“Wilma, you’re quite a remarkable woman,” said George. “I was dreading this.”
“Did you think I’d be hysterical? Well, I was, before you got here. Or nearly hysterical. Hysterical for me. I’d gone to bed early and was half asleep when Norman knocked on my door and said there were detectives downstairs. Detectives downstairs and police out in front of the house. Those first few minutes I don’t remember very well. I couldn’t tell you which detective told me about Pen, or what I said, or did, or anything. Poor Norman, he’s not used to that sort of thing either, and I’m sure he’d been having a quiet nip. Estelle, my maid, had the night off to visit her sister in the Bronx. The chambermaid stayed out of sight, and I’m going to fire her. My cook was no help either, but she’s slightly deaf and every night when she’s finished her work she retires to her room. She’s very religious. Has a little altar in her room and spends a great deal of her time in prayer. She goes to the Mass every morning, every single morning.”
“Fortunately you had Dorothy James in the neighborhood.”
She hesitated. “A godsend, Dorothy. But I had to have a man to help me, and the only person I could think of was my financial adviser.”
“I didn’t even know you had one. I suppose I took for granted that Pen handled those matters for you.”
“He did, for the most part, but I’ve been playing the stock market, just like everyone else,” she said.
“Oh, I see,” said George.
She looked at him. “You can stare me down, George.”
“I wasn’t trying to, Wilma.”
“He’s not my financial adviser. He’s my lover. He lives at Seventy-seventh and Park, and he came right over. He was the one that told me to get in touch with you. He was also the one that calmed me down. Probably saved you a lot of trouble.”
“Someone did. There’s nothing hysterical about you now,” said George.
“They took Pen to the morgue. I won’t have to identify him, will I?”
“I think we can have someone from Stratford, Kersey and Stratford do that.”
“He shot himself in the temple,” she said. “She was shot in the heart. Why did he have to shoot himself in the head?”
“Well, he never had any vanity about his looks, alive. I doubt if he gave much thought to how he would look dead,” said George. “Now, Wilma, some things to discuss with you. I have seen two of the tabloids, the Daily News and the Daily Mirror. The other one, the Daily Graphic, won’t be out until today sometime, and the New York Journal, the Hearst paper, will be out about the same time. The Post and the Sun will try not to be sensational, but I know damn well the others will have a field day. It’s the kind of story that was just made for them.”
“Dorothy was talking about that. She had seen the News or the other one.”
“I suggest that you let Dorothy take you away. There’s no earthly reason why you should subject yourself to photographers and reporters.”
“Dorothy has already offered to do that. Their house in Manchester, Vermont. I said no.”
“I will arrange to have Pen’s body sent back to Swedish Haven. Private funeral ceremony at the grave, where all the Lockwoods are buried beginning with our grandfather.”
“I know about it. I saw it when Agnes died. And I expect to be buried there when my time comes. Pen and I spent half our lives together and we were still married when this thing happened. I wouldn’t like myself very much if I wasn’t there when he’s buried. He was a good man, and he was good to me, for almost twenty-five years. He was so good that he had no ability to cope with evil. And what a disgusting hypocrite I would be, to publicly desert him now. No, George. Thank you for your good intentions, but Pen’s entitled to that much respect. And love. I loved him. Not always. Not passionately. Not romantically. But the love you have for someone like him. All innocence. Great kindness. Gentleness. That’s really it, gentleness. And of course the insanity in your family.”
“Is that why you never had children?”
“Heavens, no. I’d have had them, in spite of the insanity in my family and yours. I never used a pessary in my life. We tried but we never had any results. The wrong mixture, I guess. You wouldn’t call Sherwood James’s father sane, but he invented almost as many things as Mr. Edison. And he had the same kind of gentleness Pen had. I’ll be there when Pen is buried, just as he would have been for me. Unless—no.”
“Unless what?”
“Unless my being there would embarrass you.”
“How could it?”
“Oh—the extra notoriety, perhaps. One never knows about you, George. Everything you do is always so well thought out in advance. You never seem to do anything impulsive.”
“When I do, it doesn’t turn out very well,” said George Lockwood.
“Just the opposite for poor Pen.”
“I think we’ve left Dorothy alone too long,” he said.
“She’s spending the night,” said Wilma. “If you’d like to, there’s plenty of room.”
“Thanks, but I’ll be more efficient if I go back to the Carstairs. I’ll be very busy on the telephone tomorrow—today, it is, of course. And they have a switchboard and they know me there. I’m going to have them give me another room, besides the one I’m in. That will give me two telephones. I’ll register the extra room under the name of— James Sherwood. You ought to be able to remember that, in case you want to call.”
“Sherwood James, James Sherwood,” said Wilma. “Who will they get to identify her, the woman?”
“I don’t know. I should imagine some member of her family will turn up. Why?”
“I just wondered. I just happened to think of her down there. Somehow it’s worse for a woman.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why, but it is. Probably for no better reason than because I’m a woman myself. Or do you suppose they’re keeping them together?”
“No, my impression is that they have them all in separate boxes, that open like bureau drawers. Don’t dwell on it, Wilma, and don’t drink any more coffee. I’m going to ask Dorothy to put you to bed.”
“I wish you were someone else. Anyone else.”
“Well, I’m not, am I?”
“No, and I shouldn’t have said that to you, should I? But I’ll blame it on Nature. Life has to go on, and—oh, I don’t have to explain such thoughts to you. Just hold me close for a minute, George.”
“That would be a great mistake, Wilma, with Dorothy in the next room.”
“Then go, please go. I’ll be all right as soon as you’ve gone.”
“Goodnight,” he said.
All the large bills he had paid, all the good tips he had given through his years of patronage of the Carstairs now paid off: when he returned to the hotel from Wilma’s house the night auditor, who also functioned as night room clerk, said merely, “The whole staff want to express our sympathy, Mr. Lockwood.” The elevator man, an arthritic Irishman, said, “We’re sorry for your trouble, sir.” In his room, he had barely had time to hang up his topcoat when the telephone rang. It was DeBorio, the manager, who obviously had left word to be called immediately on George’s return. “If the press should find out you’re here, we can’t keep them out of the lobby,” said DeBorio. “But you can avoid them by using the service elevator and going in and out the employes’ entrance. That’s two doors away, and they won’t notice you. Or, if you like, I can call a friend of mine at another hotel and guarantee you complete privacy.” DeBorio was transformed from a fussy little man, permanently encased in a cutaway, with a dubious ribbon in his lapel, to a sentinel, and an alert one at that. “We also have certain political connections, Mr. Lockwood. Tammany Hall, if that could be useful. I know the mayor personally, and I even have his private phone number. The Biltmore isn’t the only hotel they patronize.”