by Frances
“The poor thing,” Pam said. “We’re—we’re all bright and gay about it and she—there was that blackness—that awful—And I thought she just drank too much.” Pam looked at the others.
“She killed a man,” Bill said. “Let’s keep it simple as we can, Pam. She ran a sword into him. She tried, twice, to kill a woman—not a very likeable woman, I’ll admit. But a woman who was young and alive, and wanted to stay alive. Let’s keep it simple as we can. Incidentally, she says she didn’t mean to kill Marsh—just to threaten him. She says the ship moved and she lost her balance.”
“You believe her?”
Bill shrugged. He said it didn’t matter a great deal, except perhaps to Mrs. Ferris herself. If she wanted the consolation—
“Is she insane?” Dorian asked, and immediately added that she knew it was a silly question, although pertinent.
Bill shrugged again. He said that that would have to be decided by a jury—a British jury, presumably in Nassau. He was, himself, inclined to doubt that she was legally insane—or, indeed, anything more than a little “queer.” Her motive, in either case, was not “insane”—or no more so than any motive which leads to the hideous disproportion of murder always is.
“To get back to the point,” Dorian said. “If we conceivably can. Where did you get the idea? If not out of thin air?”
Bill managed to look surprised. He thought it was obvious. Pamela North sighed a stage sigh.
“Because,” Bill said, “she went to such an unreasonable amount of trouble—if she was really Mrs. Ferris. She wasn’t merely leaving a place which bored her. She was running. And, she expected to be pursued. Why else the trouble?”
He amplified. A person who merely “wants to get lost,” on whom there is no other pressure, simply goes away some place else and stays there. He may change his name, but perhaps not even that. If found he has merely to say he likes it where he is and, if he is polite, listen politely to expostulations. But if he flees from a threat—to life, to liberty, or to sanity—
From the start, the most likely thing had been that Mrs. Macklin was Mrs. Ferris. But each effort to verify that supposition had been balked. The face-lifting and the dyed hair—those were obvious enough disguises. But they indicated a good deal of trouble, and not a little discomfort, had been gone to. But they were only the start. Mrs. Macklin was traveling with her daughter. Mrs. Ferris’s only daughter was in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Mrs. Ferris had been in a hotel in Los Angeles when Mrs. Macklin was aboard the Carib Queen. And, Mrs. Ferris had been in California when Mrs. Macklin was staying at a New York hotel. Granted a carefully, and troublesome, arranged plan, any of these discrepancies, or all of them, could be resolved. But one had to grant the plan—a carefully worked out change of identity. The working out was disproportionate to the occasion—if Mrs. Ferris was merely trying to avoid a loving family. The incentive for the masquerade needed to be more powerful. Mrs. Ferris had been described as eccentric. A euphemism for drunken? Or, for something more? Bill had wondered. He had been answered. The family had admitted they had considered steps to have Mrs. Ferris committed as mentally incompetent; they admitted she probably had got wind of it. So, when Mrs. Ferris found out that J. Orville Marsh was on the ship, presumably planning to take her back to a mental institution, she killed him.
“Wait,” Pam said. “How did she know he was?”
“She knew her stateroom had been searched,” Bill said. “Marsh had, I suppose, been looking for something to prove what he suspected. She knew that Marsh was a private detective who specialized in finding the missing. She put two and two together and got Mr. Folsom’s little sword and went to ask. That was, of course, precisely what Marsh wanted. But he hadn’t counted on the sword. She says, incidentally, that when a woman goes to a strange man’s room at night she ought to have some protection and the sword was handy. She saw the rifle box was open.
“She is,” Dorian said, “queer enough.”
“Hilda?” Pam said. “How did she get into it—she and Barron?”
That—and about it Hilda talked freely enough—was quite simple. She had answered an advertisement. That had been, some months before, in Los Angeles, where the Barrons were somewhat on their uppers. The advertisement was for a young woman who would act as a companion, and who would be willing to travel. The Barrons, who were briskly trying to turn something up, thought the advertisement worth answering.
Mrs. Ferris made the mistake of approving Hilda. Hilda took what seemed to be the heaven-sent opportunity of posing as the daughter of a woman of apparent wealth and—apparent credulity. “She doesn’t admit that, naturally,” Bill said. “She insists she was just sorry for ‘the poor old thing, running away from those awful children of hers.’”
The idea had been to get what could be got of Mrs. Ferris’s money, and, at the start, Bill thought—although he admitted he was guessing, on the basis of character—Hilda had been satisfied with fairly small peculations—ten dollars here and twenty there. (Which she denied.) She had given value received, or thereabouts. She had employed an elderly woman to pose as Mrs. Ferris in the Los Angeles hotel. She had mailed the letter from Los Angeles. (And neither of these things, as she pointed out, violated the law.) But then she found out that Mrs. Ferris had killed Marsh.
“How?” Jerry said.
“Mrs. Ferris says: ‘They say I talk in my sleep, sometimes. It must have been that way.’ Hilda says, ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, captain.’ Anyway, she found out. She told her husband.”
“Who,” Pam said, “had come along for the ride?”
“And to be handy,” Bill said. “Yes, apparently. He says, ‘Why shouldn’t I, copper?’ He’s a little cruder than his wife. He says, ‘Show me the law against it, copper.’ I can’t, of course.”
The Barrons decided they were really on to something. They decided that what they were on to was Mrs. Ferris’s jewelry, to be handed over, but ostensibly sold in her behalf, in exchange for silence. Mrs. Ferris said that. (“The poor old thing,” Hilda said, and said with confidence. “She really ought to be locked up.”)
Confronted by this, Mrs. Ferris decided on the logical move—to kill Hilda. “Actually,” Bill said, “she didn’t know about Barron. Didn’t know then there were two of them.” She had tried to kill once, and pushed Dorian into what she thought was an empty pool. She’d forgotten the net, if she’d ever noticed it. She had tried again on the tower—had dropped some hints about suicide if pressed too far; had been careful to make sure that Hilda saw her go into the tower; had known that Hilda would have to follow her.”
“Why?” Jerry said, and was looked at. Pam was gentle in explanation.
“Because,” Pam said, “they couldn’t sell Mrs. Ferris’s jewelry if Mrs. Ferris was dead. If she was dead, it couldn’t show up missing.”
“They hadn’t sold it?” Dorian said. “At one of the places on the street Pam followed her through?”
“No,” Bill said. “Because Pam was following. Because they couldn’t be sure how much she’d seen. Because honest people don’t sell to fences, and they had to keep on seeming honest.”
“Then,” Pam said, “I did do something?”
“Right,” Bill said, and seemed to have finished. He looked at his empty glass, at other empty glasses. He looked at the bar steward, who beamed and went off briskly.
“Cholly’s slugging?” Pam said. “And my—being pushed around?”
“Barron,” Bill said. “He denies it. I can’t prove it. As a matter of fact, I can’t prove anything on either Barron—not with Mrs. Ferris the only witness against them. But, Barron. Trying to find Marsh’s effects, and go through them. Find out whether there was anything in them that would tie the murder to Mrs. Ferris—and to make off with whatever there was. Because, of course, Mrs. Ferris was no good to them—they lost their hold—if we could pin the murder on her without their help.”
There was a long pause. Drinks came. Pam broke it.
“Ou
r first time official, or almost,” Pam said. “And all we really did, that I can see, was to buy an alligator bag I didn’t want and—oh, for heaven’s sake!” They waited; Jerry waited with some trepidation. “I just realized,” Pam said. “I left it at that night club. What with all the excitement, and everything, and not really being used to it. I always leave things I’m not used to.”
There was a long pause.
“Of course,” Pam said. “There’ll probably be nicer things in Nassau. And cheaper, really. There’s something about the duties.” She looked at Jerry. “Isn’t there?” she said.
Jerry started to speak, and ran a hand through his hair. He decided that he had, after all, nothing relevant to say.
Turn the page to continue reading from the Mr. and Mrs. North Mysteries
I
The sweep hand of the electric wall clock trotted downstairs to “30” and began to trot up again. An assistant director held his right hand beyond his right ear, the index finger pointed stiffly upward. Amanda Towne looked at the tiny watch on her wrist with an expression of aggrieved surprise and shook her head at it, a lady betrayed by time. She turned—but not too far, with chin up—to the Grandmother of the Year, who sat beside her on the sofa, and shared with her, for two seconds by the count, the realization that the best of things must end.
The assistant director brought his finger down, as if it were a pistol and he a duelist. Amanda Towne turned to face front again, the camera shifted slightly, eliminating the Grandmother of the Year from further consideration.
“Isn’t she just lovely?” Amanda Towne enquired, with a lilt—and just a touch of Arkansas—in her voice. “I know all of you out there wish she could just go on and on—and on. But—” She did not finish that; she moved graceful hands a little in resignation. She leaned forward slightly; her eyes were bright and her even teeth were brighter still on television screens from coast to coast. “Take care of yourselves, dear people,” she said. “Do take care of yourselves. And now Jimmy has a word for you about our next guests and—” Again she did not finish, not in words. Her smile, for two seconds, lingered like a benediction.
Her face, and the smile with it, vanished from the monitor. It was replaced by the fatherly face of James Fergus, who said, “Thank you, Amanda Towne. And now, before I tell you about Friday’s People Next Door, a word about Fluff, the deep penetrating—”
The camera was off Amanda Towne, the microphone which had dangled above her head—and the head of the Grandmother of the Year—climbed up its cable. “I—” the Grandmother of the Year began, and Amanda put a finger to her lips, “—until Friday at the same time,” the monitor said, in a soft deep voice, “when once more we will get together with the People Next Door in this great land of ours, goodbye and good luck from Amanda Towne and all of us. This is James Fergus speaking.”
Amanda Towne took the finger from her lips; the smile came away with it.
“You were fine, Mrs. Burney,” she said. “Just fine.”
“I thought—” the Grandmother of the Year said.
“Just fine,” Miss Amanda Towne said firmly. “I’m sure they all loved you.” She stood up. “My God, Jimmy,” she said. “Do you have to make it sound so damn much like a funeral? Can’t you get just a little—” She did not finish this, either. She shrugged. “I suppose not,” she said. “I suppose you just can’t, can you?”
She turned away from James Fergus, who flushed a little, flushed slowly, and whose round face sagged a little.
“I—” the Grandmother of the Year said, “just want to—”
“You were fine,” Amanda told her, and for an instant a smile came back—a trickle of a smile. “We all so much appreciated—oh, there you are.”
She spoke over Mrs. Burney, whose sixteen grandchildren were doing so well, in so many places. She spoke to a short, heavy woman with sharp black eyes, with hair blacker than her eyes.
“Well?” Amanda Towne said.
The black-haired woman nodded briefly. She made, with thumb and middle finger of her right hand, an approving circle. She advanced on Mrs. Burney, who was slight and gray. She said, “Wonderful, my dear. Let me help you find your things,” and seemed to engulf the Grandmother of the Year as she led her off.
“Whew!” Amanda Towne said and looked around the studio, now with no smile at all. She said, “Tony! Tony Gray!”
“Yes ma’am,” Tony Gray said, and appeared from behind a camera. He was wiry; he had red hair. He wore an expression of somewhat intense innocence.
“Well?” Amanda said, without sympathy. He started to speak, but was not permitted. “Don’t try it,” Amanda told him. “You talked to her. Well?”
“All right,” Tony Gray said. “She froze a little, maybe.”
“‘Yes, Miss Towne,’” Amanda said. “‘No, Miss Towne.’ ‘I guess that’s right, Miss Towne.’ ‘I really couldn’t say about that, Miss Towne.’”
“Now Mandy,” Tony Gray said. “She froze. Every now and then it’s bound to happen. Some of ’em do. Some don’t. Chipper’s a sparrow when I talked to her.”
“She should have been a sparrow,” Amanda Towne told him. “I’d rather interview a sparrow. With a flock of sparrow grandchildren.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” Gray said. “She’s a sweet old thing. That came over. Relax, Mandy. Some of ’em will always freeze. Even on People Next Door. I—”
“All tucked away in a cab,” the black-haired woman said, from half across the studio. “Now don’t get all worked up, Mandy.”
“You heard it,” Amanda Towne said. “Watched me prying words out with a crowbar. Smiling until my damned teeth ached. And Tony says some of them will always freeze. And you say don’t get worked up. And—”
“There,” Alice Fleming said. “There ducky.”
She and Tony Gray looked at each other, briefly.
“Humor her,” Amanda Towne said. “Smooth her down. Butter her up.”
“Mandy,” Alice Fleming said, “so maybe the last ten minutes was a little sticky. The rest was like silk. You tell her, Tony.”
“Like silk,” Tony Gray said. “In the groove, precisely.” He grinned at Amanda. “Trouble is,” he said, “you want to turn up an Honorable Parkman every day. Editorial in the Times today.”
“With credit?”
“Well,” Tony said, “‘a popular afternoon TV program.’ And, ‘a leading woman interviewer.’ This was the Times, Mandy. We can’t have everything.”
Amanda Towne laughed, briefly, but her brief laugh tinkled. Alice Fleming sighed, with the beginning of relaxation. Mandy was coming out of it; Mandy always came out of it, just as she always went into it. Well, if she didn’t get keyed up, she wouldn’t be Mandy—wouldn’t be Amanda Towne, coast to coast and two stations in Canada; Amanda Towne, with more sponsors than you could shake a stick at (if sticks were ever shaken at sponsors) or work into an hour’s show; Amanda Towne with a waiting list of ready-mixes, and things that cured and other things which penetrated deeply.
“He called me up,” Amanda said. “Said, wasn’t there anything I could do? I said, such as what Mr. Parkman? Innocent-like.”
Arkansas returned, a little, to her voice, as it did when she was coming out of it, and remembering she was Amanda Towne, coast to coast, with a waiting list, neighbor to all next doors and folksy as they came.
“He seemed,” Amanda Towne said, “to think I’d led him on. Imagine that.”
They imagined it. Alice Fleming, business manager of Amanda Towne imagined it; Tony Gray, pre-broadcast interviewer for Amanda Towne, legman for Amanda Towne, imagined it. The three of them laughed happily.
“What a notion!” Tony said. “As if you’d do a thing like that!”
“That,” Amanda said, “is what I told him. Innocent little me.”
This was even funnier; they laughed contentedly at this.
“All the same,” Tony Gray said, “he’s out of business.”
Amanda looked reflectively at a sign whi
ch said, “Positively No Smoking,” and lighted a cigarette. She dragged at it deeply. Mrs. Alice Fleming sighed again, in further relief. Amanda was continuing to unwind.
“To be perfectly honest,” Amanda said, and at that Tony Gray did not quite raise his reddish eyebrows, “I was innocent, in a mild way. I wanted to let a little stuffing out, but—” She moved her shoulders slightly under the beautifully fitting jacket of her suit. “And after all, all he said was—”
“The connotation, ducky,” Mrs. Fleming said. “You and he together against a vulgar world. And don’t tell me you didn’t give him that idea. Don’t tell me!”
“The little finger,” Tony said, quickly, and was smiled at for his trouble. “The famous little finger of Amanda Towne, celebrated—”
“All right,” Amanda said. “You’ve done your bits. Both of you. But just the same, Tony, one more—”
She did not finish that, or need to. Tony waited briefly, although he did not expect her to finish—or want her to finish.
“About the other thing?” he said. “The one you clam up about?”
“We’ll see,” Amanda said. “That is, I’ll see.”
She nodded, agreeing with herself.
“And,” she said, “no innocence this time. Well?”
“Yes, ducky,” Mrs. Alice Fleming said. “You want to sit in with Bart and me?”
And wished she hadn’t, because Amanda Towne’s blue eyes narrowed a little, and iced a little.
“That,” she said, “is something you ought to be able to handle, darling.” She paused. “That—anyway,” she said. “Considering—” She paused longer. “Everything,” she said, and put a fur stole around her shoulders. And went.
Tony Gray and Alice Fleming watched her go.
“Chip on her shoulder today,” Tony said. “Nice mink chip.” He lighted a cigarette of his own. “Of course,” he said, “it takes all kinds to make a meal-ticket, I always say.”
