Death Likes It Hot (17 page)

“I can’t see what all this has to do with what’s happened,” said Mrs. Veering irritably.

“It has a great deal … as I hope to show you in a few minutes.” Greaves made some marks none of us could see on the tablet. “Now, on the other side of the hall, the east side overlooking the ocean, there are four bedrooms. The north bedroom belongs to Mr. Randan. The next to Mrs. Veering. The next to Miss Claypoole and the last to Mr. Brexton. Both Mr. Brexton and Mrs. Veering are in bedrooms which have doors which open into Miss Claypoole’s room.”

“The door in my room is locked,” said Brexton suddenly. His voice made us all start.

“That’s correct,” said Greaves quietly. “It was locked this morning by me, from Miss Claypoole’s side of the door. The key was not in the lock, however.”

“What do you mean by that?” Brexton’s voice was hard.

“All in good time. And don’t interrupt, please. Now I hope you will all be absolutely honest. For your own safety.”

There was a grave silence. Greaves turned to me. “Where were you at midnight?”

“In bed, or maybe just waking up.”

“Do you always sleep fully dressed?”

“Not always. I just dozed off. I hadn’t intended to go to sleep but I did, probably around eleven or so.”

“I see. And you say you woke up at twelve.”

“That’s right. I looked at my watch. I was surprised I’d been asleep. I turned on the light and decided that a drink of brandy might be just the thing to get me back to sleep.”

“And you went downstairs?”

“As you know.” I was aware that, while I talked, Greaves
was recording everything in shorthand; this was an unexpected talent. I described to him what had happened.

He then turned to Miss Lung. “We’ll move from room to room, in order,” he said. “Yours is next. Where were you at midnight?”

“I … I was in Rose’s … in Mrs. Veering’s room, looking for her.”

“Are you sure it was midnight?”

“No, not exactly but I guess it must’ve been because I was only in there a few minutes and I saw Mr. Sargeant right afterwards. I was
terrified
when I didn’t find her. Then, when I knocked on Allie’s door and got no answer, I knew something
must
be wrong; I rushed off to find the nurse. The policeman on duty saw me.”

“Unfortunately, he didn’t see you go in. He
did
see you come out. He was standing on the top stair, it seems, talking to the nurse going off duty, his back to the hall when you went into Mrs. Veering’s room, at ten minutes to twelve.”

“I … I was only in there a
very
few minutes.”

“Yet the nurse went off duty at ten minutes to, or rather left Mrs. Veering’s room at that time to meet her relief who was arriving downstairs. She paused to chat with the man on duty. While this was happening, you went across the hall from your room to Mrs. Veering’s, isn’t that right?”

“Well, yes. I did notice the policeman was talking to somebody on the stair. I couldn’t see who it was.…”

“Miss Lung, did you try to open the door between the two rooms?” There was a tense silence. Miss Lung was white as a sheet. Brexton sat on the edge of his chair. Mrs. Veering’s eyes were shut, as though to blot out some terrible sight.

“I …”

“Miss Lung did you or did you not try to open that door?”

The dam broke. The cord of silence snapped. Miss Lung wept a monsoon. In the midst of her blubberings, we learned
that she
had
tried to open the door and that it was locked, from the other side.

It took several minutes to quiet Miss Lung. When she was at last subdued, Greaves moved implacably on. “Mr. Randan, will you tell me where you were at midnight?”

Reluctantly, Randan tore his gaze from the heaving mound which was Mary Western Lung. “I was in my room.”

“What time did you come back to the house?”

“I don’t know. Quarter to twelve or so. The night nurse and I arrived at the same time. We came in the house together. We both went upstairs; she met the other nurse who was on duty and I went to my room. I was just about to get undressed, when the commotion started.”

“When were you aware of any commotion?”

“Well, I thought something was up even before I heard anything definite. I heard Sargeant’s door open and close. It’s right opposite mine so I could tell he was up. Then I heard somebody stirring next door to me … it must’ve been Miss Lung. I didn’t pay much attention until I heard them all running up the stairs.”

“What did you do then?”

“I went out in the hall and asked the man on duty what was happening. He said he didn’t know. Then you appeared and.…”

“All right.” Greaves turned to Mrs. Veering. “And where were
you
at.…”

“I was sitting on the toilet.” The crude reply was like an electric shock. Miss Lung giggled hysterically.

“You were there from ten minutes to twelve until twelve o’clock?”

“I don’t carry a stop watch, Mr. Greaves. I was there until I finished and then I went back to bed. The next thing I knew, three maniacs were in my room.” This was a fairly apt description of our invasion.

“Did you see or hear anything unusual during those ten minutes?”

“No, I didn’t.”

Evidently Greaves hadn’t been prepared for such prompt negatives. He started to ask her another question; then he decided not to. She was looking dangerously angry. I wondered why.

Greaves turned to Brexton and put the same question to him he had to the rest of us.

“At twelve o’clock I was sound asleep.”

“What time did you go to bed?”

“I don’t know. Eleven … something like that.”

“You heard nothing unusual from the next room, from Miss Claypoole’s room?”

“Nothing in particular.”

“Then what in general?”

“Well … moving around, that’s about all. That’s before I went to sleep.”

“And when you awakened?”

“It was around midnight: I thought I heard something.”

“Something like people running? or shutting doors?”

“No, it was a groan … or maybe just my imagination or maybe even the noise of the surf. I don’t know. It’s what awakened me though. Then of course everybody started to rush around and I got up.”

“This sound that you heard, where did it come from?”

“From Allie’s room. I thought it was her voice too. I think now maybe it was.”

“What did you do when you heard it?”

“I … well, I sat up. You see there was only a few seconds interval between that and everyone coming upstairs.”

Greaves nodded; his face expressionless. “That’s very interesting, Mr. Brexton. You didn’t by any chance try to open the door did you? the door between your room and Miss Claypoole’s?”

“No, I knew it was locked.”

“How did you know that?”

“Well, I … I tried it some time ago … the way you do with doors.”

“The way
you
do, Mr. Brexton.”

“It’s a perfectly natural thing to do.” Brexton flushed.

“I’m sure, especially under the circumstances.” Greaves reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief which he unwrapped. It contained a key which he was careful not to touch. “What is this, Mr. Brexton?”

“A key.”

“Have you ever seen it before?”

“How do I know! All keys look alike.”

“This is the key to the door which leads from your room to Miss Claypoole’s.”

“So what?”

“It was found twenty minutes ago, hidden in the pillowcase of your bed. Mr. Brexton, I arrest you on suspicion of an attempted murder in the first degree. You may inform your attorney that a Special Court will be convened this Friday in Easthampton. I am empowered by the State of New York.…”

Miss Lung fainted.

BREXTON was arrested and taken to jail at two
A.M
. Tuesday morning. The Special Court was scheduled for Friday. This gave me two days to track down the actual murderer for the greater glory of self and the blind lady with the scales. Forty-eight hours in which I was apt as not to find that Brexton was indeed the killer.

I got up the next morning at nine o’clock. I was barely dressed when the managing editor of the
Globe
was on the phone.

“Listen, you son of a bloodhound, what d’you mean by slanting those damned stories to make it sound like this Brexton wasn’t the murderer?”

“Because I don’t think he is.” I held the receiver off at arm’s length while my one-time employer and occasional source of revenue raved on. When the instrument quieted down, I put it to my ear just in time to hear him say, “Well, I’m sending Elmer out there to look into this. He’s been aching to cover it but no, I said, we got Sargeant there: you remember Sargeant? bright-eyed, wet-eared Sargeant, I said, he’ll tell us all about it he’ll solve the god-damned case and what if the police do think Brexton killed his wife Sargeant knows best, I tell him, he’ll work this thing out. Ha! You got us out on a sawed-off limb. Elmer’s going to get us off.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” I said austerely. “Neither will Elmer. Anyway what would you say if I got you the real murderer, exclusively, and by Friday?”

“Why don’t you.…”

I told him his suggestion was impractical. Then I told him what he could do with Elmer, if he was in the mood. I hung up first.

This was discouraging. Elmer Bush, author of the syndicated column “America’s New York” which, on television, became the popular weekly resumè of news “New York’s America” was my oldest rival and enemy. He had been a renowned columnist when I was only assistant drama editor on the
Globe.
But, later, our paths had crossed and I had managed twice to get the beat on him news-wise, as we say. This was going to be a real trial, I decided gloomily.

I called Liz who sounded wide-awake even though I was positive she’d only just opened her eyes.

“They arrested Brexton last night.”

“No!” She made my eardrum vibrate. “Then you were wrong.
I
thought he did it. Of course that’s just woman’s intuition but even so it means
something.
Look at all the mediums.”

“Medium what’s?”

“The people who talk to the dead … they’re almost always women.”

“Well, I wish you’d put in a call to Mildred Brexton and.…”

“Oh, don’t tease. Isn’t it exciting! Can I come over?”

“No, but I’ll see you this afternoon if it’s all right.”

“Perfect. I’ll be at the Club after lunch.”

“What happened to you last night?”

“Oh, I was at the Wilsons’ dance. I was going to call you but Dick said you’d gone to bed early.”

“Randan? Was he there?”

“Oh yes. He’s sweet, you know. I don’t know why you don’t like him. He was only there for a while but we had a nice chat about everything. He wanted to take me up to Montauk for a moonlight ride in his car but I thought that was going too far.…”

“I’m glad you have limits.”

“Don’t be stuffy.” After a few more cheery remarks, I hung up. This was apparently going to be one of those days, I decided. Elmer Bush was arriving. Randan was closing in on Liz. Brexton was in jail and my own theories were temporarily discredited.

Whistling a dirge, I went down to breakfast.

The sight of Randan eating heartily didn’t make me feel any better. No one else was down. “See the papers?” He was beaming with excitement. “Made the front pages too.”

He pushed a pile toward me. All the late editions had got the story “Painter Arrested for Murder of Wife and Friend” was the mildest headline. By the time they finished with the relationships, it sounded like something out of Sodom by way of Gomorrah.

I didn’t do more than glance at the stories. From my own newspaper experience I’ve learned that newspaper stories, outside of the heads and the first paragraph, are nothing but words more or less hopelessly arranged.

“Very interesting,” I said, confining myself to dry toast and coffee … just plain masochism. I enjoyed making the day worse than it already was.

“I guess neither one of us got it,” said Randan, ignoring my gloom. “I suppose the obvious one is usually the right one but I could’ve sworn Brexton didn’t do it.”

“You always thought he did, didn’t you?”

Randan smiled a superior smile. “That was to mislead you while I made
my
case against the real murderer, or what I thought was the real murderer. But I didn’t get anywhere.”

“Neither did I.”

“That business of the key clinched it, I suppose,” said Randan with a sigh, picking up the
Daily News
which proclaimed: “Famous Cubist Indicted: Murders Wife, Cubes Friend.”

I only grunted. I had my own ideas about the key. I don’t like neatness. I also respect the intelligence of others, even
abstract painters: Brexton would not have left that key in his pillow any more than he would have left his palette knife beside the body of Claypoole. In my conversations with him he had struck me as being not only intelligent but careful. He would not have made either mistake if he’d been the killer.

I kept all this to myself. Accepting without comment Randan’s assumption (and everybody else’s) that justice was done and murder had out.

Mrs. Veering and Miss Lung came down to breakfast together. Both seemed controlled and brisk.

“Ah, the gentlemen are up with the birds!” exclaimed the penwoman brightly, fully recovered from her dramatic collapse of some hours before.

“I’m afraid it’s been something of an ordeal, Peter.” Mrs. Veering smiled at me. She was pale but her movements were steady. Apparently she had, if only briefly, gone on the wagon: she was quite a different person sober than half-lit.

I mumbled something inane about: well, things could’ve been worse.

“And I’m afraid we won’t be able to carry through our original project either.”

I had already given it up but I pretended to be thoughtful, a bit disappointed. “Yes, I think you’re right under the circumstances,” I said, nodding gravely. “It might not be the wise thing to do.…”

“I knew you’d understand. I’m only sorry you’ve wasted nearly a week like this.…”

“Not
all
wasted.”

She smiled. “That’s right. You got several stories out of it, didn’t you?”