Death Likes It Hot (21 page)

I got away as soon as I could and went through the milling throng to a dining room where a buffet, complete with four chefs, had been prepared and here, as I expected, was my light of love, gorging herself on smoked turkey and surrounded by a circle of plump, bald, dimpled bachelors.

“Peter! You could make it.”

“With you any time,” I said in my best vulgar Marlon Brando voice. The bachelors looked at me nervously: a stud trotting through a circle of horses to the nearest mare.

The mare looked particularly radiant in white and gold, wearing family diamonds which made me wonder if perhaps a marital alliance might be in order.

I glared at the bachelors and they evaporated. We were left with smoked turkey and champagne and Cole Porter from the orchestra in the ballroom and no one but people to interrupt our bliss.

“Why did you go running off like that this afternoon?” Liz looked at me curiously; I prayed for a jealous scene. But there was none. In fact, she didn’t even wait for an excuse.
“I hear it’s all over. Somebody told me Brexton won’t have a chance, that they got a full confession.”

“Are you sure?” This would be, as they say, the ultimate straw.

“No, I’m not really. It’s just the rumor going around.”

“What’re you doing after this, hon?” I spoke out of the side of my mouth; the other side was full of food.

“Tonight? Well, I’m going home as every proper girl should.”

“Let’s go to bed.”

“Bed?” She said this in such a loud startled voice that one of the chefs noticeably paled. “Bed?” she repeated in a lower voice. “I thought you only liked to romp among the cactuses … or maybe you mean a bed of nails somewhere.…”

“Young women should never attempt irony,” I said coldly. “It’s not my fault that, through bad management, you haven’t been able to provide me with the wherewithal to make love properly, preferably in a gilded cage. You do have an income, don’t you?”

“I want to be loved only for my money,” she said, nodding agreeably. “After all beauty passes. Characters grow mean. But money, properly invested, is always lovable.”

“Yours
is
properly invested? in gilt-edged or at least deckle-edged securities?”

“Yes, but I didn’t know you cared.”

“So much so that I am willing to put you up for the night at the New Arcadia Motel, a center of illicit sexuality only a few miles from here.”

“What will my family say?”

“That you are wanton. The money’s in your name, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes, Mummy had her second husband make me a trust fund … sweet, wasn’t it?”

“Depends entirely on the amount.” I started to put my arm stealthily around her when Elmer Bush came roaring down upon us.

“How’s the boy? … say now! Is this the same pretty little girl I met today on the beach, Miss Liz Bessemer?”

“The same pretty little girl,” agreed Liz with a dazzling smile. “And this, I suppose, is still the famed Elmer Bush who, through the courtesy of Wheat-mushlets, is heard over N.B.C. once a week?”

That slowed him up. “Quite a bright little girl, isn’t she, Pete? You’re some picker, boy. Well, I guess lucky in love, unlucky in crime. Ha! Ha!” While we were doubled up with merry laughter at this sally, Liz stole quietly away.

“Say, didn’t mean to barge in on you and the girl friend.” Elmer positively smacked his lips as he followed Liz with his eyes as she strolled into the ballroom: all eyes were upon her, her shoulders bare and smooth above the white and gold dress.

“No, Elmer, I’d rather see you any day.”

“Some kidder.” Elmer was perfunctory now that there was no one around to impress except me and he knew of course I wasn’t one of his fans. “Want you to do me a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“I’d like to get an interview with Mrs. Veering. I can’t get through to her. She’s playing hard to get.… God knows why since she’s a real publicity hound. Now if you would.…”

“But, Elmer, we’re rivals.” I pretended surprise. “After all I’m still trying to get myself out of a hole.…”

“This is for the
Globe.
Not for me.” He stood there, noble, self-sacrificing.… I half expected to hear the soft strains of the
Marseillaise
in the background.

“Well, I’m sorry, Elmer, but you’ll have to get to her on your own.”

“Now look here, Sargeant, I’ve been sent here by the
Globe
, same paper that’s been paying you for those dumb articles on why Brexton didn’t do the murder. I can tell you one thing: you don’t stand any too well around the office. Now if I tell them you’ve been cooperative, really helpful, they might not write you off as a complete loss.” He stared at me, hard and menacing, the way he does when he attacks the enemies of a certain senator who is trying to root out corruption and Communists.

“Elmer,” I said quietly, “I hate you. I have always hated you. I will always continue to hate you. There is nothing I would not do to show you the extent and beauty of my hatred. I would throw you a rock if you were drowning. I would.…”

“Always the kidder,” said Elmer with a mechanical smile to show that he knew I was joking. “Well, I’m not kidding. The paper expects you to cooperate. If you don’t you might just as well give up all ideas of ever working for them again.”

“Suppose I’m right?” I was getting tired of him fast but I realized my situation was hopeless anyway if I didn’t produce the real story, and soon. He was out to cut my throat, as they say in the profession.

“That Brexton didn’t kill his wife and Claypoole?” Elmer looked at me pityingly.

“I wouldn’t bank too much on Claypoole’s accusation, before he died.” My shot in the dark hit the target.

Elmer blinked. “Know about that, eh?”

“That’s right. I also know the prosecution in going to build its case on Claypoole having said Brexton murdered his wife.…”

“He told the whole story to the police the day he was murdered.” Elmer looked smug, just as though he had done it all himself with his little hatchet. I was glad to hear my guess confirmed. Elmer had served his purpose.

“I’m sure they’ll check up on me, just to be unpleasant.” Liz sat with nothing on in front of the dressing table, arranging her hair: she is one of those women who do their hair and face before dressing. I lay on the bed, blissful, enjoying the morning sun which fell in a bar of light across my belly. It had been an excellent night … morning too. Nothing disturbed me.

“What do you care?” I said, yawning.

“I don’t really.” I watched her shoulder blades as she made mysterious passes at her hair and face, her back to me. “It’s just that when I said I was staying with friends in Southampton I shouldn’t’ve mentioned Anna Trees. They’re bound to see her and my aunt will ask her about my overnight stay and.…”

“And you’re worrying too much. Besides, I’m sure your aunt would approve of the New Arcadia. Clean sheets. Private bathroom. View of a roadhouse and U.S. Route One as well as the company of a red-blooded American boy.… Come here.”

“Not a chance in the world, Peter.” She rose with dignity and slipped on her silk pants. “You’ve had your kicks, as they say … brutish, prancing goat.…”

“I never prance.” I wanted her again but she had other plans. Sadly, I got up myself and went into the bathroom to take a shower. When I came out, Liz was fully dressed and going through the wastebasket in the preoccupied way women have when they are minding some one else’s business.

“Ah, ah,” I said sharply, the way you do to a child. “Might find something dirty. Don’t touch.”

“Nonsense.” Liz pulled out a newspaper and a cigarette butt. “Just as I thought: marijuana. I thought I smelled something peculiar.”

“Well, don’t touch it. I thought all women were mortally afraid of germs.”

“Stop generalizing.” Liz dropped the butt back into the wastebasket and opened the newspaper absently. I got dressed.

A sharp sound from Liz halted me. “Is
this
Claypoole?” she asked, holding up the paper for me to see.

I took it from her. It was a Monday edition of
The Journal American.
There were several photographs of the principals involved in our local killing. One was of Claypoole. I nodded, giving her the paper back; I combed my hair in the dusty mirror. “What about it?”

“Well, I know him.”

“
Knew
him. So what? A lot of people did.”

“No, but I saw him only recently. I didn’t really know him but I think I met him … or ran into him, or something.” She paused, confused, poring over the newspaper intently. “I know!” She squealed.

“Well?”

“It was Sunday night, at the Club … before I went on to Evan Evans’ party. I dropped in with some people, with a boy I know. We looked around just to see who was there. It was dead, you know the way Sunday night is, so I had my escort drive me over to Evan’s … anyway, before I left, I remember seeing him, Claypoole, ever so distinctly. He was awfully good-looking in an older way; I noticed him because he was by himself, in a plain suit. Everybody else was dressed. He was standing all alone in the door which opens onto the terrace.…”

“You didn’t speak to him?”

“No, I just caught the one glimpse.”

“What time was it?”

“Time? Well, not much after twelve thirty.”

I was excited. “You realize that you may be the last person to’ve seen him alive?”

“Really?” She was properly impressed. “I don’t suppose it proves anything, does it? He must’ve strolled over from the North Dunes. Peter, I’m starved, let’s get some breakfast.”

Stealthily, we left the New Arcadia Motel, the way hundreds of couples every week did, their unions blessed only by the gods of love, the sterner bonds of society momentarily severed or ignored.

We found a pleasant inn just south of the village of Easthampton where we ate a huge breakfast. It was an odd morning with a white mist high overhead through which the sun shone diffused, bright but not concentrated.

“I love those spur-of-the-moment adventures,” said Liz, eating more eggs than I’ve ever seen a slender girl eat before.

“I hope you don’t have a great many of them.”

“As many as I can squeeze in without being untidy,” she
said comfortably, leaving me to guess whether she was serious or not.

“I suppose, next thing, you’ll tell me you do this all the time, in motels.”

“There’s an awfully disagreeable streak of Puritanism in you, Peter. I worry about it.”

“I just want to be able to think of you as being all mine, clean from the word go.”

“From the word go, yes.” Liz beamed at me over coffee. She was a beautiful creature, more like an act of nature than a human being … I thought of her in elemental terms, like the wind or the sky, to wax lyrical. Usual laws of morality didn’t apply to her.

I changed the subject … just looking at her upset me. “How much longer do you intend to stay down here?”

Liz sighed. “Tomorrow I go back. I tried to talk them into letting me stay longer but they wouldn’t. I don’t think any magazine should try to put out issues in the hot weather. Nobody’ll read them.”

“Who reads fashion magazines? Women just buy them to look at the pictures of clothes.”

“Well, it’s an awful strain working in New York in the hot weather. I was supposed to go back yesterday but I got an extra day. When will you be back?”

“Friday. I’ll have to stay here for the Special Court, to testify. I’ll go back to New York right afterwards.”

“What an interesting week end it turned out to be,” said Liz, putting ice from her drinking glass into her coffee cup. “I don’t know why I never ask for iced coffee when I hate it hot. Peter, do you really think Brexton’s innocent?”

I nodded.

“But if he didn’t do it, who did?”

“Somebody else.”

“Oh, don’t be silly! Who could possibly have done it?”

“Somebody with a motive.”

“Well, you must have some idea who it was if you’re so certain it wasn’t Brexton.”

“Oh, I know who did it all right.” And I did. I had known for nearly half an hour.

Liz’s eyes grew round. “You mean you’re sitting right here having breakfast with me like this and you know who killed Mrs. Brexton and Claypoole?”

“I can’t see what having breakfast with you has to do with it but, yes, I know who the murderer is. Thanks to you.”

“To me? What have I done?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

Liz looked at me as though she wasn’t sure whether or not to telephone for a squad of men in white. She tried the practical approach. “What’re you going to do about it now that you think you know everything?”

“Now that I know, not think. I’m not sure. I have to tie up some ends first. Even then I may not be able to prove what I know.”

“Oh, Peter, tell me! Who is it?”

“Not on your life.” I paid for breakfast and stood up. “Come on, dear. I’ve got to take you home.”

“I have never in my life known such a sadist.” Liz was furious and persistent but I wouldn’t tell her anything. She hardly spoke to me when we pulled up in front of the North Dunes and I got out. She slid haughtily into the driver’s seat. “It’s been very nice, Mr. Sargeant.”

“I’ve had a swell time too.”

“Beast!” And Liz wheeled out of the driveway on two wheels, the gears screeching with agony. Smiling to myself, I went into the house. I had a tough day ahead of me.

No one but the butler was in sight when I arrived. He bade me good morning and made no comment about my night out. I went upstairs to my bedroom and immediately telephoned Miss Flynn.

“I have undertaken the Tasks assigned,” she said, in her
stately way. “The following are the Results of my Herculean Labors.” She gave me several pieces of information; one was supremely useful. I told her to expect me Friday afternoon and, after a bit of business, we rang off.

I was surprisingly calm. The identity of the killer had come to me that morning with Liz. Something she said had acted like a catalyst: everything fell into place at once … all those bits of disconnected information and supposition had, with one phrase, been fused into a whole and I knew with certainty what had happened, and why.

I packed my suitcase; then I went downstairs and left it in the hall. I was not going to spend another night in this house.