The Stand-In (25 page)

“What's that got to do with it? I told you I wasn't going to let Bran stand-in for me, and I'm not.”

“But it won't be the Ritz for you! It will be a life sentence! Kidnapping. Killing. You should get a medal, but you'll get the chair!” The elevator came then, and she couldn't talk in front of the operator. “Desmond, let me go with you. I'll just ride a way. You can drop me anywhere. Look, I got to have a chance to remind you! One kiss!”

“You go on back to your sister. She needs you.”

Millie said, “I'll spit in your eye! Oh, excuse me, excuse me, but when you said Coral needs me—She needs me like a hole in the head.
You
need me! You think if you tell Bran you only did it to save Kitten, he'll give a shit? He'll turn you over to the cops so fast!”

“I know he would. Millie, Millie, I know what I'm doing.” The Ferrari came and the attendant got out and gave Desmond the keys, and Desmond handed him a tip and put his hand out for the door, but Millie hung on.

“Please, please, let them find him. They'll find him. When they find him, you can confess. Just wait. Just
wait
!”

The hand stretched to the car grabbed her shoulder and shook it. “Wait! Wait and let God take care of it again? No. This time it's up to me. Look, God has nothing to do with this! Stop kidding yourself. You're just hiding behind God's skirts the way Bran hides behind his mother's. You hate Bran's guts. You want Bran locked up. You'd like jail better, but if not, you'll settle for a nuthouse.

“But he's no killer, and he's not nuts. There's such a thing as justice, so you stop kidding yourself!”

“And you're not?”

“What?”

“You're not kidding yourself? You're talking about justice? Where's the justice in you getting the chair? Kidnapping is maybe the worst crime there is, but you're no kidnapper. You didn't take money for Kitten and you know it, and you wouldn't have touched a hair on her head and you proved it. The law will say you're a murderer and a kidnapper, but I say you're a human being, and when you push a human being once too often—”

“Yes. When you push a human being once too often—You're talking about yourself again, Millie; for Christ's sake, face it!”

“All right. Okay. Both of us. We're two of a kind. I hate him, you hate him.”

“Only I hate him too much to let him take the rap for me. Now, that's really nuts, isn't it?”

“Yes, that's nuts! Maybe you hate him too much, maybe you love her too much! Maybe you'll die happy because Coral will think you're so great!”

He opened the car door. “Now, enough. That's enough.” Her voice was furious, but not her face. He said, “Look, Millie—” Had he ever called her by her name? “Millie, not for Coral Reid!” Purposely he didn't say “your sister.” “Not for Coral Reid, not for Bran. Okay? I started this, and it's up to me to finish it.” He closed the car door and started the engine. Up to me. Up to me.

31

Fortman said, “There he is, sir, at the curb with a young woman.”

In front of the hotel the young woman was talking passionately, apparently pleading. A red sports car was brought up, and through the rolled-down window of the Rolls, Boy distinctly heard the man from the garage saying that it was Miss Reid's. La Reid's car, now, why La Reid's car? And where was Carr going? Why did the young woman plead with him? Carr was ignoring the young woman. Then Carr started off, leaving her on the curb. “We won't lose them, will we, Fortman?”

“He's just around that far curve, sir.”

“Fortman, when he arrives, wherever that is, you will drop me at a discreet distance and go to the nearest police station and bring them along.”

“What reason, sir?”

“There is something distinctly rotten in Denmark, Fortman!”

“Yes, sir, but what am I to tell the police?”

“Oh, I see. Reason? What reason? Dear me! You will tell them that the Honorable Boy Flyte-Martin has reason to believe he knows something connected with the murder of Ronnie Ashton and their presence is desirable. Yes, Fortman, you tell them that, and I'll keep guard until you return.” Keep guard he would, but hidden behind some rural equivalent for an arras—they were going deeper into the countryside. He had no intention of giving Carr another chance at him. Once was quite enough. Once, the blackguard would soon discover, was too much, was fatal. Boy jabbed the point of the stick into the rug, wishing it were Desmond's smooth firm flesh.

32

The drive to Jennett took over two hours. It was five o'clock when Desmond parked the Ferrari and walked the last part of the steep drive up to Jennett House. Why? Because he wouldn't be taking walks after this one. When he saw the smoke curling out of some of its many aggressive chimneys, instead of going to the door he went past the house across the lawn to the white wooden railing and leaned on it looking down Jennett Cliff. Once he went in, he knew it would be all over.

From up here in the afternoon sunlight and shade the shingles below looked black against the gray-green-blue water. You got a long view of the straight Yorkshire coast. Desmond could make out Hontsea on the left and Withernsea to the right. He narrowed his eyes, and there was the old Coast Guard Station. He could see the fishing village where they used to spend summers in his grandfather's cottage. His grandfather had told him about the smugglers and about the big house, too. It had been built by a friend of his grandfather's who was born a fisherman but had made it. Jennett House was large and angular and Victorian, of blood-red brick, a monstrosity compared to the old Manor House halfway up the hill, but it was bigger than the Manor House, and it looked down on it and on the fishing village, where the owner must also have been told to keep his place. Desmond was sure this was why the top of the cliff had been chosen as the site. Maybe it was one of the reasons the place appealed to him when he was little. He hadn't wanted to stay in his place, either.

A gull flapped by like the hand of a clock. Coral Reid must be watching the clock, lighting a hundred cigarettes and putting them out the way Millie had told him. Millie thought he was giving up his life to show Coral Reid he was a man. Was he? Desmond reminded himself that he'd have a lot of time to decide afterwards. “Doing your bird,” Ronnie called doing time. Well, there was a big difference between doing your bird and screwing your bird. He felt Coral Reid in his arms again, then straightened his shoulders and kept them that way while he rang the doorbell. No one answered, so Desmond rang again and banged the big brass knocker with his left hand, making it plain he wasn't going away. He was going to do what he had come to do. He was going to make waves for once. (Millie thought that if the Red Sea parted for him, he still wouldn't think it was a miracle. Millie's miracles! The miracle was him making waves, for once him making the right thing happen.)

If he were Bran, he would know by now who was knocking. Who else but Des Carr would guess where in all good old England Bran had hidden out? Still no one came. Desmond took his finger off the bell and stopped clacking the knocker and heard how deep his voice was calling, “Bran! I know you're in there! Open up, Bran!” (It was funny to think that if his voice had come out this way in the commissary in front of Coral Reid, the whole mess wouldn't have happened.) “Open up, Bran!”

When the door did open, he moved back. It was fourteen years since he had seen her, but Desmond recognized Mrs. Collier immediately, maybe because the expression on her face was exactly the same as it had been the last time he'd seen her. That time, too, Mrs. Collier had snarled like a tigress defending her young.

She made him remember Bran's father, too, who had looked as if he were going to puke. Bran's father had been in pictures, small character parts, but he was always in there pitching, hanging around the studio hoping that if he kept in sight, he'd get more work. You could tell he hated living off his son. When you put peanuts into the kitty, it isn't easy telling your wife where to get off, even though you know she's spoiling your kid for life.

You could tell Bran's father hated to watch his wife babying Bran and him, Desmond, doing Bran's stunts. Desmond hadn't been anything great; he could take care of himself like any normal boy, but that was it. So then Mr. Collier decided to teach Bran the manly art of self-defense. Top secret. He bought gloves and whenever he could sneak Bran away from his mother, he coached him. The idea had been that when Bran got good enough he was going to challenge Desmond and get back his self-respect. Desmond could hardly wait! Finally the challenge came: back of the garage three o'clock Sunday afternoon.

So Sunday at three Bran's father helped them lace the gloves on. Mr. Collier always wore a Panama hat, a sports jacket, and ice cream pants and always carried a gold-headed cane. That Sunday afternoon behind the garage, he took off the Panama and jacket and laid down the cane and made him and Bran shake hands, the whole bit, only neither of them got in one punch, because Mom, who was supposed to be somewhere else, came roaring out and stood between them.

What did Mr. Collier think he was doing to her son?

Mr. Collier was trying to make a real boy out of him.

“A real boy, a real roughneck, a hood like that one!” Before she was finished, everyone within screaming distance knew what she thought of Mr. Collier. Finally Mr. Collier realized he was licked.

“You can let him loose, Barbara. He can hide behind your skirts for the rest of his life.”

Then Mr. Collier had helped him off with his gloves, brushed off his jacket, put it on, and tapped on his Panama hat like Ronald Colman. He picked up his cane in one hand and put the other around Desmond's shoulders. Then, as if Desmond was his son, they had walked off together. He had had to come back and face Bran and Mrs. Collier the next day on the lot, but Mr. Collier had walked off and out. When Desmond said, “Hello, Mrs. Collier. It's Des Carr,” he wondered whether Bran's old man was still alive. “From the old Paramount lot days, remember? I have to see Bran.”

“He's not here.”

“I know he's here, Mrs. Collier. I have to talk to him.” She was going to shut the door in his face, so over her shoulder he put his hand on it. “I'm going to straighten things out for Bran.” He shoved the door open wider. “I'm going to straighten everything out.” She tried to stop him, but he got inside, not being a scared skinny kid any more. He called, “Bran! It's Des Carr!”

Bran came strolling out of a big room—a library it looked like. The funny thing was that he had the same expression on his face as in the commissary, as if a million people were watching him and as if he had a million things to do. He had some papers in his hand and laid them on a round table in the center of the big dim entrance foyer, patting them straight, looking at them.

“What do you want? I'm very busy.”

“Can I talk to you alone, Bran?”

“My son has no secrets from me.”

Mrs. Collier closed the front door behind her and hurried past him to stand next to Bran. God, how it brought back that Sunday behind the garage, only now he pitied her.

Bran moved away a little as if she smelled bad, then began talking to him, confidentially.

“She expects me to spend all my time with her, and I have to work on
Wind
!” He patted the papers again, frowning down on them. “It isn't easy without the script, let me tell you!”

Mrs. Collier said, “Brannie, Brannie!”

Bran imitated her, “Brannie, Brannie! You've got to forget that picture now. Brannie, you've got more important things to worry about!”

She tried to shut him up. “Son! Please!”

“You're like the rest of them, Mom. I always knew you had no faith I could direct. You didn't fool me, Mom. Give me kid a lollipop, keep him happy, but you have no faith!” Now he addressed Desmond confidentially again. “I wish I hadn't called her to take the first plane over from Paris, but I couldn't go rent this place myself, could I? And besides, food. I'd be recognized.”

Desmond saw the tears rolling out of Mrs. Collier's blue eyes (like Bran's), and when she saw him noticing, she put her hands over her face, but her shoulders shook.

“Now, what is it you want, Des? Christ, Mom, stop that!” He shrugged at Desmond. “Now she's crying again!”

“I'll stop, Brannie.”

She got to work with a handkerchief, mopping up, but that was it. Further than that she wasn't going. It would be a waste of time to try to get rid of her, so Desmond began. “Bran, first you have to understand that I know all about everything.” He repeated that. “All about
everything
, the dead man in that house, your wife's letters to him, about Cornie.”

“Don't say a word, Bran! How would he know?
She
must have told him. He's probably another of her lovers!”

Mrs. Collier was giving off sparks. “Look,” said Desmond. “I've seen Coral Reid exactly twice in my life. Once she laughed in my face (Bran showed no sign of remembering), the second time she kissed me. You know why, Bran? Because I said I knew where you were. Bran, your wife is on your side all the way.”

“She
is!” Mrs. Collier showed her teeth again. “I believe this is all her doing. All of it! I don't mean only those letters—all! What does she care about my boy? I begged him not to marry her. I knew she didn't give
that
for him!” She stamped her foot. “I saw right through her. Well, now Brannie knows Mother was right, don't you, son?”

Bran didn't answer.

“She had to marry, we know that now, so she takes my poor boy. I smelled a rat then! If you'd only listened to me, Bran! And now this, now this! You think this will hurt her? It will help her
image!
It will look good if the public believes my poor boy killed because of jealousy. Coral is licking her chops right now!”