The morning after the body was found, the observatory staff doctor came and visited Lydia, giving her a sedative and putting her back to bed. She hadn't slept well during the night.
I called Senator Hartsell in Washington and told him he'd better get out here. He and Blairy would take the first plane. He sounded genuinely upset. But I knew Senator Hartsell. He always sounded genuinely anything he wanted to.
Duane Cabot came at eleven o'clock. He shook hands with me and said, “What a tragedy. Is there anything I can do?”
I said I didn't think so. Cabot hung around until one in the afternoon. He ate lunch with Marianne and me. Lydia was asleep, the doctor's sedative working on her. After lunch, he put on his hat and coat and headed for the door. He kissed Marianne good-by. Neither one of them showed any enthusiasm. He said, “Drum, I'm in a terribly awkward situation. Can I see you out at my car for a moment?”
“Sure,” I said, and walked outside with him. “Come on in and sit down,” he said. We got into his Chrysler. I stared at the leather dash and waited for him to speak. “You were a member of the family,” he said. “I want some advice.”
“Shoot,” I said.
“I was in the middle of something with Lydia.”
“Was it important?”
“Yes. What I'm out here for. I'm due back in Washington soon, though. I didn't want to go back to Washington with this business unfinished, but it looks as if I'll have to. Doesn't it?”
“What does it entail?” I said.
“Lydia was going to give me a written statement about something. I can't ask her now.”
“About Deirdre?”
“Yes.”
“About Deirdre having been a Red?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me something, Congressman. Was it Lydia who wrote those letters to the newspapers and your chairman?”
“Well. . . .” said Cabot.
I shrugged, opened the door of the Chrysler and started to get out.
“All right,” he said. “But I can't prove it. I think it was Lydia.”
“Why?” I said.
“In her suicide note, Deirdre never came out in so many words and admitted she was a Red. It amounted to that, almost, but she never actually said so.”
“What's the difference? She's dead.”
“Because my committee chairman was a laughingstock. It was not out in the open, but everyone knew about it. He had reason to believe Deirdre was a Red, but couldn't prove it. They laughed at him. If I can get it in writing from Lydia, my chairman will forget those letters about me.”
I nodded. I said, “At first Lydia wouldn't cooperate?”
“That's right. She wanted me to lay off. She was very angry. She wrote the newspapers and the chairman about my relationship, with her sister. It was almost uncanny. I didn't think anyone knew, including Lydia. Anyway, I worked on Lydia. She finally came around to my way of thinking.”
“You wouldn't say how?”
“I wouldn't.”
“Then let me tell you.” I said. He looked at my face and looked away. He needed me for something and so he let me go on talking. “You threatened Lydia. You said you had proof one of them—either Deirdre or Lydia—had been a Commie. It didn't have to be Deirdre, although you really thought it was. It could as easily have been Lydia. Your informants knew her only as Joan Chandler. She could have been Lydia, if you wanted it that way. You hit her over the head with that, didn't you?”
Cabot said nothing. He was just as wholesome in profile as he was in frontview. He was Joe College and Jack Armstrong and the junior man of the year and the idol of a million TV viewers, everyone, thought. Only all they ever saw was the facade and he really wasn't America at all but only the facade with a lot of expedience and opportunism behind it and once you got behind the facade not very good to look at.
“What is it you want me to do?” I said.
“I have no reason to expect you'll do it.”
“Why not?”
“Because you wouldn't understand those things, Drum. You wouldn't understand about things being in the best interests of the country as a whole and sometimes, for that reason, because the best interests of the country as a whole are at stake, individuals have to suffer.”
“Gosh, Congressman,” I said.
“All right. All right. Get out of here. I shouldn't have asked you. I'll go.”
“You haven't asked me anything yet.”
“Forget it.”
“Okay,” I said. “Probably I would have done it, though.” I started to get out of the car again.
“Are you serious?” He smiled. “I knew you were a real American.” He said American the way Willkie used to say it, not because he had to, as Willkie had had to because he was born and raised in the Midwest, but because he thought it sounded best that way.
“Yeah,” I said. “I'm serious.”
“That's splendid, Drum. It's more than I could expect. What I want is this: you ask Lydia for me. She's upset and she doesn't like me. She believes I am persecuting her. Persecuting, that was her very word. You ask her for me for that statement in writing. Will you?”
I said, “Okay, you bastard. But somebody ought to wise up girls like Marianne Wilder to guys like you. Before they make a bad mistake.”
That surprised him. “If you feel that way, why are you—”
“Alum,” I said. “For the same reason they put alum in reservoirs.”
We went back inside together. I could tell he was still trying to figure that one out. I was, too.
Chapter Eighteen
CABOT FOUND a chess set somewhere. We played two games. I won the first, but the board was almost clear by the time I checkmated him. In the middle of the second game, Lydia woke up. Marianne met her at the door of the bedroom and said, “You'd better have something to eat.”
“No. I'm all right. I'm fine. Chet, you had better call Father.”
“I already have,” I said.
“There goes your queen,” said Cabot, moving his king's knight in a way that trapped my queen.
“I guess so,” I said. “I guess you win. The queen is the center of my whole game.”
“You ought to learn to use your knights,” he said.
“Chet,” Lydia said, “do you suppose it would be all right if I went up to Overlook?”
“No,” I told her. “Not alone, it wouldn't be. What the hell do you want to go up there for?”
She shrugged and said, “Ralph and I always used to go up there. You know how it is. I thought— But I guess it doesn't matter. I suppose it was foolish of me. I suppose I ought to just get all the rest I can and try not to think and. . . .”
“Take it easy,” Marianne said. “You're going to undo all the good that sleep did you. Chet, why can't she go up there if she wants to?”
“I didn't say no. I said she couldn't go alone.”
“I'll go with you if you want,” Marianne told Lydia. “I know you'll want to be alone. I'll be so quiet, you won't even know I'm there.”
“That's very good of you,” Lydia said. She went into the hall to get her coat.
I walked after her and said, “Lydia, there's a written statement which Duane Cabot wants.” I said it loud enough for Cabot and Marianne to hear. “Do you think you. ought to give it to him?”
“Oh, that. With all this, I guess I forgot all about it. Yes. Yes, I'll give it to him right now.” She went back through the living room to the bedroom. She returned in a few seconds with a gray envelope.
“Well, well, well,” said Marianne, smiling. “So that's the mysterious thing you were writing when I saw you last time. A statement for Duane.”
“What are you talking about?” Lydia said.
“Don't you remember? You were finishing it; when I came in the day before yesterday. You sealed it in that envelope in a hurry.” ,
“Oh, no. You're mistaken,” Lydia said. “It couldn't possibly have been this. It was a different envelope entirely.” For some reason, Lydia se
emed very alarmed.
“Lady,” said Marianne, “you're dealing with a snoopy female journalist, remember? I observe things. See, in the corner of the envelope? A little ink blot. It's the same one, all right.”
Just then Cabot walked over and said, “Thank you very much, Mrs. Homerson. Is this the statement?”
Instead of handing it to him, she went quickly to the tea-cart in the living room and found a book of matches near the tobacco urn on it. She opened the envelope, took the sheet of paper out, unfolded it, struck a match and lit a corner of the paper. She held it until the flames curled up quite close to her fingers and then deposited it in an ashtray. When the flames died down, she poked the charred cinder with her index finger until what was left of the paper fell away to fine black dust.
“I don't understand,” Cabot said. “I thought you were going to give it to me.”
“I couldn't possibly give it to you,” Lydia said.
“But you just said—”
Lydia turned to Marianne. “Are you ready, Miss Wilder? I still think it isn't necessary. I don't need someone to hold my hand. I want to be alone there so I can think.”
“I wouldn't hear of it,” Marianne said. “And Chet wouldn't either. Right, Chet?”
I nodded. Lydia shrugged. She went outside with Marianne. In a moment I heard the motor of Marianne's Studebaker growling to life:
Lydia's complete illogical behavior hadn't made any sense. Confusion, so soon after Ralph's death? I didn't know. There was a distant voice, far away inside my mind, trying to “say something. I couldn't make out the words. They needed alum. That's what I had told Duane Cabot.
“Well, there goes your statement,” I said.
“It wasn't your fault. You tried. I'm grateful to you.”
“Well, she can always write it again. She was upset.”
“How can she write it again?”
“Why, just write it.”
“You' don't understand. The written statement Lydia was going to give me was not a statement Lydia had prepared. That wouldn't mean anything, would it? Assuming she was the Communist and not Deirdre, the whole family would be on her side, wouldn't they? Deirdre was dead. They wouldn't mind if Lydia told a little lie to put an end to the scandal once and for all.”
“That's true,” I said.
“Lydia wrote no statement. But she had a letter from Deirdre. It was written, she said, right before Deirdre killed herself. It went into greater detail than the suicide note itself.”
“What?” I said. “What did you say?”
“As far as I know, Drum, that was what Lydia destroyed. Deirdre's note to her right before she committed suicide.”
I got up and walked to the window and looked out at the great green lower reaches of Hall Mountain. Far across the valley somewhere, a train whistle moaned. The little puff of smoke had already risen, very white against the blue sky, and was now dissipating. “Good God!” I said.
“What's the matter?” Cabot wanted to know. “You look so strange.”
“Are the keys in your Chrysler?” I asked, heading for the door. “Yes, but—”
The rest of what he said was lost as I shut the door behind me, ran the six strides to his Chrysler and turned the ignition key to kick the big car over. I caught a brief glimpse of his face in the window. He looked confused. . . . I pulled the big car to a stop behind Marianne Wilder's Studebaker outside the cabin at Overlook. The valley in which Escondido nestled was spread out below the cliff, patches of yellow and green and distant blue. Southern California's highways were white threads twisting across the valley floor, the cars crawling like sun-gleaming midges into Escondido from the west.
The door of the cabin opened as I reached it and Lydia stood there, offering me a weak smile. “I'm tired;” she said. “I feel so tired. It was very good of Marianne to come up here with me. We didn't expect you, Chet.”
I went inside past her. Marianne was sitting on a wooden chair, smoking a cigarette. The table was of wood planking. Through the first of two open doorways I could see a kitchen, which contained an ancient stove which would burn wood or coal, and open shelves along the walls which held canned food. Through the second doorway I could see a bedroom with two wall bunks and some unpainted furniture.
“What's the matter, Chet?” Marianne said. “I never saw you looking this way before.” Marianne's legs were crossed. She had very nice legs, but Lydia's were nicer.
“Marianne,” I said, “be a good girl. I left room for you to turn your Studebaker around and go back down the mountain. I want to see Lydia alone.”
“I can wait in the car.”
“It may take a long time.”
Lydia said, “I can't imagine what you want to see me about that she can't stay, Chet.”
“No, but you will.”
“I still don't like that look on your face,” Marianne said. “If there's a story in it—”
“If there's a story, it belongs to you. I promise. Now will you please get the hell out of here?”
Lydia could see whatever I was wearing on my face too. “I think I'd rather have her stay, Chet.”
“At a girl!” Marianne chirped. “We females ought to stick together.”
“Not today, Marianne,” I said. “Your Congressman is waiting for you down in Lydia's house.”
“Yes?” For some reason, Marianne was suddenly angry with me. “Did it occur to you that maybe I came up here because I wanted to get away from Duane and do some thinking? Did it occur to you that I don't care if he waits down there and—and rots? I finally made up my mind. I'm very happy I did.” As if by way of cockeyed proof, Marianne stood up, went toward the door, and started to cry. She did it extremely well, just like a little girl. It was a most refreshing thing to watch, if you had the time or the inclination.
I hadn't. I put my arm around Marianne's shoulder and walked her to the door. “Take it easy, kid,” I said. “It's hard now, I know. But I have a hunch you made the right decision.”
“Do you? Oh, do you, Chet?”
“Yeah.”
She took a tissue from her handbag and dabbed at her eyes with it, then blew her nose. I went outside with her and opened the door of the Studebaker. After she started the motor, I leaned in through the open window and gave her a kiss.
“Hey,” she said. “Hey, you better stop it or I'll start to cry again.”
I stopped it. I waved as she swung the car around. I stood there for a few moments until the sound of the engine faded. I was in no hurry to go back inside and confirm what was on my mind.
I smoked a cigarette and wondered what Lydia was thinking. Chet's up to something, she was probably thinking. I don't know what it is but I don't think I'll like it. I didn't like it, either. I hated it. I almost wanted to get back into Cabot's car, drive down to the house, park it, call for a taxi, go into Escondido and take the first train out of there and put as much distance as I could between Lydia and me. Only I had to live with myself. “Chet?”
She was standing in the doorway again. The suspense had been too much. It would be, for her. I said, “I'm coming in.”
I walked back into the cabin with Lydia. When I closed the door, it was utterly quiet in there. It was a world all by itself. Infinities of silence separated it from nature and the rest of mankind, waiting outside.
“Would you like me to make you some coffee, Chet?”
I said no, no thanks, I didn't want any coffee. She smiled graciously. She was the good hostess. Her husband had died not here, not yesterday, but a million miles away and a million years ago.
I remembered a lot of things. I didn't want to, but I couldn't keep my mind blank. Deirdre, when we first had met; me cleaning up some work-for an outgoing Congressman from Pennsylvania and she hostessing a party to which the job had brought me. It had been quick, like fire, and it had left us both breathless. And Deirdre not much later, when we were married despite the Hartsell family. Deirdre in bed. Don't be disappointed, Drum. A girl who looks that well whe
n she's dressed to kill can't possibly maintain it in bed. She'd want the lights off. In the morning she'd look like hell. But she was best of all in bed, and in the morning, waking up in my arms and smiling, her eyes shining, her lips moist, the long blonde hair in silken disarray, she was stupendous.
And Deirdre later, when the wall began to grow between us. You don't like my friends, Chet. I wish you would try to behave with them. You embarrass me. I won't lie to you. I don't like your friends, either. But they're not important. My friends are people who count. People with names. You don't want to be a shamus all your life, do you? Laughter, usually. A shamus. Chet, Chet. Sometimes it's so funny, when I realize I'm married to something which crawled out from between the covers of a two-bit mystery book. But they're right about one thing, those writers. You're magnificent in bed. Come on, Chet. It will work out. I know it will work out. I'm tired, aren't you? And in bed for a time we could forget the wall which was growing higher all the time. I'm sorry about that, Chet. I wish I was beautiful for you all over. It's a queer place for a scar, isn't it? It's beautiful, I said. It's a beautiful scar. (Puckered pink scar-tissue high on the smooth supple tanned flesh on the inside of her thigh, just below where a bathing suit would reach.) I was twelve, Chet. I was tomboying along a spike fence. They dared me. I lost my footing. It took eleven stitches. Father was furious.
And Deirdre as we drifted apart. She could be the warmest girl in the world, but she could be cold as ice. Fire and ice, like the old ad. This is my shamus, she would say at the parties I grew to hate. At first she said it as if she were surprised. This is my shamus, my lovely, beautiful shamus, and I still can't believe I'm married to him. Then she said it with mild, good-humored contempt. This is my shamus, but it's just a passing fancy to him. Of course he won't be a private detective all his life. Did you ever hear of such a thing? Father's upset now, you know, but he won't always be upset. He'll find a place for Chet. Won't he, Chet honey?
And, still later: isn't it the craziest thing? He's a detective. He actually makes a living that way. Oh, it isn't much, but I have money. And I, very indignant, very hotheaded: that's enough of that. I don't want to use a penny of your old man's money. I don't want you to talk like that. We can't all be Congressmen and Senators and five-percenters. All right, all right. Stop nagging me. Me, nagging you? You're nagging me. By then, it didn't end in bed any more. Or, if it did, it shouldn't have. And soon afterward, it was over. We were strangers, living together. We both saw it and said nothing about it. For a few weeks we hoped it would change. It did. It got worse. It was Deirdre who suggested the divorce and I didn't try to argue her out of it.
The Second Longest Night Page 16
