“Father, darling. Did you really know that all the time? Did you really?”
“I guess I did,” said Edgar. “And I have rather an idea Bill did, too.”
“He was sweet, father. Terribly sweet. And fun. It was swell going places with him. But I didn’t love him … not enough to marry him. I wanted to think Bill and Lydia had been something to each other because it would give me an excuse to break things off.”
Edgar looked over the top of Carol’s head at Cain. “Does that straighten things out for you, Pat?”
“If I didn’t know different,” Cain said, “I’d think Faith Baldwin had written this script!”
Carol broke away from her father. “Always the light touch,” she said, angrily. “Why you should have a box seat for the unveiling of our private affairs … ”
“You gave me a free ride, sister,” said Cain, “when you put your trouble in my pocket. But if you feel that way I will walk slowly to the nearest exit … which is Bradley … with my information.”
“I don’t think you realize what Pat’s done for us,” Edgar said. He looked at Cain. “I’m grateful ... and I’m sure Carol will be.”
“It’s no favor,” said Cain. “Brackett was a good guy and I liked him. If I thought Carol was guilty, I’d turn her in like that. As it is, I want to know how she happened to have the phial.”
“I told you. I … I just found it in my bag.”
“Okay. Where was your bag?”
“It was an evening bag as you saw,” Carol began. “I ...”
“God almighty, I don’t notice women’s bags!” Cain said. “If you weren’t carrying it all evening, where did you put it down?”
“On the table ... at least I think I did. Then, when they used the table for a bar, someone moved it. I know I found it on the sideboard in the reception room after … after things happened.”
“The point is this,” Cain said through cigarette smoke. “The murderer knew it was your bag ... knew that a pretty good case against you would be clinched by the finding of that bottle. Wouldn’t a woman be most likely to know your bag? Know it was yours, I mean. Which of the gals don’t like you? I suppose we can count out your mother. Or can we?”
“You have the damnedest … ”
“I don’t love anybody,” said Cain dryly, “and I’m not related to anybody. Can we count your mother out?”
“Certainly.”
“Okay then. How about Mrs. Wilder? Margo? Madame Rosokov? You stepped on any of their toes?”
“I scarcely know Madame Rosokov and Mrs. Wilder. Margo and I have always been friends.”
“Well, somebody tried to fix you,” Cain said. “And you might bear this in mind. Whoever put it in your bag knows it was you who passed it on to me. And if Ed saw you do it, you can bet your life this other person also saw it. So Bradley may find out without any help from us.”
“That’s bad,” said Edgar.
“The hell it is,” said Cain. “When you go to bed, pray that this someone tells. Because then we’ll know!”
2
Cain was awake long before the nine o’clock breakfast hour, He shaved and dressed and went downstairs to find himself the last in the dining room. Richards had guessed there wouldn’t be much extra sleeping done because breakfast was in full swing.
A white-haired gentleman with pince-nez on a black ribbon was having coffee with the family. He was Paul Ellington, the Stoddard lawyer. He acknowledged the introduction to Cain.
“We’ve been discussing the case, of course,” he said. He had a mellow, courtroom manner. “I see no particular cause for alarm. This inspector may bluster and rave, but he can’t arrest any of you without evidence. And so far as I can see there isn’t a shred.”
Cain looked across the table at Carol. She was concentrating hard on a piece of toast and marmalade and Cain knew that Mr. Ellington had been given the expurgated version of the story.
“I’m very much relieved, Paul,” said Emily. “From what Mr. Cain said last night I thought it possible we could all be held in protective custody,”
“Protective?” Ellington raised a shaggy eyebrow at Cain. “From what must you be protected, Mr. Cain?”
“From a murderer who doesn’t want to be caught,” said Cain.
“Ah, I see,” said Ellington. “The old multiple-murder theory?” He smiled indulgently. “A little melodramatic, don’t you think, Mr. Cain?”
“Maybe,” Cain said. “Personally I never thought of any sort of murder as a drawing room farce!”
“Quite so,” said Ellington. “I wasn’t taking a light view, Mr. Cain. But why anticipate unnecessarily? The affair has been distressing enough, especially for poor little Carol.”
“Poor little Carol” remained violently attentive to her toast and marmalade. Mr. Ellington was beginning to pour further oil on the troubled scene when Richards approached Cain.
“You’re wanted on the telephone, sir,”
“Me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Cain went out to the telephone in the gothic hall. “Cain here.”
“Sleep well?” asked a solicitous voice.
“Oh, it’s you, Bradley.”
“It’s me,” said Bradley.
“Got your man?” Cain asked.
“Not yet,” said Bradley. “How’s your conscience?”
“Pure as a new-mown babe,” said Cain. “There was an incident with jam when I was six which I never confessed to, but outside of that … ”
“Any grade-A confidences come your way?”
“Lovely weather for this time of year, don’t you think?” said Cain.
“Still the innocent bystander, eh?” said Bradley.
“What do you mean ‘still?’ ”
“I thought maybe you would be seeing things differently.”
“Sorry,” Cain said.
“Well,” said Bradley, with a sigh, “you can tell your friends there will be no inquisition this morning. Mrs. Stoddard can attend her Red Cross. You may have your voice treated. Mr. Stoddard may polish his harness. And Miss Stoddard … dear me, what does Miss Stoddard do?”
“What’s the gag?”
“No gag,” said Bradley. “I’m just bewildered.”
“You and the nearest income-tax collector,” Cain said.
“If no one will help,” said Bradley plaintively, “and no one will make a mistake, what can I do?”
“Wait for the mistake,” said Cain.
“If the cultivation of your voice doesn’t work out,” said Bradley, “maybe I can find a spot for you down here.”
“I’ll make a note. But keep pitching, will you, chum? I’ll feel a lot better when you have this bird in the death house.”
“Would you call it a coincidence if I said I felt the same way?” Bradley’s voice was not as light as his question. “Well, so long.”
“So long,” said Cain.
He went back into the dining room.
“That was the inspector. There’s to be no grilling. You can all do what you please today,” he said.
“There,” said Ellington. “The police seldom make mistakes about arresting people. It causes too much trouble.”
“Maybe you like it,” said Cain, scowling, “but I dont. Not a damn bit.”
“But why?” Emily asked.
“You know how to deal with a dog whose teeth are bared. Tough ones lie down beside you, lick your hand, and then take your arm off at the elbow. Or shall I draw a picture of Bradley?”
Chapter Twelve
1
About half past ten Cain went to Summers’ studio at Carnegie. Emily had bustled off to her Red Cross, with every evidence of having wiped the entire business of Bill’s murder from her mind as something unpleasant that was over and done with and best forgotten.
Carol announced that she was going with Bill’s manager to meet Bill’s family who were arriving on a train from the west. Edgar had retired to his harness room, after listening to assurances from Paul Ell
ington that everything was under control, and that he, Ellington, was an impregnable bulwark in their time of trouble. This assurance, Cain estimated, would already have cost Edgar a couple of grand.
The atmosphere at the studio was different. Nobody there, Cain found, was kidding himself about things being settled. Summers had canceled all his lessons in anticipation of a day at headquarters, only to have Bradley notify him that he wouldn’t be needed. Summers, Margo, Beany Cook, and Robert Royce were all gathered in the reception room when Cain arrived.
“So they’re letting you alone, too?” Margo said.
Cain said they were
“I tell you it’s a trap,” said Beany Cook. “Why should they just give up like this?”
“Don’t be a sucker,” said Cain. “Nobody’s given up.”
“Perhaps they’ve discovered it was someone outside our group,” said Royce.
“Yeah,” said Cain. “The Invisible Man. He was at the party all the time and we didn’t know it.”
“What do you make of it, Pat?” Summers asked.
“They’re undoubtedly trying to locate the source of the poison,” Cain said. “Checking fingerprints if there are any. But mainly Bradley is waiting and watching for someone to pull a boner.”
“It gives me the creeps!” said Beany.
“Does he expect us to go on normally with this hanging over our heads?” Summers asked.
“He expects somebody to crack,” said Cain. “And he’s got the patience to wait for it indefinitely.”
Royce fingered his foulard tie. “Did you come to any conclusion, old man, as to who put that poison bottle in your pocket?”
“None,” said Cain flatly.
“Extraordinary,” said Royce.
“Yes, isn’t it!” said Beany; with a leer, “It couldn’t possibly have been a lady fair, could it?”
“Maybe you’d better give me a lesson, Mr. Summers,” Cain said. He was looking at Beany. “Or I’m liable to break every bone in your buddy.”
Beany giggled nervously. “Don’t be mad,” he said, “I just thought that you were the knight-in-shining armor type.”
“A lesson?” Summers asked, with some eagerness. “It would help to take our minds off this business.”
“Let’s go,” said Cain. “And stick to your lacework, Beany. A murder case is no place for dishing dirt. It might get you in a hell of a lot of trouble.”
Summers and Cain went into the studio. Somehow it didn’t have the same feel. Cain knew he would never come in here again without seeing Bill on his hands and knees, begging for help.
Summers said: “Will you excuse me a moment?” He disappeared into the lavatory at the end of the room and Cain heard the clanking of glass. He thought Summers was taking a quick one, but he was mistaken. Summers came out, blotting at his cheeks with a handkerchief.
“Eyes giving me trouble,” he said. “Reading music all day long, I suspect. I hate to give in to glasses. Sign of age.”
“Nuts,” said Cain. “You’ll live to sing at my funeral.”
Summers smiled. “If I do it’ll be because I’m cautious and you’re not, Pat.”
“How do you make that out?”
Summers started to reply and checked himself. Then he said vaguely. “Oh, fighting in wars and that sort of thing.” He sat down at the piano. “All right. Now remember, the note is sustained on your diaphragm: Mee-may-mah-mawmee.”
Cain gave out.
“Good. Now up a half tone.”
They kept at it until Cain called time. “My wind ain’t what it used to be,” he said.
“Okay, take it easy.” Summers ran his fingers up the keyboard in a progressive scale. “It’s no good,” he said, with sudden harshness. “You can’t wipe this thing out of your mind.”
Cain had a vision of Edgar Stoddard, sifting in the big armchair in the library, a drink in his hand. ‘It’s just a theory, but not too implausible, do you think?’
“You’d be inhuman if you could,” Cain said.
“You can read about this happening to other people,” Summers said, “and think ‘how too bad’ and that’s that. But when it happens to you … when it’s one of your own friends … ”
Cain automatically reached for a cigarette. “Of course everybody’s holding back,” he said and hoped he made it sound casual. “The key seems to be Lydia Egan, and all you people who knew her must have ideas about who her man was. If you’d come clean, even if you’re just guessing, it might clear things up.” He watched Summers’ lined face and saw no change in it. “What kind of a girl was she?”
“Simple, ingenuous, a great deal of unsophisticated charm. The picture Rosokov gave of her last night … prattling about shopping and clothes … was only partly true. She was shy; found it hard to talk. But in here with me, during her lessons, something of her honesty and real sweetness came through. She was a little awe-struck at meeting people like Bill and Rosokov and Royce and” — with a short laugh — “me.”
“Where does Royce fit into the celebrity league?” Cain asked.
Summers showed surprise. “Royce? Why he’s the shrewdest manager of singers in this country. He’s built more successful careers than any man I know. Every young singer would give his eye teeth to be taken in hand by Robert.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Cain.
“I know. He seems a bit of a fat-head when you first meet him,” Summers conceded. “He’s vain and pompous; thinks of himself as a hell of a fellow with women.”
“And is he?”
“He works at it,” Summers’ said, laughing.
“Well, how about him?” Cain asked. “Did he try his stuff on Lydia?”
Summers glanced up. “Robert? By God, Pat, you know I never thought of that, but … ” He stopped short and his mouth set hard. Then he said, striking a jangling chord on the piano: “Ready to go on? Eee-ay-ah-aw-oo.”
2
Cain tried to bring the talk back to Royce in the remainder of that lesson without success. Summers kept him vocalizing until he was as tired as if he had gone four fast rounds with a snappy lightweight.
The only other comment Summers made was that Bill’s funeral was to take place the next day. “I suppose we’ll all be allowed to go.”
Royce was on Cain’s mind when he went out to the reception room. But Royce was gone, and so were Margo and Beany. He could hear the clacking of a typewriter from the second floor of the duplex and assumed Beany was at work on the Summers biography.
Then Cain remembered two things: Royce’s telling him that his offices were on the floor above and Bill’s saying that the results of his investigations had amused him. If the pompous, fanny-pinching concert manager was the man, Bill would have found that funny. Only a girl as unsophisticated as Lydia had been painted could have failed to see through him.
Royce’s quarters on the ninth floor consisted of a reception room and private office. There was a girl in the reception room busy at a typewriter.
“I’d like to see Mr. Royce,” Cain said.
“Have you an appointment?”
“No, but if you tell him it’s Pat Cain I think he’ll break down and see me.”
“I’m sorry, but he isn’t here,” said the girl. “On the level,” she added cheerfully when she saw that Cain was skeptical.
That was that. Cain went out and walked along the corridor toward the elevator. He stopped, suddenly, in front of a studio door. The name on it in gold letters was: NAOMI WILDER. On an impulse Cain rang the doorbell.
He was just about to turn away when Mrs. Wilder herself opened the door.
“Why, Mr. Cain! How very pleasant! Do come in.”
Mrs. Wilder was draped in a dressing gown which would have put to shame Joseph’s coat of many colors. Cradled in her arms was a gray persian cat. The cat gave Cain a dirty look and stretched its claws.
“It’s been such an upsetting morning,” Mrs. Wilder complained as she led Cain into the studio. “First I got dressed to go to head
quarters, after calling off all my appointments and sending my secretary home. Then the inspector phoned that we weren’t wanted. The day is simply wasted.”
The studio was lit by a skylight. Cain imagined that it was at its best at night with shaded lamps or even candles. He was conscious of rich colors and softness. The chair he was offered was too deep. The velvet couch on which Mrs. Wilder sat was as wide as a bed. The brocade hangings on the walls seemed to deaden sound. The rug was inches thick. Permeating it all was a heavy, musky scent.
“I had meant,” said Mrs. Wilder, “to progress both your horoscope and your number-scope, but with this dreadful business downstairs … ”
She wrung her hands and this time the bangles on her wrist made musical sounds.
“Is there anything in what Beany said?” asked Cain. “Could you come to conclusions about the murder through your … er … sciences?”
“Well, of course we don’t like to … ”
“Off the record,” said Cain, grinning.
She did not smile back. “I haven’t a doubt all the charts of the people who were there last night would show that last night was a moment of difficulty … of stress. But the stars only impel, Mr. Cain. They do not compel. We say that if you were to follow your chart you would know how to work on the positive side of your destiny. You don’t have to face defeat if you are prepared to fight at the critical time.”
“For example,” said Cain, “if you get the chart of some important person to read … say John D. Rockefeller, would you set to work to find out all you could about him so that your reading would be impressive?”
“I would be a charlatan if I did that, Mr. Cain,” she said simply. “I read what I see in the chart. That’s all. Undoubtedly there are a great many fakers pretending to practice astrology and numerology. I don’t happen to be one of them.”
“In that case you must know a great deal about the characters of the people whose charts you read,” Cain said.
“Of course I do.”
“And you probably charted most of the people who were there last night?”
“Even you, Mr. Cain,” she said.
I'll Sing at Your Funeral Page 10
