“For all I know,” Wyatt said. “What about Carr? You mean the Carr was married to Nay? How did he get into it? I thought he was in Persia or somewhere.”
“Pakistan,” Pam said. “Only now he’s in New York. Except that at the right time he was in Chicago.”
“Probably just an alibi,” Wyatt said. “Probably right here, feeding the polo player arsenic.”
“Oxalic acid,” Jerry said.
“Comes to the same thing,” Wyatt said. “But have it your way.” He paused, sipped his new drink. “You know,” he said, “this relieves my mind. Carr. This woman who wants me to make a speech.” He snapped his fingers. “The lady polo player,” he said, with evident pleasure. “No fury like. Spurned love turns to hate. You are a cad, and here is a beaker of cyanide of potassium.”
“It doesn’t,” Pam said, “sound much like a lady polo player.”
“Oh,” Wyatt said, “just a rough draft. We can clean up the dialogue. She had a brother, too. The lady polo player. Maybe he got around to avenging her honor. Or—” He paused. “Losing money makes people touchy,” he said. “If I had a sister set to marry a few millions I’d get touchy about it if it—walked away.” But then, his mood changed again. “However you look at it,” he said, “I found him. That’s what they go by.”
“I can’t,” Dorian Weigand said, “think what it is you read, Mr. Wyatt. Or—are these just things you write?”
“You know,” Wyatt said. “You’re quite a girl. It’s too bad you’re married to this policeman.”
“Listen, Sam,” Jerry said. “I know you like to talk. Just listen. As I understand it, you and this housekeeper—Mrs. Lem—Hemmins—found Fitch’s body. You and she went upstairs together, she knocked on the door, opened it when there was no answer, and you both found Fitch dead. Was that the way it was?”
“Sure,” Wyatt said. “We saw he was dead, and she was pretty much knocked out and I went downstairs and called a doctor. She told me who to call. Man had an office in the building. Then I went back. Told this Bill of yours how it was.”
“Yes,” Jerry said. “But—you keep leaving Mrs. Hemmins out of it.”
“Don’t know why,” Wyatt said. “She was there, all right. I suppose—” He hesitated. “I suppose I dramatize it,” he said. “Habit forming, dramatization.”
“Mrs. Hemmins,” Pam North said slowly, “says you had a cold—she thought it was a cold—before she let you in. But if it was cats, not a cold, then—”
“Mrs. Hemmins got it wrong,” Wyatt said. “I had that out with Captain Weigand. I was perfectly all right until I got into the apartment, where the cat was.” He looked at Pam, then at Jerry and Dorian. His eyes were a little narrowed. “That’s the way it was,” he said.
And then he pushed his glass back. There was decisiveness in the movement. “If nobody wants another?” he said, and, at almost the same instant, beckoned the nearest waiter, asked—rather abruptly—for a check. There was, unexpectedly, a certain awkwardness in the few moments of waiting for change; in the time it took Wyatt to select a bill and coins for a tip. It was evident that Sam Wyatt had got his talking done.
But, when they all stood to leave, he seemed to sense this and said, with less than his customary abruptness, that he had almost forgotten he had an appointment. The others made polite sounds to this, further polite sounds in payment for their drinks.
Outside, since they declined to be “dropped somewhere,” they watched Sam Wyatt get into a cab. And, as the cab drew away from the curb, they watched a sedan, of no particular appearance, start up from a little way down the block and fall in behind the cab.
“I think,” Pam North said, “that maybe Mr. Wyatt is right to be scared.”
Mr. and Mrs. James Nelson occupied a suite at the Barclay. Acting Captain William Weigand, temporarily of Homicide East, was invited up, and went up. He was received by Mrs. Nelson, who was slim in a black dress, who had short gray hair, who met Weigand at the door. She said it was so good of him to come. She said that she was so sorry her husband had had to step out. She enquired, after she had said, “Please, sit down, captain,” whether she could not get him something. She said, “They’re so very prompt here. Such an excellent hotel.”
Bill was not in need of anything. He was inspected, not obviously, but he thought thoroughly, through attentive brown eyes. He waited for it. Alicia Nelson smiled. “Really,” she said, “you’re not quite what I expected.”
That, Bill Weigand had heard before. To that, he had never thought of a responsive answer. He smiled, instead.
“I am so glad,” Alicia Nelson said, “that it is somebody like you. I’m sure we speak the same language.”
Bill was not. He did not say he was not. He made a rejoinder which was vague and, he hoped, encouraging. He decided that Mrs. Nelson’s black dress, in style and material—how interested women always were in material, and in what they called “detail”—would please Dorian, who was not easily pleased. He thought it had been chosen with care, and without regard for cost. He thought that a suite at the Barclay, presumably for a weekend, would run high.
“Are you sure I can’t have them bring something?” Mrs. Nelson said. “If only a cup of tea?”
“Quite sure,” Bill said, remembering he spoke the same language.
“And you’re really in charge of the investigation into poor Brad’s death?” she said.
Bill told her how that was. Deputy Chief Inspector Artemus O’Malley was in charge. He himself was—well, active.
“O’Malley,” Mrs. Nelson said. “Oh.”
“You have,” Bill said, “some information to give us?”
“Really,” she said, “I’m not sure. We felt—my husband and I, that is—somebody would want to confer with us. Since we happen to be in town—but only until tomorrow—we felt it would be convenient if we talked here. For everyone. At home there are so many things to do, you know.” She interrupted herself to smile. She smiled very briefly. “The club takes so much of my time,” she said. “And James, of course—” But she did not end by saying anything about the demand on James’s time. Instead, she said that her husband would be so sorry to miss Captain Weigand.
“Now,” she said, “how can we help, captain? Help your investigation of this shocking, shocking thing?”
“If I knew the answer to that—” Bill said, and shrugged just perceptibly. He trusted he was speaking the right language. It appeared, however, that he was not. Mrs. Nelson looked at him, evincing no great comprehension. “We haven’t really got far enough to know what questions to ask,” Bill told her.
“But surely,” Mrs. Nelson said. “It’s been more than twenty-four hours. I supposed that, in that time, the police would—well, have theories, at least. Perhaps already be quite sure, only lack proof.”
So that was it, Bill thought, and found the thought interesting. Summoned not to be informed, but to inform. He said that, as to theories—He said there were, obviously, certain possibilities. He said, “Have you a theory yourself, Mrs. Nelson?”
“James and I have been thinking and thinking,” Mrs. Nelson said. “Everybody was so fond of Brad. He was such a dear boy. Not as experienced as he might have been, I’m afraid. Taken in by people. But a dear boy.”
“Taken in?” Bill said.
“I’m afraid so,” Mrs. Nelson said. “Both James and I felt he was being, so often. A man—a nice man—with so much money—You must know it is, captain.”
He was readmitted to the language league. He nodded his head. He asked if she had anything specific in mind.
“Not really,” she told him. “Captain—I really need a cup of tea. Or even a cocktail. This has all been a strain, of course. We were so fond of poor, dear Brad. Won’t you change your mind?”
Bill permitted himself to change his mind. He permitted himself to accept the offer of a cocktail. Mrs. Nelson used the telephone. She said she so loved the Barclay. She said it had such great dignity, but at the same time so much comfort. She
said that, so often, one did not find the two combined. She said that James would be so sorry to miss the captain. One does not, Bill decided, discuss the significant if the arrival of a serving person is imminent.
The serving person arrived. He brought a glass jug, embedded in ice. Two cocktail glasses were upended in the ice. The drinks were very cold. The serving person thanked them and departed.
“Only,” Mrs. Nelson said, “I find theater people so difficult to understand. As I am sure you must.”
Bill Weigand was tempted to tell her that some of his best friends were theater people. He refrained. He sipped his drink, and nodded, which might approve the drink or accept Mrs. Nelson’s views.
“For a boy like poor Brad,” she said. “Just a boy, really. Brought up so differently, of course. Good schools, and all that. And then to be plunged into this—this superficial life.”
When Alicia Nelson saw a word in passage, she pounced on it.
“Plunged?” Bill said. “Was he, Mrs. Nelson?”
“First this other actress,” she said. “Then Mr.—what is his name? Strothers?” Bill nodded. “To get him to invest money, of course. But I’m afraid Brad was impressed. Really impressed. Because people like Mr. Strothers are so different, of course. So much more—in a way, worldly. You do know what I mean, don’t you? ‘Twenty-one’ and all that. Chi-chi.”
The term was one Bill thought had been retired years before. But he nodded again.
“And,” Mrs. Nelson said, “they are attractive, in a way. One has to admit that. This first young woman—so vivacious.”
“Miss Shaw?” Bill said, and was looked at in surprise.
“Of course not,” Alicia Nelson said. “The first one. Phyllis something.”
“Barnscott? The girl in the play?”
“Girl? Well, I suppose one might call her that. A—youngish woman, at any rate. Pretty, of course. But, in such a showy way, don’t you think?”
Bill had not yet met Miss Barnscott.
By this, Mrs. Nelson appeared greatly surprised. She supposed of course—She broke off. Of course, the captain knew his own business best. But she would have thought. In view of—everything. Bill waited, thinking this might be another thing he had been summoned for. He sipped the excellent martini. He was rewarded.
Not that Mrs. Nelson meant to suggest anything, put any ideas in the captain’s head. But he had asked if she and James had any theories. They had, of course, been unable to avoid thinking of this—this “girl.”
She knew, Bill decided, precisely where she wanted to go. She knew how she wanted to get there. He drank very slowly—and noticed that she did not drink at all. Her eyes remained attentive to his face, which did not noticeably respond.
Phyllis Barnscott had, Mrs. Nelson said, been the first of the theater people to cross the path of Bradley Fitch, so well brought up, so essentially innocent. And, of course, so rich. How the paths had crossed, Mrs. Nelson did not pretend to know. What poor dear Brad had seen in her—that she could not pretend to understand. “But I’ve barely met her and, anyway, it’s so difficult to see what men see.” It was evident that he had seen enough.
“They went everywhere together for—oh, months,” she said, and the emphasis on the word “everywhere” was special, was almost a little lingering. “I mean, the places they would go. You can imagine how poor dear Peggy must have felt.” She paused, then. “Peggy Latham,” she said. “Such a quiet girl. So—different. Interested in such different things. Horses and dogs, you know.”
“Yes,” Bill said. “He was engaged to Miss Latham, I understand? When he met Miss Barnscott?”
“Oh,” she said. “Even after that. When he was—well, I’m afraid there’s no word but ‘infatuated.’ But Peggy was so understanding. Such an understanding girl. She still expected Brad to—come back to her. Everybody did, of course, I mean, that is, all of us did. What Miss Barnscott expected—well, it’s so hard to tell about people like that, isn’t it? Even if you know them. Perhaps a great deal. And then to be simply dropped for Miss Shaw. To have to stand there and hear poor Brad announce that he was going to marry Miss Shaw. When everybody knew what they’d been to each other.”
She looked at Bill Weigand expectantly.
“A woman like that,” she said. “Without background. Without the basic things. The basic certainties. To be humiliated, before all her friends. Who can tell what she might do? And—I’m afraid—she knew her way around poor Brad’s apartment. Far too well. Where he kept things and—” She paused. “Surely you must have thought of the possibility.”
“There are a great many possibilities,” Bill told her. “You must realize that. Miss Latham was equally—humiliated, I’d imagine. Not so publicly, perhaps, but—”
“Peggy?” Mrs. Nelson said. “A girl like Peggy?”
“I don’t know Miss Latham,” Weigand told her. “Or Miss Barnscott.”
“Obviously not,” Mrs. Nelson said. “Obviously. To suggest that a girl like Peggy Latham, brought up as she’s been. With her background.”
“As I said, I don’t know her. No doubt you’re right. You mentioned Mr. Fitch’s money, Mrs. Nelson. Hinted various people were—attracted by it.” (He hoped he was still speaking the same language.) “As a relative, you probably know who will inherit?”
“Oh,” she said, “several of us. But—I suppose since I’m the closest—” She let it go at that, delicately. “Of course,” she added, “Brad didn’t confide in us about his will. Still, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Since he didn’t live to marry this Miss Shaw? Assuming he really planned to.”
She smiled then, and shook her head, as at a naughty boy.
“I hope,” she said, “you’re not getting ideas, captain? Ridiculous ideas?”
“We have to think of everything,” Bill said, temperately. “If he had married Miss Shaw, and then died, things would have been different for his relatives.”
She ceased smiling. Her face expressed astonishment; what Bill took to be hauteur. She said, now in a cold voice, now not to a naughty boy, “Really!” It was clear to Bill that he was speaking another language.
“I’m afraid, captain,” she said, “that you don’t really understand people like us.”
“I told you,” Bill said, “that there are several possibilities. You must realize we have to consider all of them. However farfetched.”
“Certain people don’t do certain things,” Mrs. Nelson said firmly, but it appeared that she was somewhat mollified. “I’m sure you realize that, Captain Weigand. And, of course, it isn’t as if any of us were—differently situated.”
Meaning, Bill decided, “needed the money.” He said, “Of course. I realize that.” He said, “You didn’t know Miss Barnscott, you say?”
“Barely,” Mrs. Nelson said. “Such different circles, even when she was so much with poor Brad. I’d met her—oh, months ago. And then at this dreadful party the poor dear boy gave. Such odd people. She seemed to be with a man named Tootle, of all things. But there—one mustn’t be intolerant.”
“It takes all kinds,” Bill told her, gravely. She looked, momentarily as if there were great doubt of this. She said, “That’s very true, isn’t it?”
“The night before Mr. Fitch—died,” Bill said. “You had dinner with him?”
She looked momentarily surprised, even doubtful. Then she made that sound, with tongue and teeth, which laments the regrettable—in this case, it was to be presumed, the death of Bradley Fitch.
“He was so gay,” she said. “So—elated. He was such a boy, captain.”
“Was there any particular purpose in the dinner?”
“Purpose?” she said. “We were cousins, captain. We saw too little of each other. My husband had a business engagement and—what could be more natural? What do you mean by ‘purpose’?”
“Sometimes,” Bill said, “there are family matters to take up. When someone plans a change in his way of living. As Mr. Fitch did.”
“I’m sure,” she
said, “that I can’t imagine what you mean.”
“Or,” Bill said, “feeling as you apparently did that this marriage was—undesirable—you might have—”
“Really,” she said. “Really! To imagine that I—”
The sound of a key in a lock stopped her. The door from the hotel corridor opened and a short, fat man entered—a short, fat man in his middle sixties; a red-faced man whose eyes were a little shiny. He wore a blue suit, with vest. There was a spot on the right lapel of his jacket. He took off a hard straw hat and, seeing it, Bill thought how few such hats one still saw. He looked at Weigand and then, quickly, apologetically, at Mrs. Nelson.
“Oh,” he said, “back too—” His voice was a little querulous. It was not allowed to continue.
“James,” Mrs. Nelson said. “I’m so glad you could get back. This is Captain Weigand. The police captain, you know. About poor dear Brad. I’ve been telling him about our theory. That is—not a theory, really. Just something—”
“Policeman,” James Nelson said, in his querulous voice. “Theory, m’dear?”
“Of course,” she said. “About Miss Barnscott.”
“Barnscott?” he said. “Don’t—oh, Barnscott. Pretty girl, inspector.”
“You’re tired, dear,” James Nelson’s wife said. “He will work too hard,” she said. “Even on Sunday. You must go lie down, dear.”
James Nelson put his hard straw hat carefully on a small round table. The black ribbon which circled it was slightly rusty. Although, Bill thought, it’s only June.
“Think I’ll lie down,” James Nelson said. “You take care of the inspector, Allie. Pleasure, inspector.”
He walked across the large, square room and through the door to the bedroom. He closed the door behind him. He was most careful, Bill Weigand thought, to walk steadily.
Mrs. Nelson had stood when her husband entered. She remained standing. She said, “It was so good of you to come,” in the tone which means it is time for you to go. Bill went.
He stopped at the desk. Mr. and Mrs. James Nelson had checked in on Thursday evening. He saw an assistant manager. Mr. and Mrs. James Nelson were not frequent guests at the hotel. It did not appear, in fact, that the Barclay had previously had the pleasure of entertaining them.
Death of an Angel Page 10
