Fay Burnley spoke a little as her daughter spoke, with words heavily emphasized, darting at words. She had not always done that, Freddie thought. She had picked it up from her daughter, probably. She had decided that that was the way people spoke, the way the best people, the most knowledgeable people, spoke. She was in several respects a little like her daughter, only not so perfect, not capable, as Breese was when she chose, of posed quiet. One felt of Mrs. Burnley that she was, always, trying not to flutter.
She was in her forties. She had been Bruce Kirkhill’s housekeeper—or was hostess better?—for a good many years. Ever since her husband died, Bruce told Freddie once. Her husband had been, long ago, Bruce Kirkhill’s closest friend. And Fay was a cousin of Bruce’s first wife. “It seemed like a good idea,” Bruce had told Freddie. “On the whole, I guess it was. Of course, Bee-Bee was a little thing then. So high.” Freddie could remember Bruce showing how high.
“Where is he?” Mrs. Burnley repeated, with emphasis. Long earrings swayed; blue eyes—so like her daughter’s, yet so unlike—were almost violently alive, almost improbably bright.
“We don’t know, darling,” Breese said. She was relaxed, leaning back in a deep chair, each line of her perfect body ready for the camera. (Miaow, Freddie thought. Miaow, Winifred Haven.) “Really we don’t know.”
“He’s all right, Mrs. Burnley,” Howard Phipps said. “Nothing happens to the chief. Something’s held him up is all. Something’s come up.”
“You don’t know,” Mrs. Burnley told him. Her voice was suddenly sharp. It was intended, Freddie thought, to put Howard Phipps in his place, whatever his place was. Phipps shrugged; he shrugged for the benefit of the others, at this unreasonable attack.
Then, very suddenly, Celia began to cry. She did not cry loudly, she did not cry for others to notice. She had a small face, and it crumpled suddenly. Although she was not crying for others to notice, they all noticed her.
“Celia. Darling,” Fay Burnley said. “Of course he’s all right.”
“Phipps,” the admiral said. “Call the Waldorf again. Perhaps he’s there.”
Phipps took the order. He went to the library and left the door open behind him. They could hear his voice and they listened; they all looked at the open door and listened. The words were not distinct, but the tone was enough.
“Never mind,” he said. “I may call later. Hold the rooms.”
Phipps came back, shaking his head. His face, darkened by a heavy beard which the closest shaving could not wholly eradicate, was very serious.
“Hasn’t checked in yet,” he said. The “yet” was the saving word; the “yet” was supposed to make it casual, to imply, somehow, that the delay was small, calculable. Not yet; in five minutes or so, in half an hour, the word said.
“Wumph!” Admiral Satterbee said. “Where is the man?”
Nobody answered; nobody had an answer. The admiral looked at his daughter, looked at her with concern, searchingly.
“I’m all right, Dad,” she said.
Celia was crying again. Curtis Grainger put an arm about her, held her close. He looked at the others, his glance insistent, demanding.
“We’ve got to d-do something,” he said. “T-try to find him.”
“Darling,” Breese Burnley said. “How?”
Admiral Satterbee did not, Freddie knew, much approve of Bee-Bee. But now he nodded.
“Quite,” he said. “What, Grainger?”
He waited, gave Curtis Grainger an opportunity.
“Can’t go to the police,” the admiral said, when Curt made no use of the opportunity. “Man’s a senator. Get in the papers.” He spoke the word “papers” with a peculiar inflection, as if the word soiled his tongue. “No idea about security. No idea at all. Mix us all up in it.”
“The pu-police wouldn’t—” Grainger began, but the admiral cut him short by saying, “Nonsense!”
“Civilians,” he said. “Politicians.”
It seemed to be stalemate.
“We can’t just wait,” Mrs. Burnley told them, with indignation. “Just sit here.”
The admiral looked at her without favor. He appeared to consider the look enough.
“Darlings,” Breese Burnley said. Her tone seemed to reflect calm, almost amusement. “Darlings. Bruce is a couple of hours late and everybody’s in a dither. In a tail-spin. Beginning to talk of going to the police. Really, darlings. Can’t a man be a little late? Even the great man?” She looked at Howard Phipps. “Even the chief?” she said.
There was nothing in her voice, nothing beyond inflections carefully cultivated, nothing but a careful avoidance of implication. But the admiral glared at her.
“If—” he began.
“No, Dad,” Freddie said. “It’s all right.”
“Not all right,” the admiral told them all. “Party for him. Him and Freddie. No man’s going to report late, unless—”
He stopped.
“Unless what, Dad?” Freddie said. “I think you’re right. I’m afraid you’re—unless what?”
“I don’t know,” the admiral said. “Something urgent. Perhaps he’s in some tight spot. See what I mean?”
“No,” Howard Phipps said. He seemed indignant. “I don’t see what you mean, Admiral. The chief’s in no spot.”
The admiral merely looked at Howard Phipps. His glance was measuring. But when he spoke, his voice was, for him, mild.
“Just suggested it,” he said. “I don’t know anything, Phipps.”
“Dad,” Freddie said. “You’re sure you don’t? Don’t—think you know something?”
“Wumph,” the admiral said. He looked at her, looked away. “Said I didn’t,” he told her. The words had finality. But, Freddie thought, the words did not express truth; the words reiterated a lie. The admiral did think he knew something, did think that Bruce was not with them because he was in some “tight spot.”
Now wasn’t the time; the admiral was not to be driven, even by his daughter. Not now, not with these others, could she bring up, demand explanation of, the telephone call she had overheard. Now she could do nothing. Now none of them could do anything, except wait. Even Curtis Grainger tacitly admitted that by silence. He held Celia close to him, his head bent over hers. She still was crying.
Then the door buzzer sounded; sounded once, briefly.
All of them turned toward the door leading to the foyer. Celia raised her head and looked toward the door; Phipps turned in his chair; Fay Burnley, whose back had been toward the door, twisted full around. Their faces, all their faces, for an instant were blank, fixed, held a kind of meaningless surprise and expectancy. It was as if they had been caught so, unready, by a photographer’s flash bulb.
Then Freddie was on her feet, moving quickly, leaving the others. They focussed their eyes, then; they watched her, watched a slender young woman in a golden dress, walking with her shoulders high, her body erect.
It will be Bruce, Freddie Haven thought. Bruce has come. After all, he’s come. It wasn’t anything. But even as she thought this, she felt anxiety mounting again, becoming fear.
She was at the door, she reached for the knob. She made herself reach for the knob. She made herself turn the knob, pull the door toward her.
It was not Bruce Kirkhill. She had, and now she realized this, known it would not be Bruce. He rang in a quick sequence—buzz—buzz—buzz. Not like this; not once, briefly.
The man was tall, dark, in a dark gray overcoat. He took off a gray slouch hat. His face was thin and sensitive, now it was grave.
“Is Miss Kirkhill here?” he said. “Miss Celia Kirkhill?”
She did not say anything. She could not say anything.
“I’m from the police,” the man said. He said it hesitantly, unhappily. “I’m a detective sergeant.” He looked at Freddie Haven. His eyes were dark and, now, troubled. “Detective Sergeant Blake,” he said. “You’re not Miss Kirkhill?”
Wordless, Freddie shook her head. Then she managed to speak.
>
“She’s here,” she said. Come in. It’s—it’s about—her father?”
“I hope not,” Sergeant Blake said. “I hope not, Miss—”
“Haven,” Freddie said. “Mrs. Haven. Celia’s here, Sergeant.” Then, again, she said, “Come in, please.”
Sergeant Blake came in. He dropped his hat on a chair. He did not remove his overcoat. It was damp, Freddie noticed. It was still snowing, then. The thought was meaningless, out of place.
She went ahead of Sergeant Blake into the living room. Celia was already on her feet. Her hands were clenched; a handkerchief was clenched in one of them. Curtis Grainger was rising, to stand beside her. But he did not touch her. He let her stand alone, facing the tall, dark man in the damp overcoat, the man who looked at them with a troubled face.
“Miss Kirkhill,” he said to Celia. “You are Miss Kirkhill? Senator Kirkhill’s daughter?”
The girl nodded. She nodded quickly, so that he would go on quickly.
“There’s been an—accident,” he said. “I’ve been sent to ask you—”
“Father!” the girl said. “An accident to Father?”
“We don’t know,” Sergeant Blake said. His voice was gentle. He was, Freddie thought—thought through a swirling of thoughts, in a kind of blackness through which thoughts swirled—trying to be reassuring. “That’s why I’ve been sent. We’ll have to ask you to—to look at—” He stopped.
“He’s dead!” Celia said. “Dad’s dead!”
Blake shook his head, quickly.
“We hope not,” he said. “That is, a man’s dead. It may not be—not be your father, Miss Kirkhill. We hope—”
Now it was blackness which was swirling; swirling, narrowing, hemming Freddie in.
“Winifred,” a voice said, beyond the blackness. “Winifred!” It was her father’s voice. She reached out for it with her mind, reached for its solidity in this swirling blackness. With a terrible effort, she forced the blackness back. She could see them again, see her father, moving toward her; see Blake turning his head toward her. It had been only seconds, then; only seconds of fighting the blackness.
“I’m all right, Father,” she heard her voice saying. “All right.”
It was Celia who fainted. Curtis Grainger caught her, held her in his arms, found a sofa to lay her on.
Blake looked at Freddie. There was concern in his expressive face. There was also puzzlement.
“I am going to marry Senator Kirkhill, Sergeant,” she said. She made her voice steady. She was conscious, as she spoke, how carefully—with what desperate care—she had chosen the tense. “I am—” But it was not true.
“Probably this man isn’t the senator,” Sergeant Blake said. “You understand that, Mrs. Haven? You must—”
“Hope that,” Freddie said. “Yes, Sergeant.”
Fay Burnley was bending over Celia, keeping the girl’s head down, rubbing her wrists, talking to her.
“It isn’t your father, honey,” she said. “Of course it isn’t. Of course it isn’t Bruce.”
“The girl can’t go, Sergeant,” the admiral said. He spoke with finality, with command. “You see that.”
But Sergeant Blake shook his head.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Sooner or later, I’m afraid, she’ll have to, you know. If it should be the senator—well, she’s next of kin.”
“Not now,” the admiral said. “We all knew Kirkhill. We’d all—know. I’ll go myself.”
Sergeant Blake hesitated. He looked at the girl, motionless on the sofa. He reached a decision.
“Very well,” he said. “The other can come later. If it’s necessary.” He looked at the admiral. “You would be sure?” he asked.
“I’ll go,” Freddie said. Her father looked at her. “Yes, Dad,” she said. “I—I can’t just sit here. Just—wait. You and I, we’ll go.” She tried to smile. “Please, Dad.”
The admiral looked at her a moment without speaking. Then, abruptly, he nodded.
“You and I,” he said. He turned to the sergeant. “You have a car?” he asked.
Sergeant Blake nodded.
“Then,” Freddie said. “Now?”
Sergeant Blake nodded again. He said, “Please.”
It was going too quickly, Freddie thought. It was ending too quickly. It took too little time to get a coat, too little time down in the elevator, too little time in the car to the police mortuary. There was a wait, then, in an anteroom, and now, strangely, the waiting was too long, although in fact it was brief. Sergeant Blake had left them; then he returned. He held open a door.
A man in white pulled back a sheet which had covered a face.
The blackness swirled in again, she fought it back, fought out of it. She heard her voice.
“Yes,” Freddie Haven said. “Yes. It is Senator Kirkhill.”
She felt her father’s arm around her shoulders. But the blackness was going away. She was not going to faint. It was merely a kind of numbness. It was as if this were happening, had to be happening, to somebody else.
III
Saturday, 3:25 A.M. to 5:05 A.M.
There was really nothing difficult about inserting a key into a keyhole. You held the key very firmly, approached the keyhole slowly, deliberately, with confidence, and the key went in. That was all there was to it; you did it dozens of times a day. Well, you did it several times a day. It was, Jerry North decided, probably the basic operation of civilization. Civilization was distinguished from non-civilization by keyholes and keys to put into them; a man’s place in the world was assured, or at least not hopelessly precarious, so long as he had a ring of keys in his pocket and those keys, or a majority of them, fitted keyholes to which he had unchallenged access. If you were in a very assured position, you had a great many keys; probably if you were of the mighty, you had so many that a servant carried your keys for you. But the key to your own front door was the basic key, and all you had to do was hold it very firmly in your right hand, move it toward the keyhole with assurance, twist it to the right, so—
“Jerry,” Pam said. She was leaning against the corridor wall, waiting. She had seemed to be fast asleep. “Jerry,” Pam said, “why don’t you open the door? I want to go to bed.”
“What,” Jerry North said, with gravity, with precision, “do you think I am doing, Pamela?”
“Chinking,” Pam said. “Clinking. Making funny noises. Why don’t you use the front door key?”
“I—” Jerry began, haughtily. Then he looked. “Naturally I’m using the front door key,” he said. It was true now, at any rate. He had, perhaps, while thinking about civilization, momentarily tried to unlock the apartment door with the key to his office desk, but now he was using the proper key. Pam had no business—
“You,” Jerry told Pamela, “are sound asleep.”
“I certainly am,” Pam said. “I can go to sleep right here. Leaning against the wall, waiting for you—”
Jerry put the key to the apartment door lock into the keyhole of the apartment door lock. The trouble with civilization, he thought, was that it gave you too many keys; it imposed the strain of remembering which key entered which keyhole. All over the world, he thought, as he turned the key (so, to the right) men are suffering nervous breakdowns because they have too many keys, too many keyholes, minds too limited to cope with variation so multiplied. He was, he realized, on the verge of a thought of profundity; just beyond the fingertips of his mind was, in all probability, Solution. He would have to tell Pam—
He pushed the door and it opened. Three cats sat in a semicircle regarding the Norths. Pam North moved to Jerry and he put an arm around her.
“Carry me over the threshold,” Pam said, sleepily. “Start the New Year—”
Jerry lifted her in his arms. The cats looked at them in astonishment. Sherry, the blue-point, a creature of almost over-acute sensibility, bristled, cried in fright, and plunged under the sofa. Gin, sparked by Sherry’s excitement, growled questioningly, but stood her ground. Only
Martini, their mother, wiser in the way of these troublesome charges of hers, sat unmoving, her enormous round eyes fixed, her whiskers slightly curled.
Jerry kissed his wife, not casually, tightened his arms around her and then put her down.
“You know,” he said, “standing out there—there’s something wrong with that lock, incidentally—I almost had something—” He nodded to her. “Almost had it,” he said. “Now it’s gone.”
“Jerry,” Pam said. “Tomorrow? I want to go to bed.”
“It was about civilization,” Jerry said. “And—I don’t know. Keys and keyholes. Like the rats, you know? The ones that jumped at little doors and finally got confused and—”
“Listen, darling,” Pam said. “I’m terribly tired of those rats. All my life I’ve heard about those rats, jumping at doors.” She paused. “All my life,” she said, “I’ve wanted to go to bed. And you want to talk about rats.”
Jerry North ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair. He said, “Oh.”
“All your life,” he said, “you’ve wanted—what did you say?”
“I want to go to bed,” Pam said, and then stopped and looked at Martini, who had rolled over on her back, with her feet in the air, and was looking at them between her forelegs. “Wants to have her belly rubbed,” Pam said. She sat down on the floor and began to caress Martini. “Is the major cat,” Pam said. “Is the cat major. Is—”
Then the telephone rang. It rang with horrible loudness, with a kind of anger. Martini swirled from under Pam’s hand, rolled to her feet, dashed into the hall, from whence the ringing came, and looked up at the box which held the doorbell.
“Confused,” Pam said. “It’s the telephone, Martini. It’s—Jerry, it’s the telephone!”
Jerry had the telephone in his hand. He said “Yes?” to it.
But the telephone continued to ring.
“Jerry,” Pam said. “The other telephone. The house telephone. Who on earth?”
Pam North was on her feet. She was almost as quick as Martini had been. She was in the hall, at the house telephone on the wall. She said, “Yes?”
“Mrs. North?” a woman said. Her voice was young, now it was hurried, strained.
Death of a Tall Man Page 25
