Crime is Murder (10 page)

“I’ve been meaning to call on you,” she added. “I think you might be able to help me with Marta. She’s at a difficult age. There comes a time in a child’s life when a mother is the most remote person in the world. But you—” There was the shadow of a sad smile. It seemed strange resting there. “You are an outsider, and quite a famous one. That makes your influence even greater.”

“My influence?” Lisa echoed.

“I think you might have influence over Marta. She needs help, Miss Bancroft. I know that but I’m so helpless. I’m afraid I just don’t understand creative people.”

I am the wife of one of the most talented creative artists of our age—but only the wife. I don’t understand. I never understood. Lisa was intrigued by the words Nydia Cornish didn’t speak.

“She’s like a ship without a rudder. So anxious to succeed; so afraid of failure. I know what the award competition means to her. I can tell how important it is by the way she assumes indifference.”

For a woman who didn’t understand creative people, Nydia was doing all right. But Lisa was still too surprised by this sudden warmth and confidence to do anything but stand there with her mouth slightly open and her ears at attention.

“Perhaps I could prevail on you to come to tea one day and we can discuss the matter further.”

Prevail on me to come—! The picture of that old mansion on the hill swept into the focus of the mind: the tall turret-like cupolas rising against an angry sky, the tall hill grass bowing before the wind, the strange music that began so movingly and ended so abruptly. All the lure, and the dread, of Bell Mansion came back to Lisa then. But the lure was the stronger. The lure was always the stronger.

“I’d be delighted to come,” she said, trying to keep down the eagerness in her voice.

“Splendid. I’ll call you then. And remember, I’m taking care of Dr. Hazlitt’s call last night. I insist.”

Nydia Cornish was herself again. The audience with the queen was over. She extended a gloved hand and touched Lisa’s fingers in a gesture of dismissal. There was nothing to do then but take leave of Stanley Watts and his unannounced visitor, although Lisa couldn’t escape the feeling that it was the banker who was the visitor after all.

She went out more puzzled than she’d come in, taking with her the strange impressions left by an unexpected invitation and the faint touch of a gloved hand carefully darned at the fingertips.

“I don’t believe it,” Johnny declared. “I don’t think Marta’s music has anything to do with your invitation to enter the holy of holies. I think Nydia wants to lure you into that hilltop citadel so she can tell you the story of her husband’s life and grab a little glory.”

Johnny’s candor could be arresting. Lisa sat at the study desk. Pencil in hand, she was making notations on a pad of paper. She’d gotten as far as:

Alistair Hubbard: Bequeathed house to Cornish Memorial—plus?

But Johnny was making more sense than she knew.

“It’s possible,” Lisa admitted, “although Joel suggested the same thing. Nydia Cornish seems to approve of Joel.”

“And Gleason and Duval. But Carrie tells me there hasn’t been any social entertaining at that house since the studio fire.”

“Carrie,” Lisa mused, “talks too much.”

“I’m not so sure. I’m beginning to think she’s the only one around here who really is sane. I wonder how those roots taste, anyway?”

Lisa continued writing on her pad. Johnny’s questioning of the motive behind her invitation was interesting; but not quite so interesting as another thing that bothered Lisa about the bank-office meeting. Somebody was lying about the fund—Nydia or Stanley Watts. Somebody was lying about a lot of things.

Pierre Duval: Reportedly insured for $5,000 with double indemnity. Marta Cornish beneficiary.

“How can the professor say that Marta got an insurance payoff and Marta deny it?” Johnny persisted. “Anyway, I’m not taking sides. I’m only reporting what Carrie told me. She’s still furious about that paperweight attack. It’s going to take more than an apology to shut her up.”

More than an apology. Lisa’s eyes strayed from her pad again. That was the other troublesome matter. But she didn’t attempt a comment. Johnny was still retelling tales.

“Of course, Carrie doesn’t have first-hand information,” she added, “but she certainly remembers the talk when Mrs. Cornish had to have the gardener sent to Granite.”

“Granite?” Lisa echoed.

“It’s a town somewhere or other in these parts. The sanitarium is there. You remember—Claude Humphrey.”

“I remember. What’s the story on that? Is baby Marta supposed to have driven him insane?”

“She used to tease him, Carrie says. You can’t tease anyone like that. It makes them furious.”

You can’t tease anyone like Lisa Bancroft. It makes her furious, too. Lisa scratched her last entry on the pad in a heavy hand:

Howard Gleason: Reportedly insured for $??. Marta Cornish beneficiary. Also $5,000 award unaccounted for.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to agree with Dr. Hazlitt,” she said tersely. “I can’t understand how an intelligent person can be taken in by Carrie’s wild tales! I’m as anxious to get to the truth of this matter as anyone, but let’s try to stick to the facts.”

“And what are the facts?”

With her head cocked at an inquisitive angle, Johnny waited for an answer. There were times when she could be very irritating.

Not all the architecture of Bellville dated back to the heyday of the Bell empire. There were colorful new motor courts on the highway, an impressive yacht club and restaurant of modern design, and, within the town itself, the new auditorium and several business centers that would have been the pride of any modern community. In one of these—the most modern and most prominent—was the air-cooled office of Bellville’s business booster, Tod Graham, LL.B. Midafternoon of a warm summer day, Tod Graham might be found—if he weren’t dashing off to chair a businessmen’s luncheon or a committee on some matter of civic interest—neatly attired in a tropical worsted suit (light blue to match his eyes), nylon shirt, and hand-painted tie, and, of course, that ever engaging smile, behind the expanse of a blond wood desk that was the latest in office furnishings. If his visitor were male, an expensive cigar would be offered from the leather-bound humidor on that desk. If the visitor were Lisa Bancroft, escorted this time by a secretary who refused to stay home, a pair of soft leather chairs would be offered instead. No, of course Mr. Graham was not too busy to give Miss Bancroft a few minutes of his time. Yes, he would be delighted to be of any assistance, legal or otherwise. It was the old bank routine again, and this time Lisa knew her lines.

“As you know, I’m considering purchase of Masterson House,” she began, ignoring Johnny’s expression of dismay, “but I hesitate to take any action—sign anything, that is—without legal representation. It is an old house. There may be liens or back taxes. I don’t know if a man of your prominence has time to handle such things, but you’re the only lawyer I know in Bellville.”

Tod Graham’s teeth gleamed in a swift smile. “Ordinarily I’d turn the matter over to my junior partner, Miss Bancroft. But in your case, I’d be offended if you consulted anyone else. After all, we’re practically old friends.”

“And fellow committee members,” Lisa added.

“Exactly. By the way, I’ve been meaning to thank you for the support you gave me at our last meeting. I was sure you’d have an eye to progress.”

Lisa was surprised. She couldn’t remember having given Tod Graham any support, or opposition either, at the meeting; but perhaps he just took it for granted that silence meant assent. In any event, it wasn’t a sentiment to discourage.

“I’m very interested in the music festival,” she said. “As a matter of fact, only this morning I spoke to Mr. Watts about making a small donation.”

Tod’s hand was reaching toward the humidor. It hung there in happy expectancy.

“Why, that’s very generous of you—”

“But Mrs. Cornish came in just then and assured me no additional funds were needed.”

“Nydia said that?”

In his dismay, Tod completely forgot the humidor. The extended hand withdrew as quickly as that abruptly terminated expectancy. And then he seemed to remember there was such a thing as being too eager.

“Not that we’re in any trouble,” he added quickly, “but I don’t think any music lover should be denied the chance to contribute to anything so worthwhile. You must remember that Nydia Cornish is a very proud woman, and the festival is her baby, so to speak. She just doesn’t realize how the baby has grown.”

Into motor courts and restaurants? Lisa thought the question but didn’t speak. Tod was doing all right without prompting.

“It’s her one remaining splash of glory,” he added.

“I thought it was a memorial to her beloved husband,” Johnny remarked.

“Oh, it is. I don’t mean to belittle Nydia’s sentiment. Still, she is a Bell and this is Bellville. You can’t be the third generation of a dynasty and not want to rule even if the kingdom has toppled. But don’t get me wrong. I like Nydia. She’s difficult to get along with, I’ll admit, but it doesn’t hurt any of us to humor her a little. She’s an asset to Bellville. A link with the past.”

A living link with Martin Cornish. That’s what you mean, isn’t it, Tod? An attraction, a curiosity, to set up on the platform on award night for all the tourists to see.

“But she doesn’t know a damn thing about finances, if you’ll pardon my bluntness,” Tod added. “Now, if you really want to make a contribution, Miss Bancroft—”

“It was merely a suggestion,” Lisa said.

Tod tried to conceal his disappointment. He wasn’t very good at it. There was an ugly moment when Lisa felt sorry for his wife.

“Before I do anything of a financial nature, I’d have to be more familiar with the economic structure of the Cornish Memorial. Then, too, I’m awaiting the transfer of funds from my New York bank.” Lisa hesitated, measuring the degree of understanding in Tod’s face. It was amazing how many people thought a novelist, particularly a feminine novelist, had no business sense. Tod Graham wasn’t too old to learn. But too many lessons could antagonize the pupil and defeat the purpose of her call. “I assume the Merchant’s Bank is sound,” she added. “There doesn’t seem to be any alternative.”

“Sound? Why, of course—”

“I know it’s foolish of me to be apprehensive. It’s just that—well, Mr. Watts isn’t exactly the prototype of the dynamic leader.”

Just enough lessons, just enough recess. Lisa was developing the instincts of a natural-born teacher. Tod Graham laughed.

“I know what you mean, Miss Bancroft. Stodgy is the word for Stanley. But the banks sound enough. At least, I hope it is. That’s where Mrs. Graham and I keep our little nest egg. And speaking of Mrs. Graham, she’s been after me to ask you to dinner one night. You too, Miss Johnson, of course.”

“Thanks,” Johnny said.

“I think Ruth’s planning a little—well, a little welcoming party. Nothing big. Just some of the people who hope to be your neighbors.”

Some of the people who want to get an autographed copy of a book they’ve combed the book stores to get and will never read—fortunately. Some of the people who want to tell their friends about having dinner with that famous writer—now what
is
her name? Johnny grinned in wicked expectancy of the dodge Tod was going to get, but Lisa smiled as graciously as if she meant it when she said,

“Why, I’d be delighted, Mr. Graham. Now that we’re all moved in, I’ve been thinking of having a small party myself. I do want to get to know all my neighbors.”

They were halfway up the Pineview Road before Johnny ran out of invectives. Something was in the wind, and Johnny didn’t like to have anything going on without her knowledge. As long as she was going to be upset, she might as well have a little more to think about.

“I wonder,” Lisa mused half aloud, “what might be the maiden name of Tod Graham’s wife.”

That was all she said. There wasn’t any more to say.

And then they were turning into the drive at Masterson House again, with the sunlight making soft patterns through the pines and the grass freckled with dandelions after the rain. Carrie, none the worse for her recent escapade, was out with her canvas bag making the most of the new crop. She came to her feet at the sight of the station wagon and came toward them.

“You got an invite to tea up at that house,” she announced.

“So soon?” Lisa echoed.

“Not wasting any time, is she?” Johnny said. “When is the ‘invite,’ and for how many?”

Hopefully she asked. Dejectedly she heard.

“Four o’clock this afternoon, an’ Miss Bancroft was the only one mentioned. She made the call
herself
.” There was no doubt as to the identity of such an important
herself
. “Talked real friendly. Asked about my head an’ all.”

And then Carrie frowned in quick remembrance.

“Wouldn’t catch me goin’ near that house, let alone
inside
it. It’s cursed, that’s what it is. It’s got the curse of death on it.”

“Darn it,” Johnny said, “I’d give my right arm just to see inside the mansion.”

“If you believe what Carrie tells you, it might cost at least that much,” Lisa observed. Carrie was out of earshot now. She could speak freely.

“But I haven’t even seen the old girl except to pass her on the road one day. Just caught a glimpse of her sitting like a queen in the back seat of that ancient jalopy—chauffeur-driven, mind you. Imagine a chauffeur-driven limousine in a dump like Bellvelle!”

“Maybe she can’t drive.”

“She hasn’t since her widowhood. Seems she’s become very much the
grande dame
of the old school. Can’t stoop to menial labor of any kind. Carrie gave me the low-down.”

“That’s one thing Carrie could give you,” Lisa remarked. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon form my own opinions of Bell Mansion and its mistress.”

Without prejudice. Lisa smiled at herself as the thought came. It was too late for that. All she’d heard—yes, even the sight of the great house on the hill—was enough to make four o’clock the most exciting hour in many a day. And it meant dressing, of course. Not formally, but in enough fashion not to offend the ruling matron of the bluff. You’re not the butcher’s daughter any more, Lisa. You don’t overdress. Just be smart. Fashionably smart. And aloof. Poised. Don’t show how eager you are to see the house of mystery—or how afraid.

Because she was afraid. With a sense of startled recognition, Lisa became aware of this as she made her way once more up that hillside path almost lost through years of disuse. She could have come the front way, using the road to the stone-pillared gate, but the hill path was shorter and gave that magnificent view of the house to study on the way. It was the first time she’d seen it in sunlight. It was less foreboding that way, but not so attractive. Like an aging demirep caught in the glare of light, every flaw, every chipped stone, every cracked and peeling painted surface, every toppling trellis and weed-infested arbor told the story of faded glory. The end of a dynasty. Tod Graham had used the term, and it seemed appropriate. The mansion was both sad and ridiculous. But why fearful? With quickened pulse Lisa rang the bell. Don’t be foolish, Lisa. You’re not the butcher’s daughter any more.

A little old man, white-haired and shrunken with age, opened the door. The chauffeur. Lisa recognized him at once although he looked much smaller on his feet than perched on the high seat of the old limousine. Once beyond the old-fashioned vestibule, she feasted her eyes on a hall of such Victorian splendor that the shade of that august monarch herself would have been delighted by its ornate magnificence. Dominating the hall was a wide staircase, and Lisa found her gaze drawn upward. Pierre Duval had died in this house. Were these the stairs? Could Carrie be right? Had there been a sound of quarreling, an impetuous shove, and then disaster for a man with a silver plate in his skull? This was no mood in which to start a social call, but Lisa’s gaze traveled down again and clung to a spot of flooring at the bottom of the stairs. Death. A house of death. “This way, please, Miss Bancroft.”