Death of an Angel (14 page)

“It takes all kinds,” Bill told her, gravely. She looked, momentarily as if there were great doubt of this. She said, “That's very true, isn't it?”

“The night before Mr. Fitch—died,” Bill said. “You had dinner with him?”

She looked momentarily surprised, even doubtful. Then she made that sound, with tongue and teeth, which laments the regrettable—in this case, it was to be presumed, the death of Bradley Fitch.

“He was so
gay
,” she said. “So—
elated
. He was such a
boy
, captain.”

“Was there any particular purpose in the dinner?”

“Purpose?” she said. “We were cousins, captain. We saw too little of each other. My husband had a business engagement and—what could be more natural? What do you mean by ‘purpose'?”

“Sometimes,” Bill said, “there are family matters to take up. When someone plans a change in his way of living. As Mr. Fitch did.”

“I'm sure,” she said, “that I can't imagine what you mean.”

“Or,” Bill said, “feeling as you apparently did that this marriage was—undesirable—you might have—”

“Really,” she said. “Really! To imagine that I—”

The sound of a key in a lock stopped her. The door from the hotel corridor opened and a short, fat man entered—a short, fat man in his middle sixties; a red-faced man whose eyes were a little shiny. He wore a blue suit, with vest. There was a spot on the right lapel of his jacket. He took off a hard straw hat and, seeing it, Bill thought how few such hats one still saw. He looked at Weigand and then, quickly, apologetically, at Mrs. Nelson.

“Oh,” he said, “back too—” His voice was a little querulous. It was not allowed to continue.

“James,” Mrs. Nelson said. “I'm so
glad
you could get back. This is Captain Weigand. The police captain, you know. About poor dear Brad. I've been telling him about our theory. That is—not a
theory
, really. Just something—”

“Policeman,” James Nelson said, in his querulous voice. “Theory, m'dear?”

“Of course,” she said. “About Miss Barnscott.”

“Barnscott?” he said. “Don't—oh,
Barnscott
. Pretty girl, inspector.”

“You're tired, dear,” James Nelson's wife said. “He
will
work too hard,” she said. “Even on Sunday. You must go lie down, dear.”

James Nelson put his hard straw hat carefully on a small round table. The black ribbon which circled it was slightly rusty. Although, Bill thought, it's only June.

“Think I'll lie down,” James Nelson said. “You take care of the inspector, Allie. Pleasure, inspector.”

He walked across the large, square room and through the door to the bedroom. He closed the door behind him. He was most careful, Bill Weigand thought, to walk steadily.

Mrs. Nelson had stood when her husband entered. She remained standing. She said, “It was so good of you to come,” in the tone which means it is time for you to go. Bill went.

He stopped at the desk. Mr. and Mrs. James Nelson had checked in on Thursday evening. He saw an assistant manager. Mr. and Mrs. James Nelson were not frequent guests at the hotel. It did not appear, in fact, that the Barclay had previously had the pleasure of entertaining them.

Mrs. Nelson was so very chic; her husband—Bill considered. It was hard to put a finger on. But Mr. James Nelson did, somehow, seem a little seedy. He was also, of course, a little drunk; it was likely that he was often a little drunk. He wore a hard straw hat. Pam, Bill thought, would be interested to hear of that.

He found a telephone. He talked to Mullins. The man who had been keeping Sam Wyatt under observation had let him get away. Wyatt had met some people for drinks at a hotel on lower Fifth Avenue. He had taken a cab from there to his hotel. He had remained at the hotel for a half an hour or so and left on foot. He had walked to a subway station, and ridden to Grand Central. He had been lost in Grand Central.

“One man, Loot,” Mullins said. “You know how it is. Probably noticed he was being tailed and—
flut!
”

“I doubt if it matters,” Bill said.

“The people he had drinks with,” Mullins said. “Guess who they were, Loot.”

“Mr. and Mrs. North,” Bill said. “And Mrs. Weigand, probably.”

“The trouble with you,” Mullins said, “is you're clairient.”

“Absolutely,” Bill said. “Find out what you can about a man named Nelson—James Nelson. Lives in Rye. Middle sixties, probably. Husband of Fitch's cousin.”

“O.K., Loo—captain,” Mullins said. “He figures?”

“Well,” Bill said, “he wears a straw hat.”

He hung up. He made another call.

8

Sunday, 5:45
P.M.
to 8:50
P.M.

Gerald North sat between Pam, on his left, and Dorian Weigand, in the semi-darkness of a movie house on Eighth Street. The screen in front of them was occupied by an enormous face, which expressed anguish. Gerald North knew it was anguish because the face had, a moment before, been parted from its love, which was as large a face. When last seen, the other face had been wearing an expression of resolution. Mr. North had known it was resolution because, just before that, the other face had confronted this face—each occupying a portion of the screen—and a public address system had said, heavily, “If that's the way you want it.” The public address system had answered, instantly, but in a lighter voice, “That's the way it's get to be.”

The face faded slowly away, revealing that it was attached to a body. The body had hands, which were held up, in an attitude of rejection. Mr. North knew the attitude was one of rejection because—

This was, undoubtedly, the deadliest motion picture he had ever seen. He plodded through his memory. That one three weeks back? The one with a spy in it? (One could tell he was a spy, because he kept pulling down the brim of his hat, even when it was already so far down that he had to bend over backward to see out.) No, this was worse than the spy one. In the spy one there was shooting, toward the end. It had awakened Mr. North. But this was a tale of primitive emotion. A sign outside said so.

Mr. North looked away from the screen and at his wife. She was regarding the picture with fixed attention. Loving it, Mr. North thought bitterly. The things people like! Even Pam. She can sit there, while I'm here dying of boredom, and like this preposterous—

Pam turned just enough so that Jerry could glimpse her companionable smile. She kept her eyes on the screen. Jerry turned his eyes back to it. Loving it, Pam thought bitterly. Of all the incredible bilge! And in addition to everything else, the dress is as wrong for her as it could possibly be. The things I go through to keep that man happy! Sitting here, in the dark, hearing this braying of clichés when I might as well be home finishing the crossword. The master of the
Golden Hind
. Something in five letters ending in—for heaven's sake!
Drake
, of course. With that I could get a whole section. And instead—

“Oh, darling,” the loud speaker said, in its more dulcet tones. “Come back, darling—just come back. That's all that's—”

Pam looked away, since the woman on the screen—name of Monica as she recalled it; word in six letters, ending in anguish—was in closeup again, and that was really too much. Jerry was staring at the screen, hanging on every word. Was that, really, the kind of woman he liked? She looked beyond him. Dorian was as intent as Jerry. What on earth was the matter with the two of them? It couldn't be that they really—

About five minutes more of this, Dorian Weigand thought, and I'll scream. That's what I'll do. I'll stand up and scream. Wife of detective captain becomes hysterical in movie, creates disturbance, is ejected. That will serve him right. It will serve everybody right. Pam and Jerry sitting here simply glued to the screen—glued in syrup. When they might be anywhere else; might be talking. It was fun to talk to the Norths, or she had always thought so, Obviously, however, if they were the sort who could be stuck in this—this
treacle
—she must have been wrong in thinking—

I suppose, Jerry thought, I can't spoil their enjoyment. I'll just sit here and—But perhaps if I fidget a little? Not really a great deal. Just toss and turn, slightly? Moan, perhaps? They're nice girls and if they knew what this is doing—

Like a schoolboy, Pam thought. Precisely like a schoolboy. Looks at that overblown so-and-so and simply can't sit still. If I had any gumption I'd just get up and get out of—But I can't do that, because both of them are having a wonderful—

They're my hosts, Dorian thought. That's one way of looking at it. I'm a poor thing abandoned on Sunday afternoon and they're doing what they can to keep me amused.
Amused!
And I've got to be a little lady and sit and sit and sit and—It changed into something else; into a girl singing on the radio. “I've got to cook and cook and cook—” A catchy tune. She found she was humming it, softly.

“Got to cook and cook and cook,” Jerry said, in a whisper. “Love to cook and cook and—”

“Jerry,” Dorian said. “I thought you were miles away. Deep in a drama of primitive emotions.”

“God,” Jerry North said, simply.

They both looked at Pam. And Pamela North said, not entirely in a whisper, “I've had all I can take. Absolutely all. If you two want—”

The Norths and Dorian Weigand rose as one, having suffered as three. They went out into the noisy warmth of Eighth Street and stood in the doorway of the theater and looked at Eighth Street. They looked at a delicatessen, two grocery stores and a lunchroom.

“Isn't it beautiful?” Pam said. “Isn't it simply beautiful?”

Jerry waved down a cab.

“Come,” Jerry said, “I can still hear it.”

Dorian said that she should really go home. But they went to the Algonquin, although it was only a little after six, and too early for dinner. They found Acting Captain William Weigand there, having drinks in the lobby with a very pretty blonde.

It was Dorian who saw Bill first. They had found seats in a corner—the corner nearest the entrance to the Oak Room. Bill and the blonde were in the corner most distant; to see them, Dorian had to look entirely across the pleasant lobby, which is also a cocktail lounge. She had to look past people talking about plays, and people reading
Variety
and people merely waiting for other people. She achieved this.

“Do you,” she said, in an especially steady voice, “see what I see? Over there?” She indicated with a movement of her head. The Norths looked. Pam North said, “Oh,” in the most indeterminate of tones.

“Speaking,” Dorian Weigand said, in the same precisely level voice, “of primitive emotions.”

Bill Weigand and the blonde were side by side on a sofa, which was the right size for two. They were turned slightly toward each other, and the blonde was talking. She talked with animation, with smiles. There was a cocktail on a small table in front of her, and Bill held a cocktail in his hand. He listened, and as he listened, he nodded.

“Is that,” Dorian said, “supposed to be this cousin? That?”

“Well—” Jerry said.

“There's no use pretending,” Pam said. “No. I've seen her somewhere—”

“A Miss Barnscott,” Jerry said. “An—er—an actress. In the play, that is.”

“Thank you,” Dorian said. “You do make things so clear. She's blond, isn't she?”

“Very,” Pam said. “Probably a suspect.”

“For a suspect,” Dorian said, “she's very pretty, isn't she? In a flashy sort of way? A suspect to get drunk with.”

“Listen,” Jerry said, “you know Bill doesn't get drunk. Or—or anything.”

“Doesn't he?” Dorian said. “That's decent of him, isn't it? Goes off to see a cousin. Turns up with—that—that
floozy
.”

“As a matter of fact—” Jerry began.

“That's right,” Dorian said. “Defend her. Dyes her hair, have you noticed?”

“Look,” Jerry said, and there was anxiety in his tone. “You
know
she's a suspect. Or—somebody Bill had to ask something of.”

“Don't I,” Dorian said. “What I wonder is—ask what of?”

They both looked at her. Then she smiled.

“All right,” she said. “She's a suspect. A pretty blond suspect. I trust Bill implicitly. All I don't see is, why can't he have Mullins or somebody talk to the blond ones? All I—”

She broke off. The two across the lobby were rising from the snug sofa. It appeared that Bill was assisting the blonde to arise. It appeared that, having so assisted her, he patted her on one pretty shoulder. It appeared—

“Maybe,” Dorian said, “I wasn't kidding anybody. Maybe—”

The blonde—the slim and graceful Miss Phyllis Barnscott—smiled up at Bill Weigand. She held out a hand, which Bill took.

“He,” Dorian said, “is squeezing it.”

Miss Barnscott's hand was gradually released. She smiled up at Bill again; she flipped the freed hand in a parting gesture. She walked around the end of a head-high partition between lounge and hotel desk, and so toward the door. Bill stood gazing after her.

“If he—” Dorian began, and then Bill turned. He was smiling broadly.

“Swallowed the canary,” Dorian said. “If—
oh!
”

It was evident now that Bill Weigand, threading an expert way among chairs and little tables, was headed toward his wife and Pam and Jerry. It was evident that the smile—which had become a grin—was directed toward them. It appeared that Bill Weigand, for a policeman in the middle of a murder investigation, was enjoying himself very much indeed. He stood in front of them, and looked down at them.

“You!”
Dorian said. “All the time,
you knew we were here!
”