by Amanda Cross
Kate leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. She was not very good at this sort of thing and, as a result, she had got herself into exactly the sort of corner she had hoped to avoid. She believed that she had the truth about the session up until the arrival of Patrick and his mother. The four girls had been alone in the Rexton apartment having an encounter session. But Patrick, she was certain, had not gone with his mother to the school—not only was the mother’s agreeing to any such thing, let alone suggesting it, absolutely beyond the bounds of possibility, but Kate knew, as Patrick did not, that the mother could not have been killed by the dogs.
They still believed Kate to know more than she had revealed, but they weren’t giving anything away. Why should they? And what after all did Kate know? One fact, that was all she had left.
Mrs. Jablon had been dead when the dogs found her. It was the only conceivable explanation of the dogs’ not stopping when they came across her, of her body’s being found next morning, in a state of rigor mortis. She had died—where?—and her body had been brought to the school and deposited there. The dogs do not stop for the dead. Reed had made a point of asking Mr. O’Hara.
How had Mrs. Jablon got to the school?
Suppose she had, as Patrick suggested, gone to school, whether for the reason he had offered or for others, had walked upstairs, and died from a heart attack there in the art room? Would such a fearful woman walk up to a floor where no one was, to die in a deserted art studio? Certainly she would not have taken the elevator alone, being scared of that sort of thing and, from what Kate could gather, unlikely to be able to operate any mechanical device, however simple. Suppose Mr. O’Hara had taken her up, thinking she was a parent, and she had walked down to the art room? But surely someone at the meeting, teacher or parent, would have seen her. All the inquiries the police had made established the fact that no one had seen her, and Mr. O’Hara, who had seen her dead body, swore he had never laid eyes on her before, certainly hadn’t taken her up in the elevator.
Without a doubt the blasted woman was dead when she was brought to the Theban.
Why was she brought to the Theban?
That was the point, of course. Well, what are you to do with a body? It’s the most difficult part of murders, as detective novelists are always pointing out. There had so recently been the case of Patrick and the dogs to stand as a suggestion. But who knew about Patrick and the dogs? Unlike the discovery of Mrs. Jablon’s body, this event had not become general news. Could it have been someone within the Theban? It was unthinkable that Julia or Miss Tyringham would have involved the Theban. Surely their efforts, had they been there, would have been quite the opposite—to get the body as far from the school as possible, always supposing one could imagine either of them moving bodies in the first place.
Which, when you came to think of it, was the point. Why had the body been moved, and how?
To begin with, where had Mrs. Jablon died? She had not died at home—her second exit, carried or under her own steam, would have been observed in this lobby. But her exit, dead or alive, from the Rexton home would have been seen by no one, not even the guard outside the President’s house. He was more than likely inside; well, he at least could be questioned. And Morningside Drive was considered so dangerous that the streets were almost guaranteed to be deserted.
“I know,” Kate said, hoping she sounded as though she did, “that your mother died at the Rexton home. Was she frightened to death, or did she scream herself into the next world in a fit of temper?”
Angelica and Patrick looked at Kate, and then at each other. Her momentary silence—it had been little longer than that—as she sat with her eyes closed, had encouraged them. The worst perhaps was over, the last river safely forded. They, who had expected a truce, again girded themselves for battle.
Patrick shrugged and looked at his sister.
“It isn’t a bit probable, you know,” Kate said, “that the woman your mother has been pictured to be would want to see where you had been frightened—she would be likelier, from all reports, to avoid the place at all costs—or would allow herself to be alone there for a single moment. Going to the school at night was at best unbelievable, but for her …”
“It’s no good, Patrick,” Angelica said. “You’re right, of course. Mother died at Irene’s. I was talking to her, pretending the pillow was her, when she came in. She and Patrick just stood there listening. It wasn’t Patrick’s fault—I guess he was as thunderstruck as Mother, though not in the same way.”
“But surely they rang the buzzer downstairs, not to mention the apartment door.”
“We didn’t,” Patrick said. “There was someone going in at the time with a key, and we went in with him.”
“That can be checked out, anyway,” Kate said. “There aren’t many tenants in the house—so that’s a step forward. I’ve been to the house, you see,” she added. “What sort of man was he?”
“Just a man, about your age. A professor, probably. He went to a higher floor. The apartment door was open, unlocked. My mother just sort of burst in—well, that was her way; she liked sudden confrontations with her children.”
“And she got one, beyond her wildest dreams. A confrontation with herself, too. You were telling the pillow exactly how you felt, had always felt, and felt now?” Angelica nodded. “She had no business to be there,” Kate said. “But why did Irene leave the door open, in such a neighborhood?”
“Irene said her parents could never remember their keys. Besides, there was usually someone staying there who didn’t have a key and would arrive at any moment. It’s that kind of household.”
“I see. So she heard you and dropped dead?”
“Not quite.” Angelica looked at Patrick.
“If I’d thought she was hysterical in my room,” he said, “I hadn’t known from hysterical. She started screeching about all she’d done for Angelica, given her her whole life, been so generous. She kicked the pillow out of the way and smacked Angie—it was gross.” Patrick lit another cigarette. “And then, well, she paused a second, to draw breath I guess, and Angie said, in a quiet voice, ‘What have you ever done for me?’ And Irene, who looks like an angel of the Lord anyway, said, ‘Mrs. Jablon, what have you ever done for Angelica except make her feel unwanted? Why don’t you …’ That was as far as Irene got, because Mother—well, she sort of fell back into a chair, and we rushed up and said, ‘Can we get anything?’ and someone went for water, and Irene said, ‘I better call a doctor,’ and she did go to the phone, but she got the doctor’s exchange, which said, ‘Hold on,’ and then went off the line, you know the way they always do, and then—well, she was dead. There wasn’t any question about that.”
“I see,” Kate said. It seemed to be her line for the day.
“And then,” Patrick concluded, “we saw we had a problem. I realize now the sensible thing would have been to call a doctor and let it go at that. But it did seem that Angie had killed her, and there would be all sorts of terrible questions, and we couldn’t just leave her there with Irene, and once an ambulance came it would all be investigated, so …”
“Someone remembered Patrick’s experience at the Theban,” Angelica said, “well, it was me, actually, so Patrick carried her there.”
“That’s it,” Patrick said in a final sort of way. “That’s the whole story.”
“You carried a dead woman through the streets from way uptown on Morningside Drive to the East Seventies?”
“No. I stole a car.”
“You did?”
“Yes. I simply broke into a car in front of the house and took it. Later I returned it. The parking space was gone, of course, but I left it double parked. I guess the owner found it all right.”
“How do you steal a car?”
“Oh, you reach underneath the hood and connect some wires; it’s done all the time. I read somewhere that the automobile companies are working on a device to prevent it.”
Kate wanted to ask him for more details abo
ut the wires, but she simply could not find the brutal energy to pursue the point.
“She just sort of sat up on the seat next to me,” Patrick said.
There was a silence, to which they all listened for a time.
“Well, Angelica,” Kate said. “I see why you didn’t want to talk about it, but all those reasons, or most of them, are finished now. I think the thing to do is to talk it out. Will you tell Miss Tyringham about it? Between you, you have caused her school a good deal of trouble, and it seems only fair that she should know the truth. Besides, I think she’ll understand. Apart from everything else, she has met your mother. And your grandfather; I think you should tell him too. What he now suspects is probably not too far from the truth, but the truth is always preferable to an unhappy fantasy. Will you talk to them?”
“Could you tell them? Miss Tyringham, anyway?”
“I could. Will you settle for some minor blackmail? I’ll speak to Miss Tyringham, if you’ll return to school and try to take up your life again. As to Patrick, who acted the best way he could, under the circumstances, his major problems are still with his draft board.”
“Angie stood by me. It wasn’t her fault the dogs were there. Only those damn dogs nearly scared the hell out of me when I didn’t expect them, and failed when we were counting on them—ungrateful beasts. I think she’s right, Angie. Finish up at the Theban, and try to work it out now. After all, we are free of her, however unfilial it sounds to say so.”
“I’ll expect you in class Monday,” Kate said. “You might let Irene and Freemond and Elizabeth know it’s all right, and—no more encounter sessions without a qualified leader. Will you agree to that?”
They got up, nodding eagerly. They would have agreed to anything.
Kate was soaking in a hot tub with her eyes closed when Reed came in.
“You would have been proud of me,” she said. “I walked miles and miles and solved the mystery. Only I don’t know what to do next.”
“There’s always nothing,” Reed said hopefully. “Do you want a martini in here, or can you make it to the living room?”
“Actually, I’ve been having Scotch and tea all afternoon. Are you busy this evening?”
“You mean, after my martini? I’m at your command—no, I retract that, but I’ll admit, cautiously, to being free if you promise that you aren’t making plans.”
“All right,” Kate said. “I’ll go alone. You faced the dogs alone.”
Reed, who had been leaving the bathroom, returned. “Where are you going?” he asked. “I don’t want to know but tell me anyway.”
“Oh, get your martini. I’ll be there in a minute. Why does my generation always admire loyalty?”
“What kind of ‘tea’ was it?” Reed asked. Kate noisily turned on the water.
But when they called her, she said she would come to see them. Her husband had to get somewhere, and would drop her off. “Don’t worry,” she said on the phone, “I shan’t funk it or run out on you. I’m glad it’s come out, actually. I despise deception.”
“Don’t say anything to anyone before you talk to us,” Kate said. “Because, you see, it hasn’t yet come out at all.”
“All right. Keep cool.”
She arrived shortly, somewhat breathless, and shook Reed’s hand vigorously on being introduced. She had that enormous energy frequently found in small women, and the downright opinions more usually found in large ones.
“Did you come on the motorcycle?” Kate asked.
“Oh, yes. Do you think it unfeeling of me? I regard all superstitions and shibboleths as greatly dangerous; besides, I hardly knew the woman and disliked intensely what I’d heard of her. Who talked?”
“About you, no one. Everybody was a positive monument of discretion about protecting everybody else.”
“What will you drink, Mrs. Banister?” Reed asked.
“Oh, just a glass of cold water, if you have it. I don’t drink. Always feel good enough without it, I guess.”
“One of the things I like about New York,” Reed said, “is that people feel they have to apologize for not drinking.” He poured the glass of water and handed it to her.
Kate took up her tale. “I got most of the story out of Angelica and Patrick this afternoon, by means I’m not entirely happy to think about. But while they came through with the truth—I’m pretty certain it’s the truth, and, anyway, it can be checked—about everything through the death of that unfortunate woman, their story was pure fantasy from then on. Patrick had to pretend he knew how to steal a car, when he knew exactly as much about it as I did, having read the same journalism. They wanted to protect you, you see. I’m afraid I’m hopelessly old-fashioned and admire that.”
“I’m glad you do. People just don’t realize how beautiful these young people are. They seem to prefer some status-happy youth in the proper clothes with one foot in the suburbs and the other in a prestigious college. Of course, the Jablons are a special problem, and then there is this terrible war. I’m glad they called me when they needed help. It was I who thought of the school; that’s what bothers me. I remembered about Patrick, as soon as I got to the Rextons’, and I thought, Aha, let the dogs scare someone else to death. And it would have worked, you know, if that beastly man hadn’t been so damn pig-headed about his nasty animals.”
“Or if guard dogs were trained to stop for dead bodies. Unlike us, you know, dogs can tell, immediately and indisputably.”
“I call that sinister. Well, it was a jolly good plan all the same, particularly since we thought of it on the spur of the moment.”
“At least you had Patrick to help you, which must have …”
“To help me what?”
“Get her on the motorcycle and all. Didn’t he?”
Mrs. Banister sipped her water. “Oh, I see,” she said. “You assumed it had to be Patrick who helped. An interesting example of socially bred female humility.”
“You don’t mean it was Angelica?”
“No, I don’t. After all, she was their mother, inadequate and destructive as she may have been, and handling dead bodies is disturbing under ideal circumstances, if there are ideal circumstances for handling dead bodies, even if she isn’t one’s mother. It was Irene who helped me.”
“Irene!”
“Certainly. She said that these days there must be no more Ismenes.”
Kate stared at her. “You,” Kate said to Reed, “have not seen Irene. Though I can’t imagine why I think that has anything to do with it. After all, her parents …”
“One must never characterize people,” Mrs. Banister said, bouncing up to get herself another glass of water (“I drink twelve a day,” she said. “It keeps the system flushed out”); she waved Reed away as he rose to help her. “I am capable of pouring a glass of water, thank you. Elizabeth and Angelica and Patrick and Freemond went home; the Jablons dropped Elizabeth and Freemond on the way. Irene and I carried down the body after they had gone. I thought, least involved, soonest mended. Of course, we had to keep a look-out, but only till we got out of the building. I’d parked the motorcycle right outside it—it was fortunately not a night when Andrew needed it, since it would have been more uphill work on the bicycle, though we would have managed, have no fear of that—and we slid her onto the pillion and I got on front and started it. Irene sat in the back, and we held her up between us. Fortunately, I had two extra helmets, which I always carry, so we weren’t stopped for that, and the helmet helped to disguise the fact that she wasn’t exactly holding her head up. I’m sure it’s the only time the poor woman ever rode on a motorcycle; I understand she was phobic.” Mrs. Banister paused to sip her water, while Kate and Reed avoided each other’s eyes.
“I had her arms tied around my waist with my raincoat belt, and Irene held her up. Fortunately, when we got to the school there was no one about—there never are people on that street, but I knew there was a meeting and thought the parents might be leaving. Thank God we were early enough, and we wheeled her ins
ide, right on the motorcycle, and hid her on the dolly with the dust cloth, the canvas thing, over her. To tell you the truth, I thought we might have to drag her down to the lower floor, but when I got back from parking the motorcycle, the chauffeurs had started to arrive, and the watchman was out there talking with them. Have you read Men in Groups by Lionel Tiger, a wildly malechauvinist book?”
Kate and Reed shook their heads.
“You ought to. Clearly O’Hara is only happy in the company of men and couldn’t resist the chauffeurs; lucky for us, anyway. I trundled her right across the lobby, under the canvas, of course—I’d made Irene go out and wait for me in a drugstore on the corner, by the way, I didn’t need her any more—and I just popped into the elevator, drove to the third floor, popped her out onto the art-room floor, where I thought the dogs couldn’t help noticing her.”
“That was fortunate, or Mr. O’Hara might not have found her in the morning,” Reed said. “You dropped her right across from the alarm.”
“I realized that, later. The room was easiest because it had a slightly wider doorway. Then I took the dolly back down.”
“Why? Wouldn’t it have been easier to leave it?” Kate asked.
“Certainly it would have been easier, but I didn’t want anyone to associate her with the dolly. She was supposed to have come in under her own power, so to speak. I didn’t want them to think of the dolly at all, so the best thing was to return it to its place. O’Hara was still being a man in a happy male group and I hurried out of the building with scarcely a glance from him. Doubtless he thought to himself, A mother who walked down, do her good, and sneered, if he saw me at all, which I doubt; his back was to me. I ran round and picked up the motorcycle, gathered up Irene, and off we went. I dropped her home, and found, when I got back, that Andrew was still shut up in his studio, working, and that I’d got hungry from all the extra wear and tear on the tissue, so I had an apple and nut salad. Anything else you want to know? Thirsty business, explaining.” She quaffed her water.
