lawyer for?” said Geraldine.
“Not as a lawyer, but a man who makes good sense. Don’t do anything or talk to anybody without asking Arthur. If he’s out of town get Joe Chapin, but try Arthur first. I don’t suppose you know what they did with the body?”
“Yes, it’s at the morgue. Both bodies, Wilma did say that.”
“Wilma seems to have made more sense than you’re making.”
“I can’t help it, George. I was just listening to the radio when she phoned. First I was afraid something had happened to you.”
“Thank you, but nothing’s going to happen to me.”
“Well, who’d ever think a terrible thing like this would happen to Pen? I can’t believe it. Did you know anything about this? Was he having an affair with this woman?”
“Do you think he’d murder somebody and kill himself if he wasn’t?”
“Pen might. If she refused him, he was so repressed. I always thought he was too much within himself, never let himself go. But I never for a minute thought he could be leading a double life.”