by Steve Fisher
"But—"
"You and a hick cop. Rural address, cows and pigs and chickens. Your name in the social column of the Mamaroneck Herald every time you give a tea. Oh, it's a scream. I can see you in a print dress with a broom in your hand talking to pedlars and gossipy women all day. I can see you dying out here and being buried in a graveyard grown over with weeds. I can see you—"
"Stop it!" she shrieked.
He turned and looked out the French door glass. "Maybe I was in love with you," he said.
"Clifton—"
"Well," he went on without turning, "maybe I was. That's hot, isn't it?"
"What about Sherry?"
He said; "What about her?"
"You change women to suit your convenience and whim," said Dorothy, "and if you think I ever had considered that kind of love, you're crazy."
"All right, I'm crazy."
"Just awful crazy."
"Just awful crazy," he repeated. "The word is awfully, though."
"Clifton, are you insane?"
"Maybe," he said.
"Do you think you can go through life fixing things to meet your fingers? Are you going to try and tie yourself to any girl who is in a position to help you in one way or another? Don't you think you're entirely too mercenary ever to have a decent, honest emotion?"
"Maybe."
"Don't you care?"
"No," he said. "I like Clifton Dell."
"You mean you love him."
"Yes, I love him."
"You're cold. You're not worthy of any woman."
"But I'll always have them."
"Yes. You'll always have them. And broken hearts scattered in your wake like broken bottles. You'll always have them and in the end—"
He turned suddenly, facing her. "And what'll you have? Chickens and babies and corn growing in your back yard. All right. You want that, I want success. I want to write the best plays that were ever written in this generation. And I will. I've made a good start already. I want to be the pinnacle of success. I want to be the success of all successes. There's no limit. No sky high enough. And all that I'll have. Every bloody inch of it. While you take the rural air and a walk on Sundays. I liked you, I half loved you, because you had the same spirit that I have. My game with Sherry was pretense. Why? Because she wouldn't have helped me if I hadn't pretended. And I needed help. I needed it badly. Not me, the guy, but Clifton Dell, the playwright. So I played the game. I don't care what's left in the wake. Bottles or bodies or hearts. I'm going to get to the top. That's what I thought you had. But you haven't. You're the eternal woman. Soft and weepy. Something to put on a stage to tear the hearts out of a sentimental audience. Something in whose mouth to put stinging dialogue and renunciations about the home is better than a theater dressing-room."
"Clifton!"
"Take it. I took it from you. You're a symbol of babies versus a worthwhile career. The weak and unsuccessful, the failures and the morons, they'll all applaud you. You'll make them think living a dull life doing dull things is the best this world has. You'll lend them escape. You'll pour salve on their wounds and their dreams. Your very life and existence in the country will do that. But in your heart you will know it's a lie. You'll be bored with your neighbors. You'll know talent is turning sour. You'll know the years are walking past you, and pretty soon you'll see them running. You'll go to your mirror every day to see if there are wrinkles, and you'll cry when you find your first gray hair. You'll live until you're bitter and useless, the drab wife of a cop, when YOU could have been something big and fine like Rhea Davis, giving the world entertainment, giving them plays and performances that will do more for them than your martyrism of hick town life. If it isn't love I feel for you it's love for the art of the theater which is, and always will be, the only real love in my soul. It's hearing you talk about throwing your life away in a town twenty miles from the Broadway that can make you immortal!"
She had gone pale with rage, but his talking had killed even this, and now that he was through she knew nothing to say to him. She could not admit that he was right. The emotion of the heart was the genuine one and because he was completely without it he failed to see any point in it. As for the theater, she had heard him talk this way before, and she had talked in this way herself.
"Please go," she said.
"Is that all you have to say?"
"That's all."
"Then you know I'm right, don't you?"
"No. I don't know that. You're not right."
"Oh, for God's sake," he said. "You're as stupid as Betty Smyth."
He turned and walked out of the room.
She sank down on the bed and sobbed. She could not help herself. Clifton had drained her of emotion and she didn't want to think. She did love Johnny West, she knew that she did now. and yet, like him, the theater would never leave her soul.
There was a high, shrill scream from the hall.
She jerked rigid with terror. The scream started again, but a crashing sound shut it off. For a moment there was silence. Then someone else was screaming.
Dorothy ran into the hall. Clifton was there just ahead of her. Mike Wiggam came running from his room, which was in the opposite direction.
Part of the rail near the stairway had been torn away. Dorothy looked down to the first floor. She saw a body there. Betty Smyth was standing staring at it, screaming. Sam Tulley was rushing toward it from the living room. Grant was coming from the direction of the servants' hall. Clifton was racing down the stairs. Half-way he stared over the banister, and stopped.
"Frances," he said. "It's Frances. Dead."
CHAPTER TEN
It was apparent that Frances had been bodily thrown through the upstairs banister and had landed on her head and shoulders. Death had been severe. She was crushed lifelessly, her arms thrown out, and Dorothy could only look at her for a second, long enough to see strands of her bronze hair through the bright crimson of the blood. She had just turned away from it when Johnny West came in. He had been outside and had not heard the screams. He stared down, and Dorothy, so sick she wanted to vomit, moved into the living-room and sat down in a place where she could no longer see the lifeless body.
The others came in presently, at West's request. Dorothy learned later he had thrown a tablecloth over Frances. He followed in Grant and Betty. His face was very white, his lips thin and bloodless. He picked up the telephone.
"Coroner's office? This is West. Mamaroncck. I'm at Mrs. Davis' house. The maid is dead. What?'' He hung up and looked around the room soberly. There was a hard stone glint in his eyes. He fumbled with a cigarette and put it in his mouth with a trembling hand, He did not light it. It dangled there. He kept looking around the room, as though he were sizing everyone up. He sat himself on the edge of the table. From the way he breathed Dorothy could tell that his heart was beating fast. He opened and closed his hands and looked clown at the backs of them. He took the cigarette from his mouth and put it behind his ear.
"This thing is lousy," he said slowly, "so lousy that when I get a line on somebody I'm personally going to pound hell out of him with my two hands." He looked up and around the room again. "I think I've been too good to you people. I've given you too much of a break. But one murder with a motive is different from ruthless slaughter. From here on it's an express train." His eyes kept moving from face to face. "Who was the first to see her?"
Betty Smyth had been watching his lips intently. She started to speak, but paused as Roy moved quietly into the room and sat down. The chauffeur put his hands in his lap. Betty made another start.
"I was standing there in the foyer when she fell. She landed not four feet from where I stood."
"Did you look up to see who had done it?" Johnny asked.
"I screamed," Betty said vaguely.
"I said, did you look up?"
"No. Not right away. I couldn't take my eyes away from Frances. I was—I was stunned."
"Then you didn't see anybody in the hall upstairs?"
> "Not right away."
Johnny West was patient. "When you did look up," he said loudly enough for her to hear, "whom did you see?"
"Mr. Dell."
"Is that all?"
"No. A minute later I saw Miss Noel and Mr. Wiggam."
"A minute later?"
"Well—"
"Sixty full seconds?"
"Well—no. I don't know how long it was. First I was screaming. Then I looked up. Maybe I was still screaming then. I wouldn't say a full minute. Perhaps half a minute."
"In fact you have absolutely no conception of time, isn't that right?"
"Well—" murmured Betty.
West shifted his glance to Clifton. "You were the first in the hall upstairs."
"I guess so," Clifton said.
"Don't you know?"
"All right. I was the first."
"How soon did you get there?"
"The moment I heard the scream," Clifton replied.
"Where were you?"
"I had just gone into my room."
"Just gone into your room." Johnny West had taken the cigarette from behind his ear and was rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. "Where had you been?"
"In Dorothy Noel's room."
West looked at Dorothy, but he was expressionless. He turned back to Clifton. "You had come from Miss Noel's room and had just gone back into your own. You had closed the door. Then you heard the scream. You opened the door again and dashed into the hall. You were there when Mrs. Smyth saw you."
"I hadn't quite closed the door," Clifton said.
"I see. Partly closed. All you had to do was reverse your course, and rush back into the hall."
"That's right."
"Had Frances already hit the floor then?"
"Yes."
"Did she make any noise?"
"Quite a lot."
Johnny West tossed the shreds of his cigarette into the ash tray. "Do you know what I'm getting at?"
"Not exactly," said Clifton, "but since you've asked to be qualified, I'd say it was something like the old French proverb, or saying: doing nothing sweetly."
West slowly opened and closed his mouth. "Ah, you don't like the way I work?"
"Personally," Chiton said, "I think you have an odor."
Johnny West shoved himself off the table. "That's quite personal," he said, "quite." He moved slowly toward Clifton. Suddenly he lunged out and grabbed the front of his polo shirt. "So damned personal, Mr. Dell, that, as I just said, I've decided to be a little tougher to effeminate theatrical people. One more smart word of lip out of you and you're going to taste knuckles across the front of your teeth!"
"Get your putrid hands off me!" Clifton roared.
West's fist flew. There was a solid smack across Clifton's mouth and he went backwards, losing his balance. He hit the floor, but was on his feet at once. He rushed forward before anyone could stop him. West didn't move. He reached out and clipped Clifton across the jaw. His left thudded into Clifton's body. Flailing out his arms in what he had intended to be blows, Chiton sank to his knees, blood gushing now from his mouth.
West stood there with his legs spread. "That goes for the rest of you. You, Wiggam. Old as you are."
"I'll be damned if I'm old," said Wiggam, "and if this is a new way to solve murder cases I suggest you get a patent on it. You're nothing but a hot-headed kid. Why weren't you here when Frances was killed? Then you wouldn't have to ask questions."
"I might ask you where you were." The lean newspaperman wrapped his tweed coat a little tighter and stepped forward. He helped Clifton to his feet, and gave him his handkerchief to sponge the blood from his mouth. Dorothy helped Clifton into a chair. Mike Wiggam, still at Clifton's side, looked up and answered West's question.
"I was in my room playing solitaire. Pass on to the next candidate, Sherlock."
West said: "You, Tulley?"
The fattish producer lighted a cigar. He smiled a patronizing smile. "I was out getting a breath of air. Not off the grounds of course. I was very close to the house, so that I heard the scream." He finished back in a cliche speech: "There's nothing like morning sunshine and a hearty tramp through an orchard of blossoming summer sweetness."
Johnny West glanced down at the fresh dirt on Tulley's shoes. "Which entrance did you use coming in?"
"The side."
The fat Mrs. O'Malley, the cook, had come to the door a few seconds ago and was standing there, holding her apron in her hands. Tears were running down her red cheeks.
West looked at Grant. "You?"
"I was on the back porch. I came in through the servants' entrance. Since Frances was thrown from the upstairs I'd bloody well say that—"
Mrs. O'Malley said: "Mr. West."
West looked up. "Yes?"
"Can I leave?"
"I'm sorry, no."
"You don't suspect me, do you? I was in the kitchen when poor little Frances—"
"I'd like to let you leave, Mrs. O'Malley, but I can't. I'm not allowed to. Where was your husband when this happened?"
"He was in the kitchen with me."
"Well, if that's true, I don't suspect either one of you very strongly, but you'll have to stay in the house until the killer is apprehended."
"Until he is what?"
"Caught, Mrs. O'Malley."
"But I'm scared, and after just seeing poor little Frances run from her room a moment before she was killed, I can't stand—"
"You saw her run from her room?"
"Yes, poor tike. She was all excited and out of breath. I saw her from the kitchen."
"In which direction did she go?"
"This way. Toward the foyer. Then upstairs, I guess. She was probably hunting for you."
"You think she had something to tell me, then?" West asked.
"I wouldn't know," Mrs. O'Malley replied. "All I know is what I saw."
"An admirable trait," said West. "Is that all you noticed about Frances—that she was running?"
"Yes, that's all."
"She wasn't carrying anything? A pair of shoes, a knife, a—"
"Sure, and she was," said Mrs. O'Malley. "Now that you remind me."
"What?"
"She was carrying a newspaper."
"A newspaper? Is that all?"
Disappointment flickered across the cook's red face. "That's all. It was folded kinda. She had it in her hand and she was running."
"I see," said West. "Thank you very much. I'm sure you've been of help."
"But I can't leave the house?"
"Not yet."
Dorothy saw Johnny suddenly leave the room. She was beside Clifton now and she noticed that Johnny lifted the cloth from Frances' corpse. He presently replaced it and began searching around for something. Clifton had stopped bleeding, but he was spotted with blood and looked a mess. He kept the handkerchief held to his jaw. His hands were bloody.
Wiggam said: "You led with your chin all right, kid. But he didn't have any right to do that. He's just a little guy trying to be big. I will say, though, you've been giving him an awful headache with that talk of yours."
"It wasn't what I said," Clifton murmured, but he didn't go on with it.
Dorothy looked at him. "That wasn't the reason, either, Johnny wasn't jealous."
"No"—bitterly.
"He's just trying to do his job," she went on, "and you keep aggravating him. I suppose he's sorry now, but I can understand how he—"
"Sure," said Clifton, "you can understand. But if he had a wit of my brain he wouldn't be soft heeling it for the Mamaroneck cops. He has got a wallop. And his hand's a pretty good machine when it comes to murder, but he's just a big fish flipping around in a stinking little pond that's going to dry up on him some day and leave him to bake and rot in country sunshine."
"You should write plays," said Wiggam.
"What the hell do you think I do?"
"Oh," said Wiggam, lifting his eyebrows, "now that you mention it, I remember something about it."
> "You're lying. I've talked plays ever since I walked into this house. You wrote a play once, too. You wrote a thing for Rhea Davis, something about forty being fun, only the heroine dies at the end. Great stuff twenty years ago. You also wrote a book about a nut house that made you a neat piece of coin. Since I'm acquainted with what you've done, you might be more respectful."
"As a matter of fact," Wiggam replied, "I am. But you have no sense of humor. Drama to the bitter end. Hurrah for the sword of blood. Let liberty ring. Keep it, kid. Right or wrong, it'll make you. It doesn't matter in the theater whether you're right. You can convince an audience that black is white, if you've got guts in your dialogue. If you use short scenes and ring your curtains down on lines that'll sting clear to their hearts, you can even make them think they're living in the wrong country and they hate their wives. For two hours you can. But the moment they're out of the theater they'll go and drink cocktails somewhere and talk about you, but they'll forget your message, or if you had one they'll have missed it. All they'll remember of you and your play was that they were entertained. That you made them squirm and shriek and applaud and cry. That's all they want to remember. They'll make you great remembering just that much. A lot of playwrights in history have had soap boxes, but do you remember Shakespeare?"
"I've heard he was the greatest."
"You mean you've never read him?"
"No."
"Never read Shakespeare?"
"No," said Clifton. "I've been writing plays all my life and I've never had time."
Johnny West was at the door. "Dorothy."
She got up and went to him. His face was grim and white. He took her into the foyer, past the corpse and into the servants' hall.
"You were talking to Frances the other night. I thought you might be able to help me."
"I will if I can," she said.
"Frances was killed, of course, because she knew something that would incriminate the murderer of Mrs. Davis. We don't know what it is. It must have been something she recently discovered. She was excited about it, and we'll say she was on her way to tell me. The murderer saw her running up the stairs and he must have seen the newspaper that was in her hand. This is theory. He stopped her and asked her what the rush was. Frances told him. That was fatal, of course, and she should have known. However, that's beside the point. The point is that the newspaper she was carrying possibly had something to do with it."
