Miraculously, we had been led out of darkness.
Peter had turned back to Phyllis Brent, ready for the kill. “We might have guessed you’d be the one who’d have gone back to Ronnie. It wasn’t a moment for Mrs. Lacey, the gentle one. It was the moment for the strong one who could stand up to him man to man. Lacey’s work means everything to you, doesn’t it? You weren’t going to let your tin idol lose a nice free apartment and a nice twelve thousand bucks a year. You weren’t going to have the Great Lacey deprived of his chance for the big time and thrown back into abject poverty and obscurity in Shropshire. Five minutes after you’d got to 58th Street and found Ronnie still raging, you knew it was murder or nothing. And when you realized Bill could make a perfect scapegoat, you didn’t think twice. No, we’ve got you taped. There’s nothing obscure about you anymore.”
Phyllis Brent’s arrogant composure had left her. She was looking at Peter quite stupidly, as if his words had momentarily stunned her. But Peter had turned to Basil Lacey and on his face there was a look of coruscating contempt.
“But you, Mr. Lacey—there’s still quite a lot to work out about you. I suppose I understand your motives. You saw that one of your two women had to be sacrificed—and you decided to sacrifice the more expendable. Your wife’s a good housekeeper, but housekeepers can be replaced. It isn’t so easy to duplicate Lady Phyllis, who inspires like mad and admires like mad and also, I believe, has a little income which isn’t to be sneezed at. Oh, yes, I see why you preferred to keep Lady Phyllis. But”—there was astonishment now mingled with the contempt in his eyes—“but how in heaven’s name did you expect to get away with it? Did you imagine your wife would sit there meekly and let herself be arrested for a crime she didn’t commit—just to satisfy your whim?”
“Of course that’s what he thought.” It was Jean who spoke. In her voice was the unleashed hatred of a young lifetime. “Don’t you understand what a household this is? For years it’s been this way, ever since I can remember. Father and Phyllis banded together, exploiting Mother, bullying her, treating her like dirt. Norah do this. Norah do that. Don’t you realize the great privilege of serving genius? Don’t you understand that the Great Basil Lacey’s little finger is worth twice as much as your whole life? That’s what they’ve done to her. They tried to do it to me too, and they almost succeeded. They made me marry Ronnie, didn’t they? And now they thought they could make Mummy take the blame …”
She clutched her mother’s hand. “Mummy, darling, you see now what they did to Bill and what they tried to do to you. Now you must understand at last what monsters they are.”
Norah didn’t look up, but her face, hardly visible to me, reminded me of Angie’s glimpsed, tormented face when she had said: “So you see, Jake, everything was gone”. There was the same quality of humiliation and utter disillusionment. And, in my quickening sense of pity and tenderness for her and my loathing for Basil Lacey and Phyllis, I saw that my earlier comparison had been accurate. Here was the pattern, after all. Norah was Angie over again. And Basil Lacey was Ronnie. A flagrant Ronnie without Ronnie’s disarming veneer, a passive, cowardly Ronnie who had needed Phyllis Brent as his trigger-man, but a Ronnie even so, with the same insane conviction of his own superiority to all other mortals, the same preposterous belief that he was entitled to limitless worship, service and sacrifice.
The pattern! The monster who had met his match in monsterdom. Monster A. who had been killed by the parasite of Monster B.
“Mummy,” said Jean. “Tell them the truth.”
But Peter was still looking at Basil Lacey. When he spoke, his voice was clipped and impersonal, but behind it I could trace an odd urgency.
“Mr. Lacey, I wonder if you realize what you’ve done. Do you? Do you realize what any jury in the world’s going to think when they hear you deliberately tried to shift the blame to your wife although you knew she was innocent? They’ll be disgusted, Mr. Lacey. That’s what they’ll be—disgusted. But that won’t be all. Oh, no! They’ll think: Why the hell did he do it? And there’s only one reason, isn’t there? They’ll stumble on it in five minutes. They’ll realize you tried to shield Lady Phyllis because you had to shield her, because you’re just as guilty as she is. They’ll realize that there was a conspiracy, that, when you sent her back to 58th Street, you’d told her to murder Ronnie if necessary. That’s what they’ll think. Two against one, two guilty conspirators trying to throw the blame on to an innocent third party! They’ll think that, Mr. Lacey, and they’ll convict you as quickly as they’ll convict Lady Phyllis. That’s what will happen to you. You’ll die.”
He swung sharply to Barnes. “Isn’t that right, Lieutenant? Isn’t that the way any jury’s going to react?”
“I should think so,” said Barnes. “Under those circumstances, the district attorney would certainly go all out for a double conviction.”
Basil Lacey was staring at Barnes now. All his debonair, twinkling charm had gone. Its place had been taken by pale, stooped, shifty-eyed fright. For the first time, probably, he was under direct fire without the protective barrier of either of his women. He just stood there, a tic twitching in his cheek, his hands making fussy, pointless little gestures.
“But, Lieutenant, I … I …”
“You—what?” cut in Peter. “You deny it? You deny sending Lady Phyllis back to murder Ronnie?”
“I … I …”
“You deny it?”
“Yes, yes. I deny it.”
“So you didn’t know she’d killed him until later?”
“No, no. I swear it.”
“It was later, after the police had gone, that Lady Phyllis broke down and confessed to you that she’d killed Ronnie, that she’d left the gun there, that she’d put the button in his hand to incriminate Bill?”
To my surprise, there were beads of sweat on Peter’s forehead. “Was that how it happened? If that was the case, you’ll only be an accessory after the fact, and if you co-operate with the police, they’ll co-operate with you. You’ll have nothing to fear. Tell me, Mr. Lacey. It’s the only way to save yourself. Was that how it happened?”
Phyllis Brent was standing by a long table at the window. Her eyes were fixed on Basil. But he wasn’t looking at her. His glance fluttered to Barnes and, finding no help there, fluttered back to Peter, craven, sycophantic.
“Yes,” he whispered. “That’s how it happened.” He sank into a chair and put a hand up to his eyes. “It was afterwards, after the police had gone, that Lady Phyllis told me she’d killed Mr. Sheldon. I was horrified. I never dreamed. I was horrified. But … I … I … didn’t know what to do. I’m not equipped … It was outside nay realm. I …”
“And she told you she had a key, didn’t she?” put in Barnes. “She let herself in with a key.”
“I don’t know.” Basil Lacey started to sob. It was a querulous, babyish sob, acutely embarrassing. “Please … please, don’t press on me any longer. I know nothing about a key. I’m not feeling well. I …”
“Mrs. Sheldon heard the murderer let herself in with a key at nine,” persisted Barnes. “Lady Phyllis must have had a key. Tell me, Mr. Lacey.”
“I can tell you that.”
It was Norah Lacey who spoke. She was still holding her daughter’s hand. Her face, turned to Barnes, was implacable, the face of a woman who had confronted total disenchantment and come to terms with it.
“Phyllis had Jean’s key. The day before Ronnie came home, Jean was going out for the afternoon. There was a champagne of Ronnie’s that Basil liked. Some special champagne. In the past Phyllis had taken a few bottles whenever she had the chance. That day she knew Basil had finished a difficult chapter and would want some of the champagne to celebrate and she remembered that they’d used it all up. She happened to think of it when Jean was up here before she left, but she didn’t like to ask Jean for it. I mean, she didn’t want Jean to know she’d been taking Ronnie’s champagne. So—she just slipped the key out of Jean’s handbag.”
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There it was at last—the truth about Jean’s key which had caused me so much dread. And, as I looked back, it dawned on me that I could have realized it from the beginning. On the afternoon before Ronnie’s return, when I’d called Jean, it had been Phyllis Brent who had answered the phone. Later, when I’d brought Jean back from Fire Island, I’d had to let her in with my key because Angie was in Westport and the servants had left after lunch. Phyllis Brent had answered the phone and she could only have got into the house by using a key.
So it was over at last.
I looked at Phyllis Brent, the woman who had tried to destroy my son, the woman whose life, before she met Basil Lacey, had been “terrible, buried in the country with a bedridden mother and a father who despised her for not being an heir”.
Later, I could confirm Norah’s story of the key. But there was no need for me at the moment. There was no need for anything more.
Peter had sat down. He looked completely exhausted. Very quietly Barnes said to Basil Lacey:
“You’re prepared to make a formal statement at Headquarters, Mr. Lacey?”
Basil Lacey nodded his head.
“All right.” Barnes gestured to the policeman at the door. “Take Lady Phyllis to Headquarters. And take Mr. Lacey too. We don’t actually need the formal statement. We’ve got seven witnesses. But we might as well have it.”
The policeman crossed to Phyllis Brent and rather self-consciously snapped a handcuff on her wrist. She made not the slightest attempt to resist. She didn’t even seem to notice him. She was still looking at Basil Lacey. Whimpering, Basil had got to his feet. He started for the door. When he reached Phyllis and the policeman, he threw himself against Phyllis with a strangled sob.
“Don’t let them do anything to me! Please, don’t let them do anything to me.”
And Phyllis, horribly, as if she were a man and he a woman, put her free arm round his waist and clutched him to her.
“Don’t worry, Basil. Don’t worry, dear. I won’t let them do anything. I’ll tell them the truth and they won’t blame you. You’ll be all right. You’ll finish the book.”
Her arm was still protectively round Basil’s waist as the three of them went out of the room and the door closed behind them.
As if she were a man and he a woman. In a way, the earl had had a son after all.
So the time for rejoicing had improbably come. Soon, I supposed, I should be able to feel as well as grasp with my mind the fact of good fortune. But not yet … The aftertaste of horror was still in the air. There was too much to forget.
Peter and Iris crossed to me. As I looked at them, instead of happiness I felt the old depression stirring in me. Last night, in the depths of my anguish, I had realized that in saving Bill lay my only chance for regaining my self-respect. Now Bill was saved … yes. But what had I done towards victory? All I had done was to blunder on, sinking deeper and deeper into despair, while the others, while Peter and Iris—and Barnes …
Iris said: “Jake, dear, we pulled it off.”
“You pulled it off,” I said. “You and Peter.”
“No,” said my brother, “it was you, Jake. I panicked Lacey with all that double-talk about conspiracy into giving Lady Phyllis away. I admit that. And, because he was even more of a coward than I thought, it worked. But I didn’t have a goddam thing to go on. I’d got that dope from California, but it turned out to be wrong, because Lacey had been in the theater after all. I worked the stunt with the program only on a hunch and, even when Barnes confirmed the fact that it was Lady Phyllis who’d been missing, that didn’t prove a thing. There wasn’t a shred of evidence to show she’d been anywhere near 58th Street. For all I knew Bill was still as guilty as hell. But I went on—because of you, because of that crazy, stubborn faith of yours. If Jake’s so determined Bill’s innocent, I thought, there must be something in it. So I’ll try.” He was looking at me solemnly. “That’s why I went on, Jake. I gambled on you.”
I felt a return of exasperation. Did they, even now, feel they had to bolster my morale with false props of kindness?
I said: “How could you possibly still have thought Bill was guilty when you’d proved his alibi at the picture-house?”
An almost guilty smile moved Peter’s lips. “Didn’t you see through that? Of course I hadn’t proved Bill’s alibi. I invented that box-office clerk on the spur of the moment.” He turned to Barnes, who had moved to join us. “I didn’t fool you, did I?”
Barnes was smiling too. The smile was almost a grin. I’d never seen him look so nearly human.
“I must admit I was rather surprised that a box-office clerk who’d been on duty at nine o’clock the night before should still be on duty this morning. But you were doing fine and, so long as I didn’t get mixed up in it too far, I saw no reason not to give you a little boost.”
I looked at them both in confusion. “So—so the whole thing was a colossal bluff. That’s why you were so eager to get Basil Lacey’s admission.”
“Sure,” said Peter. “It was the admission or nothing. I realized that. But I got it and there are seven witnesses. That should be all we need, isn’t it, Barnes?”
“I should think so.” Barnes’s grin was rather apologetic now. “Luckily I didn’t get into the spirit and invent things too. The Fenwicks of Union City are perfectly real people with perfectly real ticket stubs. With their evidence and Lacey’s statement, the defense won’t have much of a chance.”
He turned then to me. “Do you know, Mr. Duluth? I’ve never come across blind faith before. Until this morning, I was absolutely certain your son was guilty. But at Center Street, when, with everything in the world against you, you said to hell with me and walked out, you shook me in spite of myself. After that, I started to doubt. And, if I hadn’t started to doubt, I’d never have dared go along with Peter here. Peter’s right. You’re the hero—you with your new method for moving mountains.”
The depression, the sense of inadequacy were still there, but I knew that eventually I should remember and possibly believe Barnes’s unlikely tribute to me, just as I should remember Angie’s “So you can’t hate yourself any more”. Barnes had turned out to be a very memorable person. Impulsively I said:
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. Sorry I didn’t trust you more.”
“Trust me? When I’d made a complete fool of myself from the beginning? No, Mr. Duluth, never make the mistake of trusting me.” He patted my arm. “Now I’ve got to go to Headquarters and you’ll want to pick up that son of yours. I’ll call. He’ll be ready to go by the time you get there.”
It was coming now, miraculously before its time, the sense of relief from pressure. In a few minutes, I should be with Bill. In my expansive happiness, I remembered Jean. I turned to her.
“Come and get Bill with me, Jean.”
She jumped up from her mother’s side. Her eyes were shining. She ran to join Peter, Iris and Barnes at the door. I was left facing Norah Lacey.
Oddly enough, although part of me had already raced forward to Bill, I found that I felt closer to Norah than to the others who were all crowding eagerly away from the past. Norah Lacey, who had lavished her whole life on a monster; Norah Lacey, who had been betrayed as viciously as I had been betrayed.
I crossed to her. She looked carved out of stone. Once I’d thought she looked like a rose.
“Mrs. Lacey, would you come too?”
She looked up at me. “Come?”
“Jean and I are going to get Bill. I’d like you to come too.”
Gradually the stone mask began to crack. Her lips trembled. With a quick movement, she turned her head from me.
“That I could have been so blind … that, after all these years …”
“Forget all these years,” I said.
My happiness seemed huge now, large enough for me to look back only with tenderness to the ghost of Felicia, large enough for me to be assured of a future of love and understanding with Bill, large enough, too, to make room for Norah
Lacey, my counterpart.
I shouldn’t rush to Bill. It was Jean he would want to see first. Now that things were to be all right, I mustn’t develop into an over-fond parent.
I put my hand on Norah Lacey’s shoulder.
“Go ahead, Jean,” I called. “Take Bill to the apartment. I’ll join you later.”
FIN
PATRICK QUENTIN
Patrick Quentin, Q. Patrick and Jonathan Stagge were pen names under which Hugh Callingham Wheeler (19 March 1912 – 26 July 1987), Richard Wilson Webb (August 1901 – December 1966), Martha Mott Kelley (30 April 1906 – 2005) and Mary Louise White Aswell (3 June 1902 – 24 December 1984) wrote detective fiction. In some foreign countries their books have been published under the variant Quentin Patrick. Most of the stories were written by Webb and Wheeler in collaboration, or by Wheeler alone. Their most famous creation is the amateur sleuth Peter Duluth. In 1963, the story collection The Ordeal of Mrs. Snow was given a Special Edgar Award by the Mystery Writers of America.
In 1931 Richard Wilson Webb (born in 1901 in Burnham-on-Sea, Somerset, an Englishman working for a pharmaceutical company in Philadelphia) and Martha Mott Kelley collaborated on the detective novel Cottage Sinister. Kelley was known as Patsy (Patsy Kelly was a well-known character actress of that era) and Webb as Rick, so they created the pseudonym Q. Patrick by combining their nicknames—adding the Q "because it was unusual".
Webb's and Kelley's literary partnership ended with Kelley's marriage to Stephen Wilson. Webb continued to write under the Q. Patrick name, while looking for a new writing partner. Although he wrote two novels with the journalist and Harper's Bazaar editor Mary Louise Aswell, he would find his permanent collaborator in Hugh Wheeler, a Londoner who had moved to the US in 1934.
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