by Q. Patrick
“Steve.” Celia’s voice was very quiet. “I—I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Any objections?” he said.
“I didn’t know.” She moved a little closer. “Steve, I don’t like things I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.”
“Do you have to do anything about me—baby?”
“Steve.” She came to him. She out her arms around him. He shivered. Her hand moved up to his hair. “It’s shorter. It goes with you.” Suddenly she was crying. “Your hair, it goes with you.”
“Celia.” His arms tightened around her. Something was wrong with his throat. “Celia, baby.”
She pulled herself away. Her eyes were still glistening, but she was not crying any more. She tossed her head, laughed and spun around to the others.
“Life, life, life. There’s nothing so lovely as life. Goody, sit down and have a drink. You’re always sitting down and having drinks. Roy, too. And Dennie. Why, it’s a party.”
Roy looked up from his drawings. “I’d call it a wake, Celia.” Celia laughed again ringingly.
Steve said, “Celia!”
She laid her hand on his sleeve. “Yes, darling? What?”
“Couldn’t we talk, alone?”
“You don’t want to talk to me alone. Baby, you don’t know how terrible it is talking to me alone.”
Goody said, “Stop making an exhibition of yourself, Celia.”
Celia laughed again. “Exhibit A.” She pointed to herself. “I propose that this young woman be added to the already existing evidence as Exhibit A.”
She shrugged her bare shoulders. “Oh, I’m bored with all of you. Terribly, terribly bored.” She waved vaguely and started for the door. “Good night, ladies. Good night, sweet ladies. Good night, good night.”
Steve started after her. “Celia.”
“No.” She turned on him savagely. “No, Steve. No.”
Her gaze fell on Roy. Impulsively, she tossed her gold evening bag to him.
“The divine bag you gave me, darling. Something’s happened to the clasp. Fiddle with it.”
With a meaningless smile at Steve, she hurried out of the room.
Dennie, her face very white, said, “I’ll go after her.”
She left. In a few moments she came back. She shook her head. “It’s no use, Steve. She’s locked her bedroom door.”
XI
There they were, all of them, sitting around. Steve dropped back in his chair and picked up his drink. His head was throbbing. Roy had slipped Celia’s bag down on the chair at his side. “Get Goody a highball, Dennie,” he said. “We might as well all drink to the corpse.”
Dennie brought Goody a drink. Roy raised his glass at them. “To a very beautiful lady who died young.”
Dennie said fiercely, “Shut up, Roy. You make me sick.”
“I’m sorry, Dennie. I forgot that youth likes its bitter pills sugared. Let us say to a very beautiful, very sick lady”—he nodded at Steve—“in need of a cure.”
Goody had slumped down comfortably in his chair. He yawned. “Don’t you ever get out of the charnel house, Roy?”
Steve listened vaguely. He was wondering whether Janice had gone back to Tony’s apartment yet. Since she knew he’d been with Dennie, she’d send the police here to Celia’s after him.
Should he give them the compact and say, “Find the owner of this and you have the murderer?”
If he did, wouldn’t everything inevitably swing back to Celia? Wasn’t the only way to protect Celia to take the blame himself? To take the blame for a crime he hadn’t committed, in order to protect Celia who hadn’t committed one either? He felt confused, spent. Celia had done that to him. Those few agonizing, tantalizing moments with Celia.
Goody was saying something. He didn’t know what. Suddenly the apartment buzzer sounded. Steve’s fingers gripped his drink. This was it.
Dennie had half risen. She was staring blindly at the door. The buzzer hummed again.
Goody said, “Answer it, Dennie. It can’t be anyone drearier that we’ve already got here.”
Dennie’s eyes met Steve’s. He nodded. Dennie went to the door and opened it. Steve didn’t look around. He was waiting to hear the sound of heavy boots and gruff voices. The police in books always came that way.
He didn’t hear anything for the moment. Then Dennie’s voice said, “You!” Another female’s voice, clipped and cool, replied, “Yes?”
There were tapping heels. He looked up then.
Eternally Janice had come in the room with Dennie doubtfully behind her.
Janice’s amber eyes surveyed the group. Their gaze settled on Steve. She smiled. It was a brief, ominous smile.
“I thought I’d find you here.”
She turned to Goody then. “Hello, Goody.” She jerked her head at Steve. “Who’s this man?”
“Hello, Janice. What on earth are you doing here?” Goody’s calm stare moved to Steve. “He’s Steve Glenn.”
“Want to be introduced?”
“No, thank you. We’ve already met.” Janice’s voice was growing a little shrill. She swung round towards Steve. “So you’re Celia’s ex-husband. I might have realized. This explains it all, doesn’t it?”
Steve watched her steadily. “If you’ve got anything to say to me, there are other rooms in this apartment.”
“What’s wrong with this one?” She laughed. “We don’t have to be private about murder, do we?”
Dennie said, “Janice, please.”
“Please what?” Janice whipped around on her. “Please be kind to your poor brother-in-law? Tony was such a naughty man. He deserved to be murdered? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
Dennie’s hand moved in a gesture of hopelessness. Roy stared. Goody said, “Janice, what in the name of grief are you babbling about?”
“Just listen, Goody.” Janice was glaring at Steve. “I went back, as you’ve probably gathered. You hid the body behind the curtains while I was there, didn’t you?”
Steve said quietly, “You’re doing the talking.”
“At the moment. You’ll be talking soon enough. You were there earlier in the evening when I phoned. You’d just murdered Tony then, hadn’t you? The hero’s first returning gesture. Kill a lot of Japs and then come home and kill the man your wife walked out on you for. It’s a wonderful philosophy, isn’t it?
“A guy gets a seat in the subway ahead of you so you kill him. A couple of characters have first row seats for the theatre. Kill them and take in a show.” She laughed again. “Patent the process, soldier. Patent it quick before you’re in a place where you can’t take trips to Washington.”
Steve was listening almost impersonally. He hadn’t expected it to come quite this way. But here it was. He wondered how soon she was going to tell him she’d called the police.
Goody and Roy were both firing questions. He didn’t pay any attention to them. Neither did Janice. The girl was still standing in front of him, her hands clenched at her sides. Nemesis, he thought. Nemesis is a blonde with her eyes too close together.
“Okay, soldier,” she said. “Talk.”
“You’re doing the talking. Remember?”
“Okay. So you killed Tony. Later, I guess, you remembered something you’d left there, some clue or something. So you and your little helpmate”—she tossed her head at Dennie—“went back to smooth things over. Check?”
Steve didn’t say anything. Janice’s eyes suddenly narrowed. “It did happen that way, didn’t it? Well—maybe that crazy
Celia shot him. Maybe you’re just playing the noble husband with a broken heart protecting the dream girl who went sour. You and Dennie picking up after big sister. How about that? Did you kill him or did Celia?”
What he’d dreaded most was always the thing that happened.
He said, “What’s the point of talking to you? Why not wait for the police? I guess you told them to come here?”
&n
bsp; “The police?” Janice tugged a cigarette out of a case and lighted it. “I didn’t tell the police to go anywhere.”
Steve stared incredulously. “You haven’t called them?”
“I haven’t called them—yet.” Janice sat down on the arm of a chair. “I wanted first to know what you were planning to do.”
“What I’m planning to do?” Steve repeated, his face
bewildered.
“Exactly,” Janice puffed smoke. “I have no objections to being frank, even though you are coy. I happen to have a husband and a certain reputation in Pelham. I’d a lot rather it didn’t come out that I was at Tony’s apartment tonight. You can understand that, I’m sure.”
“How does that fit in with what I’m planning to do?”
“Simple. If you go now to the police and confess, you’ll have a much better chance. Don’t you see? A plea of war nerves, the disillusioned veteran, the civilian snake who broke up his Eden. Come clean and you’ll have all the sob sisters of America behind you.” She paused. “And if you confess, then I needn’t bring evidence against you.”
For someone whose lover had just been shot, Janice was showing an admirable flare for self-protection. Goody was listening in a stupefied silence. Roy had picked up Celia’s bag and was clicking the clasp open and shut as if there was nothing more important to attract his attention.
Steve said, “And if I don’t confess?”
Janice shrugged. “Painful though it’ll be to Pelham, I’ll have to tell the police exactly what I know. I’d be quite good on a witness stand.” She leaned forward, her red lips a tight, unyielding line. “Okay, soldier. From now on you’re on your own. What’s it to be? Confession and no Janice? Or no confession and Janice ready with a nice little noose to slip around your neck?”
Dennie got up suddenly and came to Steve, standing behind him, putting her hand on his shoulder in a warm, friendly gesture.
Steve moistened his lips “What would you say if I told you I didn’t kill Tony, and neither did Celia?”
“I’d say: ‘No? Not really? How nice.’”
“It’s the truth.” Steve looked down at his hand with the bruised knuckles. He didn’t really know why he was telling her this. “I beat Tony up. I admit that. I left him. Later I went back because I was afraid maybe I’d hurt him badly. I found him murdered. I didn’t call the police because I knew they’d think I’d done it. Later I went back again with Dennie to make sure I hadn’t left any traces.” He paused. “That’s all I know. Someone else killed Tony.” He raised his eyes to hers. “What do you think of the story?”
“It’s true,” blurted Dennie. “I swear it’s true. You’ve got to believe that.”
“In the old days,” said Janice “when people heard stories like that they used to say, ‘Tell it to the Marines.’”
“You don’t believe it?” she asked, her voice faint with strain. “I don’t believe it.” Janice was tapping her toe against the carpet. “Well, what’s it to be? Time isn’t something we can ignore. Do you call the police and confess? Or do I call the police and let them fight it out with you and Celia?”
XII
Steve wished the evening hadn’t taken so much out of him. It was cruel that the great decision had to come when he was least equipped to face it. Dennie’s hand on his shoulder was curiously steadying. He glanced up at her. She smiled faintly. If he let Janice call the police, there was just a chance that the real murderer would be found, that he and Celia could be cleared. But if
the police didn’t believe him, it could mean disaster.
Janice said, “Well?”
Steve opened his mouth. He never knew exactly what he had been planning to say, because he didn’t say it. Roy Chappell spoke instead.
The famous jewel designer had tossed Celia’s bag down on his chair. He rose. In spite of his slight misshapen body, he looked strangely impressive. He was watching Janice from eyes bright and hard-surfaced as one of his own gems.
“I rather think this dialogue’s gone on too long. After all, there are other people in the room.”
Janice turned to him suspiciously.
He said, “There’s at least one question I should like to ask you.”
“Which is?” Snapped Janice.
“I would like to know just how spiteful you are.”
“Spiteful?”
“The aspects of your character which you have so far revealed have been singularly unattractive. That is what makes me feel that you are probably as spiteful as you are vulgar and self-interested and sordid.”
Janice looked flustered. She flared, “When I want homilies from humpbacks, I’ll ask for them. This is hardly the moment.”
Roy smiled then. “I’m afraid it is the moment. You will please tell me whether your spite against Celia and Steve is sufficiently strong for you to go ahead with this false accusation—even after you’ve heard the truth.”
“The truth!”
Roy’s smile widened. It was an infinitely sad smile.
“If you care to listen to me, I can tell you who really did murder Tony.”
Janice gasped. “You mean—you know?” she cried.
“I mean just that. Don’t you think it might be a good idea to hear the truth before you call the police?”
Janice dropped back onto a chair arm. Her vitality seemed to have left her. Everyone else was passive, too. It was as if Roy were a magnet, drawing to himself all the strength that was in the room.
“I’ve been accused of being a homiletic humpback,” he said, “Maybe there’s a homily in this story somewhere. I don’t want to bother with it. I hate tales with morals. It’s a feeble little story at best, moral or no moral. And it begins with me.”
He slid his hands into his pockets. He was calm and yet, behind the calm, there was an odd, veiled excitement.
“Tonight I’d been working hard in my workshop. I’d been thinking how thankless it is to create beautiful objects and get nothing for them. Nothing except money. My thought processes are not particularly interesting, I suppose. But this thought process made me think of Tony Dort.
“I’d done a job of copying for him some time ago. I dislike copying my own work and I dislike doing favors for Tony, but I’d done it and he hadn’t paid me. Tony wasn’t the sort of man who knew the price of everything and the value of nothing. That sort of man, I feel, should always be made to pay for things that are really priceless—and pay promptly in cold, hard cash.” He shrugged. “This, I suppose, is an elaborate way of saying I went around to see Tony.”
His gaze moved to Steve. “I reached Tony’s apartment house just as you were leaving. I don’t imagine you noticed me. I hadn’t seen you for several years. You are, if I may say so, a very fine figure of a man. The sight of you made me think enviously—and here come my thought processes again—of what I would give to have been born with your body instead of this miserable, twisted frame.”
“Come, come,” snapped Janice. “We don’t have to get psychopathological.”
Roy’s eyes glinted. “You are a very offensive young woman. As it happens, my psychopathological thought processes are vastly important because they set the mood for my meeting with Tony. I found him in an ugly temper. That was reasonable enough as he had just been beaten up. I found him also looking singularly unappetizing. Tony wasn’t the sort of man who should look unappetizing. His only excuse for existence was that he was pleasing to the eye.
“Tonight he was not pleasing. He was bruised, battered, untidy. Hamlet, I believe, told his mother to look at two pictures, one of his dead father, one of the murderous man she had married. Hyperion to a satyr, he said. I thought of Celia with Steve and Tony. Hyperion to a satyr, I thought. And it disgusted me that Celia should have shown such bad taste to have chosen the wrong man.”
Roy looked down at his fine, sensitive hands. “You all probably know that I have been devoted to Celia for some years. She was very much in my mind tonight. I
was probably more angry with. Tony for what he’d done to Celia than I was insistent upon his paying the bill. In any case, our conversation rapidly degenerated into what I believe is called ‘words.’
“I’d been wanting to have words with Tony for some time. What I did say and what he said back are not relevant. What is relevant is that he became sufficiently incensed to produce a revolver from a drawer and threaten me.”
“We started to struggle. I have some knowledge of ju-jitsu. Many humpbacks do, I understand. It give us an illusion of strength. I practiced my strange Oriental arts on Tony. Unfortunately, the gun went off. It shot Tony—quite dead.”
He paused for a moment. The scent of the freesias came to Steve, achingly sweet.
“I don’t pretend I’m sorry I killed Tony,” Roy Chappell continued. “In fact, I feel rather pleased with myself. I don’t pretend, either, that I was planning to give myself up. I wasn’t. But since this female”—he nodded at Janice—“is so bent upon making herself obnoxious with accusation against completely innocent people. I have no recourse but to tell the truth.”
Roy paused again. His eyes found Steve’s. He felt in his pocket, produced a gun, and tossed it down on a table in front of him.
“The murder gun. That’s the right expression, isn’t it?” He looked questioningly at Janice. “Any objections if I call the police right way and get this over with? I imagine I have quite a chance of knowing self-defense. And if I’m less lucky—” He shrugged. “What is it about jewel workers that makes them so violent? Me and Benvenuto Cellini.”
The realization of it all was coming through to Steve slowly. He was like a man who’s been lost in a desert with no water. He was afraid of gulping the truth down in one swallow. He snapped at it. Roy had killed Tony. Roy was going to confess. Miraculously, everything was going to be all right.
