Death Takes a Bow

by Frances Lockridge

  “I had known Mr. Sproul for a considerable period,” White agreed. “Our paths crossed.”

  “Did they?” Weigand inquired. He paused for a word. How would paths cross? “Intimately?” Weigand added.

  White’s heavy face produced a heavy smile. His large head shook itself.

  “We were merely acquaintances,” he said. “We frequented the same circles. In Paris, of course. From time to time we met. When I returned to America”—the voice ridiculed an action so gauche, but at the same time admitted its necessity—“when I returned to America, Mr. Sproul looked me up. We met here from time to time, as my work permitted.”

  The picture was of a Sproul suppliant, thankful for crumbs of time.

  Weigand nodded gravely.

  “Your work is—?” he said.

  “I am an author,” Mr. White told him, in a tone which faintly chastened. “A novelist.”

  Weigand nodded.

  “I observe,” Mr. White told him. “I fear I am merely an onlooker, Sergeant. A looker-on and a noter-down.”

  Weigand did not question his demotion. His eyes warned Mullins, who would have questioned in his behalf. Weigand threaded his way through the verbal labyrinths of Mr. White’s mind—learned that White had met Sproul for the first time in Paris, that he knew most of the members of the group in which Sproul had moved there, that he had dined with the rest before what was to have been Sproul’s first lecture and, despite his authorial observations, had noted nothing of particular interest. He agreed with the rest about the facts of the dinner.

  Throughout the questioning, White maintained an attitude. It was a little difficult to define. It included a suggestion that White was superior to the rest, who were scurrying small folk to be observed under a glass. It included a note of heavy malice and—unrecognized envy. The last was a guess by Weigand.

  “Amusing people,” White told him. “Amusing in their fashions.” He smiled, as to another man of superiority. “All mixed up together, in devious ways, inspector. All very—emotional.”

  There was contempt in the voice which formed the word “emotional.”

  Weigand nodded, waiting.

  “Rather impulsively sexed,” Mr. White continued, and Weigand thought that no man could employ so many phrases without encountering one which was apt. “Impulsively sexed” was, Weigand suspected, apt.

  “Sproul not the least,” White continued, a little as if he were dictating a paragraph. “He—sought the favors of so many. Of Loretta Shaw, of Jean Akron. Of others, and often with success.”

  Was it an envious note again, Weigand wondered? Did men whose novels made no stir hate men whose novels shook reviewers of the Times and Tribune book sections? Did men who had, one might reasonably suspect, little success with women, envy men who had, one might again suspect, considerable? The answer to both speculations was the same, and obvious. Was it conceivable that such envy, curdling, might lead to hate and hate lead to murder? That depended, Weigand told himself, on the degree of the curdling. Mr. White was, he suspected, curdled to a rather marked degree.

  “I don’t like that guy,” Mullins said when, reviewing, they came to him. “He talks like a book.”

  “On psychiatry,” Weigand amplified.

  Mullins looked blank.

  It had seemed, when they let him go, that Mr. White had had nothing but his presence to contribute; Weigand ticked him off as a supernumerary. He wondered, indeed, whether they were not all supernumeraries—Mrs. Paul Williams, the Akrons, George Schwartz and Burden, as well as White. Were they there, as people so often seemed to be during an investigation, merely to fill in the back rows; merely to make trouble for detectives? Or did they fit, each in his inevitable place, in a mosaic which had led to violent, absurdly public, death? That was for them to know, Weigand realized, and for him to find out. Or for one of them to know.

  And then Detective Stein opened the door and said, with no great interest, that a guy named Young was there and wanted to see the lieutenant. Lieutenant Weigand repeated the name inquiringly, heard the faint tinkle of a bell, and repeated it with a slightly different pronunciation. Detective Stein said, “Sure, that’s what I said” and, on instructions, let in a little dark man. He was, Weigand was pleased to discover, neither a Negro nor a midget. He was only reasonably little and not much more than moderately dark. He had wide cheekbones, with skin stretched over them, and black hair; he was thin and straight and he had, rather surprisingly, quite ordinary brown eyes. They looked at Weigand with no perceptible guile.

  “Jung,” the little dark man said. “Bandelman Jung.” He answered a question which he had no doubt discovered to be inevitable. “Eurasian,” he said.

  He had no accent. But he did not speak as if English were his native language. It occurred to Weigand that he probably would not speak any language as if it were native.

  “You wish to see me?” Bandelman Jung inquired. He was polite with dignity.

  Weigand went through routine. Jung had known Mr. Sproul in Paris, where he had also known most of the other members of the group; Mr. Jung was himself a “journalist,” which seemed, on inquiry, that he had written Paris anecdotes for newspapers in a quite remarkably large number of places; he had come to New York after the Germans came to Paris.

  “It became necessary,” he said, simply, leaving the story behind to be guessed. His little reports from Paris had not, one could guess, pleased the new invaders of Paris.

  He had looked Sproul and the others up and had seen them occasionally; he had not been invited to the dinner that evening; did not, until Weigand mentioned it, know about the dinner. He had dined by himself at a Childs’ restaurant and then come to the club, expecting to hear his old friend Mr. Sproul speak about the fine days in Paris. What had occurred was very shocking.

  The soft voice of Mr. Jung sounded shocked. Weigand’s fingers gently drummed on the desk.

  “What did you do afterward, Mr. Jung?” he asked. “After it appeared that Mr. Sproul had collapsed and would not be able to lecture?” Mr. Jung looked surprised.

  “I waited with the others,” he said. “In the—the theater.”

  “You didn’t leave the auditorium?” Weigand pressed.

  “The auditorium,” Jung said. “No.”

  Weigand pressed him. “Not for any purpose?”

  Mr. Jung seemed to consider. His face lightened after a moment.

  “But yes,” he said. “I went into the—the hall, to a drinking fountain. I was thirsty.”

  “Nowhere else?” Weigand insisted. Mr. Jung allowed himself to look surprised. He shook his head.

  That was futile, Weigand realized. Mr. Jung was not going to admit anything, if there were anything to admit. The detective tried a new tack. He became frank.

  The reason he asked, he explained, was that a man who might be said to answer Mr. Jung’s description had been seen elsewhere in the building—on the floor above, he thought it was. No doubt this man had quite proper reasons for being there; it was merely a side-issue.

  “We like to clear things up as we go along,” Weigand said, very frank and open. Mr. Jung nodded and smiled.

  “But it was not I,” he said. “I am sorry, sir. I went merely to the drinking fountain. Because I was thirsty.”

  “Right,” Weigand said. “That means, of course, that you couldn’t have been in this room, doesn’t it?”

  Did the quite ordinary brown eyes go blank for just a second, Weigand wondered. Or was it a trick of the light? You had to guess, while you listened to Mr. Bandelman Jung agreeing, with no perceptible change in tone, that he could not have been in the speakers’ room, having gone no further than the fountain in the corridor.

  “Then,” Weigand said, “you wouldn’t have seen this before, Mr. Jung.”

  He handed the little dark man a paper knife, part of an ornamental desk set on a desk which, it was to be assumed, nobody ever used. Mr. Jung took it by the dull blade, which was nearest as Weigand held it out, and looked at it with
a puzzled expression and handed it back. Weigand held it, awaiting the answer.

  “But no,” Mr. Jung said. There was no doubt that he looked puzzled. “Is the knife important, Lieutenant?”

  Weigand let the knife drop to the table top.

  “We don’t know, as yet,” he said. He was quite truthful, this time. If the prints Bandelman Jung had left on it matched any unidentified prints which might have been found elsewhere in the room, the knife might carry importance—carry it literally, on its dull but polished blade. The knife might become important to Mr. Jung, under those circumstances.

  Mr. Jung, who still looked puzzled, went his way. Weigand was still staring after him, wishing he had held Mr. North to try identification of rear elevations of little dark men, when the telephone rang. He agreed that he was Lieutenant Weigand.

  “Flannery,” the voice told him. “The Shaw girl.”

  “Yes,” Weigand said.

  “She’s over here having a cuppa coffee,” Flannery said. “I’m in a booth looking out at them. It seemed like a good chance to give you a ring.”

  “Right,” Weigand said. “Them?”

  “The Shaw girl,” Flannery told him. “And this tall guy—Schwartz. He was waiting for her when she came out and they both got in a cab. So I got a cab.”

  “Right,” Weigand said again.

  “So we came over here,” Flannery said. “On Third Avenue, for a cuppa coffee and a talk. In a booth. Shall I stick with them?”

  “Yes,” Weigand said. “With them, and when they separate, with her. Anything else?”

  Flannery said he guessed not. Unless maybe the lieutenant was interested in the Shaw girl’s love-life.

  Weigand was patient. Patient and interested.

  “Well,” Flannery said, “their cab was stopped by the lights, see? And we had to come up alongside because there was a place and it would have looked funny not to. Right?”

  “Right,” Weigand said. “And—?”

  “So I looked in,” Flannery said. “Just like a guy would. And baby!”

  “Love?” Weigand said. “Love life in a big way?”

  “Baby!” Flannery said. His tone held admiration. “What a clinch, Loot. What a clinch!”

  Weigand cradled the telephone gently. He looked at it. He said, still very gently, “Well, well.”

  6

  Thursday, 10 P.M. to Friday, 2:25 A.M.

  Toughy and Ruffy sat shoulder to shoulder and looked at the nieces. The nieces sat shoulder to shoulder and looked at the cats. Mr. North returned from his study, where he had deposited a hat, and regarded the spectacle. Toughy and Ruffy turned simultaneous heads, noticed his advent and returned to their fixed regard of the nieces.

  “They’re—well developed,” Pam had told Jerry North on the telephone. “You know what I mean? It seems to give sailors ideas.”

  Margaret and Elizabeth were, tangibly, well developed. Or—call it nicely developed. But now, away from sailors, they looked like nice little girls in their middle teens. They looked innocent. “They’re really little girls after all,” Jerry thought, greeting them. He remembered to call Elizabeth “Beth.” The nieces said “How do you do, Uncle Jerry,” very nicely. Then Beth said: “They’re cute, aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” Jerry said. “Hello Ruffy. Hello Toughy.”

  Ruffy, a small gray cat with a white collar, was always talkative. She spoke a little querulously to Mr. North, chiding him for his long absence. Toughy regarded him with baleful yellow eyes revealing the Siamese which had, a little mysteriously, invaded his blood stream. He flattened his ears, twisted his long, bushy tail and waggled the tail’s tip.

  “Watch him, Jerry,” Mrs. North said urgently. “Curtains!”

  It had been too much for Toughy and Mr. North realized this a moment too late. Toughy, the pleased center of all eyes, recognized his duty. Toughy would now entertain. Jerry North reached for him and Toughy trickled through his fingers. Toughy ran half way across the living room, leaped the other half, landed on the curtains and swarmed up.

  “He can climb, can’t he?” Beth said, with interest. “I think he’s cute, don’t you, Margie?”

  “They’re both cute,” Margie said. “Very cute. Can he get down?”

  Toughy had extended himself. Using spurs, he mounted the curtains to the top, scrambled around the corner to the valance board and gained the summit. He extended himself on the board and looked down, beaming. Then his beam changed to another expression.

  “No,” Pam North said. “He can’t get down. He always forgets. Toughy, you’re a fool cat.”

  “Yow,” said Toughy. “M-yow. We-ah!”

  “Is that good for the curtains?” Margie wanted to know. It appeared that she was the practical niece.

  “No,” Jerry said. “It raises—it is very bad for the curtains.”

  “I should think it would simply raise hell with them,” Beth said, interestedly. “Leave little holes all over.”

  “Me-yow!” said Toughy, demandingly. Ruffy walked over and looked up at him. She looked back over her shoulder at Jerry North. “Yow!” said Ruffy, shortly.

  “She wants him to come down,” Beth advised. “She’s afraid he’ll fall. Are they—husband and wife?”

  It was a delicate point, Jerry North thought. He looked at Pam.

  “Well,” Pam said, “they could have been. And, of course, they’re brother and sister too. It’s—it’s odd about cats. So, of course—”

  She stopped, a little puzzled. You couldn’t tell about little girls in their middle teens.

  “Spayed,” Beth said. She looked at her aunt with surprise. “Anyway, I should think so.”

  “Jerry,” Pam said, “are you going to get the ladder?”

  Jerry was glad to get the ladder. The ladder unfolded itself out of a chair and wobbled, but he still was glad to get it. He brought it out and climbed it and dislodged Toughy who, now terrified by the results of his own prowess, clung. He put Toughy on the floor and Toughy, with avid yellow eyes, crouched at the foot of the curtains and stared up at them.

  “He’s going back,” Margie said. “I think he’s cute.”

  But Ruffy went to Toughy and rubbed his nose with hers, in a friendly, warning fashion. He put an arm around her neck and began to wash her face. Beth said, “Oh, look! Aren’t they—cute!”

  Pam and Jerry beamed at their cats. Mr. North found his opinion of the nieces rising. They were, it was clear, perceptive little girls. And what lass didn’t love a sailor?

  “Jerry was a sailor the other time,” Pam said. Mr. North was a little startled to encounter her just there, but it was a familiar surprise. The nieces looked at Jerry.

  “Really?” said Beth, with an inflection. Margie was sensitive to the inflection.

  “Beth!” she said. “It was ever so long ago. Years and years.” She looked at Mr. North again. “And years!” she added.

  “He tried to be again,” Pam went on, to Jerry’s uneasiness.… “But they said he was—”

  “I should think so,” Beth said. “But it was wonderful, Uncle Jerry. Perfectly wonderful.” She looked at Jerry. “And cute,” she added. “Terribly cute.”

  “They turned me down on account of my eyes,” Jerry said coldly. He looked coldly at his nieces. “I’m eligible to the draft,” he informed them. “They just haven’t got around to me.”

  The nieces looked sceptical. Then Margie understood and nodded.

  “It goes up to sixty-five now,” she reminded her sister.

  It was time. Mr. North thought to himself, that little girls—even nicely developed little girls—were in bed. In a moment he would be annoyed at them.

  “I am in the second registration,” he told the girls, with annoyed dignity. “There’s nothing to keep me out of the army.” He paused. “Except my eyes, perhaps,” he added.

  “And me,” Pam said.

  Beth nodded, consolingly. She said, “Of course.”

  “You’re really quite young, Uncle Jerry
,” she said. “I mean, really.”

  “That’s—” Jerry North began, with acerbity. Pam intervened.

  “You know,” she said, “I think I’m sleepy. And I’m sure Margie and Li—Beth are, aren’t you, girls.”

  She looked at them commandingly and they exchanged glances. They looked at Mr. North and then quickly at each other, and then Beth said:

  “Of course, Aunt Pam. Of course we are.”

  Then both girls looked at Jerry again. Their looks said that, at his age, he needed all the rest he could get. Their looks said that they were being considerate of the aged. Jerry got ready to speak, but Pamela cut in quickly. She said she hoped the girls wouldn’t mind the guest bed being only three-quarters—“on account of the room,” she added—and that she would show them where their towels were. She looked at Jerry anxiously, and he grinned at her. So that was all right. She took the nieces off.

  When she came back; Jerry was stretched out in a chair, his legs extended and a cigarette in one hand. He did, Mrs. North thought, look rather tired. She looked at him carefully. He didn’t look at all old, she decided. Except, she added honestly, to the very young. Jerry’s unoccupied hand hung down beside the chair and its fingers tickled Ruffy, who was lying on her back and wriggling in ecstasy. Ruffy stretched languorously and looked up at her favorite human with brimming eyes.

  “Mrs. Williams!” Pamela North said suddenly. Jerry looked at her in surprise, saw she was looking at Ruffy, and looked at Ruffy too.

  “Not really,” he said. “How cute.”

  “Jerry!” Pam said. “After all they’re just children.” She paused. “Innocent,” she said. “Really innocent. Even with the sailors. And with Ruffy it’s cute, but Mrs. Williams—After all, Mrs. Williams hasn’t been—I mean, it’s different with humans. Not so—sweet.”

  Jerry North looked up at her, smiling.

  “I saw Mrs. Williams,” he, assured her. “It must have been just a resemblance.” He looked down at Ruffy, and into her liquid eyes. “It couldn’t have been Mrs. Williams,” he said, with more confidence. “I saw her.”

  “So did I,” Pam told him. “At the Roundabout. The night you thought we ought to see some of the places people talk about so much. Like the Stork. And El Capitan.”