Death Likes It Hot

1

SHORTLY before lunch, to everyone’s surprise, a policeman in plain clothes arrived. “Somebody sent for me,” he announced gloomily. “Said somebody drowned.” He was plainly bored. This kind of drowning apparently was a common occurrence in these parts.

“I can’t think who sent for you,” said Mrs. Veering quickly. “We have already notified the doctor, the funeral home...”

“/ called the police,” said Claypoole. Everyone looked at him, startled. But he didn’t elaborate. We were all seated about the drawing room ... all of us except Brexton who had gone to his room after the drowning and stayed there.

The policeman was curt, wanting no nonsense. “How many you ladiesgemmen witness the accident?”

Those who had said so. Mrs. Veering, a tankard of Dubonnet in one hand and a handkerchief in the other, began to explain how she’d been in the house but if she’d only known that poor Mildred . . .

The policeman gave her one irritable look and she subsided. Her eyes were puffy and red, and she seemed really upset by what had happened. The rest of us were surprisingly cool. Death when it strikes so swiftly, unexpectedly, has an 24

inexplicable rightness about it, like thunder or rain. Later grief, shock, remorse set in. For now we were all a little embarrassed that we weren’t more distressed by the drowning of Mildred Brexton before our eyes.

“O.K,” The policeman took out a notebook and a stub of pencil. “Give me names real slow and age and place of birth and occupation and relation to deceased and anything you remember about the incident.”

There was an uneasy squeak from Mary Western Lung. “I can’t see what our occupations and . . . and ages have to do with . . .”

The policeman sighed. “I take all you one by one and what you tell me is in strict confidence.” He glanced at the alcove off the drawing room.

Mrs. Veering said, “By all means. You must interview us singly and I shall do everything in my power to . . .”

The policeman gestured to Miss Lung to follow him and they crossed the room together, disappearing into the alcove.

The rest of us began to talk uncomfortably. I turned to Allie Claypoole who sat, pale and tense, beside me on the couch. “I didn’t know it could happen like that ... so fast," I said, inadequately.

She looked at me for one dazed moment; then, with an effort, brought me into focus. “Do give me a cigarette.”

I gave her one; I lit it for her; her hands trembled so that I was afraid I might burn her. One long exhalation, however, relaxed her considerably. “It was that awful undertow. I never go out that far. I don’t know why Mildred did . . . except that she is . . . she was a wonderful swimmer.”

I was surprised, recalling the slow awkward strokes. “I thought she looked sort of weak . . .swimming, that is.”

Across the room Mrs. Veering was crying softly into her Dubonnet while Fletcher Claypoole, calm now, his mysterious outburst still unexplained, tried to comfort her. From the alcove I heard a high shrill laugh from Mary Western Lung and I could almost see that greedy fat hand of hers descending in a lustful arc on the policeman’s chaste knee.

“I suppose it was her illness,” said Allie at last. “There’s no other explanation. I’m afraid I didn’t notice her go in. I wasn’t aware of anything until Brexton started in after her.”

“Do you think a nervous breakdown could affect the way somebody swam? Isn’t swimming like riding a bicycle? you do it or you don’t.”

“What are you suggesting?” Her eyes, violet and lovely, were turned suddenly on mine.

“I don’t know.” I wondered why she was suddenly so sharp. “I only thought . . .”

“She was weakened, that’s all. She’d been through a great deal mentally and apparently it affected her physically. That’s all.”

“She might’ve had what they call the ‘death wish.’ ”

“I doubt if Mildred wanted to die,” said Allie, a little drily. “She wasn't the suicide-type ... if there is such a thing.”

“Well, it can be unconscious, can’t it?” Like everyone else I am an expert in psychoanalysis: I can tell a trauma from a vitrine at twenty paces and I know all about Freud without ever having read a line he’s written.

“I haven’t any idea. Poor Brexton. I wonder what he’ll do now."

“Was it that happy a marriage?” I was surprised, remembering the bruise on her neck, the screams the night before: happy didn’t seem the right word for whatever it was their life had been together.

Allie shrugged. “I don’t think there are any very happy marriages, at least in our world, but there are people who quarrel a lot and still can't live without each other."

“They were like that?”

“Very much so . . . especially when she began to crack up ... he was wonderful with her, considering the fact he’s got a terrible temper and thinks of no one but himself. He put up with things from her that . . . well, that you wouldn’t believe if I told you. He was very patient.”

“Was she always this way? I mean the way she seemed last night?”

Allie didn’t answer immediately. Then she said, “Mildred was what people call difficult most of her life. She could charm anybody if she wanted to; if she didn't want to, she could be very disagreeable.”

“And at the end she didn’t want to?”

“That’s about it.”

Mary Western Lung in high good humor emerged, giggling from the alcove. The policeman, red of face and clearly angry, said: “You next,” nodding at Allie. Miss Lung took her place beside me.

“Oh, they’re so wonderful these police people! It’s the first time I’ve ever talked to one that close and under such grim circumstances. He was simply wonderful with me and we had the nicest chat. I love the virile he-man type, don’t you?”

I indicated that I could take he-men or leave them alone.

“But of course you’re a man and wouldn’t see what a woman sees in them.” I resented faintly not being included among that rugged number; actually, our police friend could have been wrapped around the smallest finger of any athlete; however, Miss Lung saw only the glamor of the job . . . the subhuman gutturals of this employee of the local administration excited the authoress of “Book-Chat.” She scrounged her great soft pillow of flank against mine and I was pinned between her and the arm of the couch.

I struck a serious note in self-defense. “Did he have anything interesting to say about the accident?”

The penwoman shook her head. I wondered wildly if there was a bone beneath that mass of fat which flowed like a Dali soft watch over my own thigh; she was more like a pulpy vegetable than a human being, a giant squash. “No, we talked mostly about books. He likes Mickey Spillane.” She wrinkled her nose which altered her whole soft face in a most surprisingly way; I was relieved when she unwrinkled it. “I told him I’d send him a copy of Little Biddy Bit for his children but it seems he isn’t married. So I told him he’d love reading it himself ... so many adults do. I get letters all the time saying . .

I was called next but not before I had heard yet another installment in the life of Mary Western Lung.

The policeman was trying to do his job as quickly as possible. He sat scribbling in his notebook; he didn’t look up as I sat down in the chair beside the Queen Anne desk.

“Name?”

“Peter Cutler Sargeant Two.”

“Two what?” He looked up.

“Two of the same name, I guess . . . the second. You make two vertical lines side by side.”

He looked at me with real disgust.

“Age . . . place of birth . . . present address ”

“Thirty-one . . . Hartford, Connecticut . . . 280 East 49th Street.”

“Occupation?”

I paused, remembering my promise to Mrs. Veering. I figured, however, the law was reasonably discreet. “Public relations. My own firm. Sargeant Incorporated: 60 East 55th Street.”

“How long know deceased?”

“About eighteen hours.”

“That’s all.” I started to go; the policeman stopped me, remembering he’d forgotten an important question. “Notice anything unusual at time of accident?”

I said I hadn’t.

“Describe what happened in own words.” I did exactly that, briefly; then I was dismissed. Now that I look back on it, it seems strange that no one, including myself, considered murder as a possibility.

2

Lunch was a subdued affair. Mrs. Veering had recovered from her first grief at the loss of a beloved niece and seemed in perfect control of herself or at least perfectly controlled by the alcohol she’d drunk which, in her case, was the same thing.

Brexton received a tray in his own room. The rest of us sat about awkwardly after lunch making conversation, trying not to mention what had happened and yet unable to think of anything else to talk about.

The second reaction had begun to set in and we were all shocked at last by what had happened, especially when Mrs. Veering found Mildred’s scarf casually draped over the back of a chair, as though she were about to come back at any moment and claim it.

It had been originally planned that we go to the Maidstone Club for cocktails but at the last minute Mrs. Veering had canceled our engagement. The dance that night was still in doubt, I had made up my mind, however, that I’d go whether the others did or not. I hoped they wouldn’t as a matter of fact: I could operate better with Liz if I were on my own.

I had a chat with Mrs. Veering in the alcove while the others drifted about, going to their rooms, to the beach outside ... in the house, out of the house, not quite knowing, any of them, how to behave under the circumstances. No one wanted to go in the water, including myself. The murderous ocean gleamed blue and bright in the afternoon.

“Well, do you think it will upset things?” Mrs. Veering looked at me shrewdly.

“Upset what?”

“The party . . . what else? This will mean publicity for me . . . the wrong kind.”

I began to get her point. “We have a saying . . .”

“All publicity is good publicity.” She snapped that out fast enough. “Socially, however, that isn’t true. Get a certain kind of publicity and people will drop you flat.”

“I can’t see how having a guest drown accidentally should affect you one way or the other.”

“If that’s all there is to it, it won’t.” She paused significantly; I waited for more of the same but she shifted her line of attack. “When the newspaper people come, I want you to act as my spokesman. One is on his way over here right now. But don’t let on what your job really is. Just say you’re a guest and that I’m upset by what’s happened ... as indeed I am . . . and that you’ve been authorized to speak for me.”

“What’ll I say?”

“Nothing.” She smiled. “What else can you say? That Mildred was my niece; that I was very fond of her; that she’d been ill (I think you’d better make some point of that) and her strength wasn’t equal to the undertow.”

“They’ve taken it . . . her, the body I mean, to the morgue, haven’t they?” The doctor and Brexton had carried her in to the house and I hadn’t seen the corpse again.

“I don’t know. The doctor took it away in an ambulance. I’ve already made arrangements for the undertakers to look after everything . . . they’re in touch with the doctor who is an old friend of mine.” She paused thoughtfully, fiddling with the pile of papers on her desk. I was surprised by the rapid change in her mood. I attributed this to her peculiar habits. Most alcoholics I knew were the same: gregarious, kindly, emotional people, quite irresponsible in every way and unpredictable. I had sat next to her at lunch and what had seemed to be a tumbler full of ice water was, I’d noticed on closer examination, a glass full of gin. At the end of lunch the glass was empty.

Then she said: “I would appreciate it, Peter, if nothing were said about the . . . the misunderstanding last night." “You mean the screams?"

She nodded. “It could do me a great deal of harm socially if people were to get . . . well, the wrong idea about Brexton and Mildred. He was devoted to her and stayed at her side all through that terrible breakdown. I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings about that.”

“Are there apt to be any? The poor woman went swimming and drowned; we all saw it happen and that’s that.”

“I know. Even so, you know what gossips people are. I shouldn’t like one of the newspapermen, one of those awful columnists, to start suggesting things.”

“I’ll see to it,” I said with more authority than was strictly accurate under the circumstances.

“That's why I want you to handle the press for me . . . and another thing,” she paused; then: “Keep the others away from the newspapermen.”

I was startled by this request. “Why? I mean what difference does it make? We all saw the same thing. The police have our testimonies.”

“The police will keep their own counsel. Just do as I ask and I’ll be very grateful to you.”

I shrugged. “If I can, I will, but what’s to stop one of your guests from talking to the press?”

“You, I hope.” She changed the subject. "I’ve had the nicest chat with Alma Edderdale who wishes to be remembered to you. She checked in at the Sea Spray this morning.”

"That’s nice.”

“I'd hoped to have her over tomorrow but since this . . . well, 1 don’t quite know how to act.”

“As usual, I’d say. It’s a terrible tragedy but . . .”

“But she was my niece and very close to me ... it wasn’t as if she were, well, only a guest.” I realized that I was expendable. “Perhaps we can just have a few people over . . . friends of the family. I’m sure that’d be proper."

“I have an invitation,” I said boldly, “to go to the Yacht Club dance tonight and I wondered, if you weren’t going, whether I might . . .”

“Why certainly, go by all means. But please, please don’t talk to anyone about what has happened. I can’t possibly go and I’m not sure the others would want to either since they were all more or less connected with Mildred. You of course have no reason not to." And, feeling like a servant being given Thursday afternoon off, I was dismissed while Mrs. Veering took off for her bedroom and, no doubt, a jug of the stuff which banishes care.

An hour later, I had the drawing room all to myself, which was fortunate because the butler advanced upon me with a member of the press, a chinless youth from one of the News-Services.

I waved him into a chair grandly.

“I want to speak with Mrs. Rose Clayton Veering and Mr. Paul Brexton,” said the newshawk firmly, acicnoidally.

“You must be satisfied with me.”

“I came here to talk with Mrs. Rose . . .”

"And now you must talk to me,” I said more sharply. “I am authorized to speak for Mrs. Veering.”

“Who are you?”

“Peter Cutler Sargeant II.”

He wrote this down slowly in what he pretended was shorthand but actually was I could see, a sloppy form of longhand. “I'd still like to . . .” he began stubbornly, but I interrupted him.

“They don’t want to talk, Junior. You talk to me or get yourself out of here.”

This impressed him. “Well, sir, I’ve been to see the police and they say Mrs. Brexton was drowned this morning at eleven six. That right?”

I said it was. 1 fired all the facts there were at him and he recorded them.

“I'd like to get a human interest angle,” he said in the tone of one who has just graduated from a school of journalism, with low marks.

“You got plenty. Brexton’s a famous painter. Mrs. Veering's a social leader. Just rummage through your morgue and you’ll find enough stuff to pad out a good feature.

He looked at me suspiciously. “You're not working for any paper, are you?”

I shook my head, “I saw a movie of The Front Page once ... I know all about you fellows.”

He looked at me with real dislike. “I’d like to see Mrs. Veering just to . . .”

“Mrs. Veering is quote prostrate with grief unquote. Paul Brexton quote world-famous modem painter refuses to make any comment holding himself incommunicado in his room unquote. There’s your story.”

“You’re not being much help.”

“It’s more help than nothing. If I didn’t talk nobody would.” I glanced anxiously around to make sure none of the other guests was apt to come strolling in. Fortunately, they were all out of sight.

“TheyTe doing an autopsy on Mrs. Brexton and I wondered if . . .”

“An autopsy?” This was unusual.

“That’s right. It’s going on now. I just wondered if there was any hint . . .”

“Of foul play? No, there wasn’t. We all witnessed her death. Nobody drowned her. Nobody made her swim out into the undertow. She’d had a nervous breakdown recently and there’s no doubt but that had something to do with her death.”

He brightened at this: I could almost read the headline: 30

"Despondent Socialite Swims to Death at Easthampton.” Well, I was following orders.

I finally got him out of the house and I told the butler, in Mrs. Veering’s name, to send any other newspaper people to me first. He seemed to understand perfectly.

Idly, wondering what to do next, I strolled out onto the porch and sat down in a big wicker armchair overlooking the sea. Walking alone beside the water was Allie Claypoole. She was frowning and picking up shells and stones and bits of seaweed and throwing them out onto the waves, like offerings. She was a lovely figure, silhouetted against the blue.

I picked up a copy of Time magazine to learn what new triumphs had been performed by “the team” in Washington. I was halfway through an account of the President’s golf scores in the last month at Burning Tree when I heard voices from behind me.

I looked about and saw they were coming from a window a few feet to my left. The window, apparently, of Brexton’s bedroom: it was, I recalled, the only downstairs bedroom. Two men were talking. Brexton and Claypoole. I recognized their voices immediately.

“You made her do it. You knew she wasn’t strong enough.” It was Claypoole: tense, accusing.

Brexton’s voice sounded tired and distant. I listened eagerly; the magazine slipped from my lap to the floor while I strained to hear. “Oh, shut up, Fletcher. You don't know what you’re saying. You don’t know anything about it.”

“I know what she told me. She said . . ."

“Fletcher, she was damned near out of her mind these last few months and you know it as well as I do . . . better, because you’re partly to blame."

“What do you mean by that crack?”

“Just what I say. Especially after Bermuda.” There was a long pause. I wondered if perhaps they had left the room.

Then Claypoole spoke, slowly: “Think whatever you want to think. She wasn’t happy with you, ever. You and your damned ego nearly ruined her . . . did ruin her.”

“Well, I don’t think you’ll be able to blame her death on my ego . . .”

“No, because I’m going to blame it on you.”

A cold shiver went down my spine. Brexton’s voice was hard. “There’s such a thing as criminal libel. Watch out.”

“I expect to. I’m going to tell the whole story in court. I expect you thought I’d be too afraid of repercussions . . . well, I’m not. When I get through there won't be anybody who doesn’t know.”

Brexton laughed shortly. “In court?” What makes you think there’ll be a court?”

“Because I’m going to tell them you murdered her.”

“You’re out of your mind, Fletcher. You were there. How could I murder her? Even if I wanted to?”

“I think I know. Anyway it’s be your word against mine as to what happened out there, when she was drowning."

“You forget that young fellow was there too. You’ve got his testimony to think about. He knows nothing funny happened."

“I was closer. I saw . . .”

“Nothing at all. Now get out of here.”

“I warned you."

“Let me warn you then. Fletcher: if you circulate any of your wild stories, if you pin this . . . this accident on me, I’ll drag Allie into the case."

Before I could hear anything more, the butler appeared with the news that a reporter from the local paper was waiting to see me. Cursing my bad luck, puzzled and appalled by what I had heard, I went into the drawing room and delivered my spiel on the accidental death of Mildred Brexton. Only I wasn’t too sure of the accident part by this time.

3

For some reason, the newspapers scented a scandal even before the police or the rest of us did. I suppose it was the combination of Mrs. Veering “Hostess” and Paul Brexton “Painter” that made the story smell like news way off.

I spent the rest of that afternoon handling telephone calls and interviewers. Mrs. Veering kept out of sight. Mary Western Lung proved to be a source of continual trouble, however, giving a series of eyewitness accounts of what had happened calculated to confuse an electric eye much less a bewildered newspaperman.

"And so you see,” she ended breathlessly to the local newspaperman who sat watching her with round frightened eyes, “in the midst of life we are we know not where, ever. I comprehend full well now the meaning of that poor child’s last words to me, I hope the water isn’t cold. Think what a world of meaning there was in that remark now that we know what she intended to do.”

"Are you suggesting Mrs. Brexton killed herself?” The member of the fourth estate was drooling with excitement.

I intervened quickly, pushing him to the door. “Of course not,” I said rapidly. "There’s no evidence at all that she wanted to such a thing; as a matter of fact, she couldn’t’ve been more cheerful this morning...”

“And I’ll send you a copy of ‘Book-Chat,’ the last one.” Miss Lung shouted at the retiring interviewer’s back. I told the butler to let no one else in for the day.

I turned to Miss Lung. “You know that Mrs. Veering asked me to look after the press, to keep them from doing anything sensational. Now you’ve gone and put it in their heads that she intended to commit suicide.”

“Did commit suicide.” Miss Lung smiled wisely at me over her necklace of chins.

“How do you know?”

“She was a marvelous athlete ... a perfect swimmer. She 32

deliberately drowned.”

“In full view of all of us? Like that? Struggling? Why, I saw her wave for help.”

Miss Lung shrugged. “She may have changed her mind at the last minute . . . anyway you can’t tell me she would've drowned like that if she hadn’t wanted to.”

“Well, as somebody who was a few feet from her when she was still alive I can tell you she was doing her best to remain in this vale of tears.”

“What a happy phrase! Vale of tears indeed!”

“You said it.” I was disgusted. “Did you tell the police you thought she intended to drown on purpose?”

“Why certainly.” Miss Lung was bland. I understood then the promptness of the autopsy. “It was my duty as a citizen and as a friend of poor Mildred to set the record stright.”

“I hope you’re right ... I mean, in what you did.”

“I’m sure I am. Didn’t you think that man from the papers awfully distinguished-looking? Not at all my idea of the usual sort of newspaperman...”

A telephone call from Liz broke short this little chat. I took it in the hall.

“Peter?”

“That’s right. Liz?”

“What on earth is going on over there? Are you all right?”

“It didn’t happen to me.”

"Well, you should hear the stories going around. Just what did happen?”

“One of the guests . . . Mildred Brexton, drowned this morning.”

“Oh, isn’t that awful! And on a week end too.”

I thought this a strange distinction but let it go. “The place is a madhouse.”

“She’s not the painter’s wife, is she?”

When I said she was, Liz whistled inelegantly into the phone, nearly puncturing my eardrum. People like Brexton are the fragile pillars on which the fashion world is built.

“That should make quite a splash.”

I agreed. “Anyway I’m coming to the dance tonight. The others are staying in but I’m to be allowed out.”

“Oh good! I’ll leave an invitation at the front door for you. Isn’t it terribly interesting?”

“You might call it that. See you later.”

As I hung up, Mrs. Veering sailed slowly into view, gliding down the staircase with a priestess-smile on her lips. She was loaded to the gills.

“Ah, there you are, Peter.” For some reason her usually strong voice was pitched very low, gently hushed as though in a temple. “I understand we’ve been besieged by members of the press.”

“Quite a few. More than you’d expect for a run-of-the-mill accident.”

Mrs. Veering, catching a glimpse of Mary Western Lung in the drawing room, indicated for me to follow her out onto the porch where we could be alone with the twilight. The beach looked lonely and strange in the light of early evening.

“Do you think 1 should give an exclusive interview to Cholly Knockerbocker or one of those people?” She looked at me questioningly; her face was very flushed and I wondered if she might not have high blood pressure as well as alcohol in her veins.

“Has he ... or they asked you for one?”

“No, but I’m sure they will. We’ve been getting, as you say, an unusual amount of attention.”

'T don’t see it’d do any harm. I’d say that Knickerbocker would come under the heading of the right sort of publicity."

“So should I. My only fear is people will think me heartless in giving a Labor Day party so close to my neice’s death.”

“I wouldn’t think so,” I said soothingly: I had a pleasant week or two around Easthampton not to mention a salary to think of. I had no intention of letting Mrs. Veering give up her party at this stage of the game. “They’ll all understand. Also, they’ll be impressed by the publicity.”

“Poor Mildred." With that eccentric shift of mood which I’d noticed earlier, Mrs. Veering had changed from calm rational matron to Niobe, weeping over her children, if that’s the one who wept over her children. She stood there beside me, quite erect, the tears streaming down her face. It was unnerving. Then, as suddenly as it started, her weeping ended and she wiped her eyes, blew her nose and in her usual voice said, “I think you’re absolutely right. I’ll have the invitations sent out Monday come hell or high water.”

Considering the nature of her niece’s death, I thought “high water" inapt but what the hell. “There’s one thing I think I should tell you,” I said, stopping her as she was about to go into the house.

“Yes?” she paused in the doorway.

“Your friend Miss Lung told the police she thought Mrs. Brexton drowned herself on purpose.”

"Oh, no!” Mrs. Veering was shocked into some semblance of normality. “She didn't! She couldn’t!”

“She did and she could. I found out when she cornered one of the newsmen a little while ago.”

The angry alcoholic flush flickered in her cheeks, mottling them red and white. “How could she?" She stood weakly at the door.

I was soothing: “I don’t suppose it’ll do much harm. Nobody can prove it one way or the other unless of course there was a last message of some kind.”

“But to have people say that ... to say Mildred . . . oh, it’s going to be awful.” And Mrs. Veering, having said that mouthful, made straight for the drawing room and Miss Lung. I went upstairs to change for dinner.

4

I have my best ideas in the bathtub ... at least those that don’t come to me unheralded in another part of the bathroom where, enthroned, I am master of the universe.

As I crawled into the old-fashioned bathtub, a big porcelain job resembling an oversize Roman coffin, I thought seriously of what had happened, of the mystery which was beginning to cloud the air.

It’s a temptation to say that, even then, I knew the answer to the puzzle but honesty compels me to admit that I was way off in my calculations. Without going into hindsight too much, my impressions were roughly these: Mildred Brexton had had a nervous breakdown for reasons unknown (if any); there was some relationship between Claypoole and her which Brexton knew about and disliked; there were indications that Brexton might have wanted his wife dead; there was definite evidence he had attacked her recently, bruising her neck ... all the relationships of course were a tangle, and no concern of mine. Yet the possibility that Mildred had been murdered was intriguing. I am curious by nature. Also I knew that if anything mysterious had happened I would be able to get the beat on every newspaper in New York for the glory of the N.Y. Globe, my old paper, and myself. I decided, all things considered, that I should do a bit of investigating. Justice didn’t concern me much. But the puzzle, the danger, the excitement of following a killer’s trail was all I needed to get involved. Better than big-game hunting, and much more profitable ... if I didn’t get killed myself in the process.

I made up my mind to get the story, whatever it was, before the week end was over. I nearly did too.

I dressed and went downstairs.

Our doughty crew was gathered in the drawing room, absorbing gin.

To my surprise Brexton was on hand, looking no different than he had the night before when he made martinis. In fact, he was making them when I joined the party.

Everyone was on his best graveyard behavior. Gloom hovered in the air like a black cloud. I waded through it to the console where Brexton stood alone, the noise of the cocktail shaker in his hands the only sound in the room as the guests studiously avoided each other’s gaze.

“What can I do you for?” were, I’m afraid, the first words the bereaved husband said to me when I joined him. For a moment I had a feeling that this was where I came in: his tone was exactly the same as the night before.

“A martini,” I said, reliving the earlier time. I half expected to see his wife examining art books on the table opposite but tonight her absence was more noticeable than her presence had been the evening before. He poured me one with a steady hand. “I want to thank you,” he said in a low voice,” for handling the press.”

“I was glad to.”

“I’m afraid I wasn’t in any shape to talk to them. Were they pretty bad?”

I wondered what he meant by that, what he wanted to know. I shook my head. “Just routine questions.”

“I hope there wasn’t any talk of ... of suicide.” He looked at me sharply.

“No, it wasn’t mentioned. They accepted the fact it was an accident.” I paused: then I decided to let him in on Miss Lung’s dereliction.

He nodded grimly when I told him what she’d said to the police. “I already know,” he said quietly. “They asked me about it and I told them I sincerely doubted Mildred had any intention of killing herself. It’s not a very sensible way, is it? Drowning in front of a half-dozen people, several of whom are good swimmers.” I was surprised at his coolness. If he was upset by her death, he certainly didn’t show it. A little chilled, I joined the others by the fireplace.

Dinner was not gala. Because Brexton was with us we didn’t know quite what to talk about. Everybody was thinking about the same thing yet it would’ve been bad form to talk about Mildred in front of her husband; he of course was the most relaxed of the lot.

It was interesting to note how the different guests reacted to the situation.

Mary Western Lung was deliberately cheery, full of “Book-Chat,” discussing at some length a visit she’d once paid Francine Karpin Lock, another noted penwoman, in the latter’s New Orleans’ house. “The spirit of graciousness. And her tablet Ah, what viands she offers the humblest guest!” This was followed by a close new-critical analysis of her works as compared to those of another great authoress, Taylor Caldwell. I gathered they were neck and neck, artistically speaking, that is.

Mrs. Veering spoke of the Hamptons, of local gossip, of who was leaving her husband for what other man: the sort of thing which, next to children and servant troubles, most occupies the conversation of Easthamptoners.

Fletcher Claypoole said not a word; he was pale and intense and I could see his sister was anxious. She watched him intently all through dinner and though she and I and Brexton carried on a triangular conversation about painting, her attention was uneasily focused on her brother.

Out of deference to the situation, Mrs. Veering decided against bridge though why I’ll never know. I should’ve thought any diversion would have been better than this glum company. I began to study the clock over the mantel. I decided that exactly ten o’clock I’d excuse myself; go upstairs; change, sneak back down and walk the half mile to the Club and Liz and a night of sexual bliss as Marie C. Stopes would say.

My sexual bliss was postponed, however, by the rude arrival of the police.

The butler, quite shaken, ushered a sloppy small man, a detective Greaves, and two plain-clothes men into the drawing room.

Consternation would be a mild word to describe the effect they made.

“Mrs. Veering?” Greaves looked at Miss Lung.

“I am Rose Clayton Veering,” said herself, rising shakily from an armchair and crossing the room with marvelous control: I’d counted her drinks that evening: she was not only loaded but primed.

“I’m detective Greaves, ma’am. Bureau of Criminal Investigation.”

Miss Lung squeaked disconcertingly; it sounded like a mouse and startled us all. I glanced at Brexton and saw him shut his eyes with resignation.

“Pray, follow me in here, Mr. Graves.”

“Greaves.” He followed her into the alcove: his two men withdrew to the hall. The guests, myself included, sat in a stunned circle. No one said anything. Claypoole poured himself a drink. Miss Lung looked as though she were strangling. Allie watched her brother as usual and Brexton remained motionless in his chair, his face without expression, his eyes shut.

From the acove there was a murmur of talk. I could hear Mrs. Veering’s voice, indignant and emphatic, while the detective’s voice was stern . . . what they said, though, we could not hear. We found out soon enough.

Mrs. Veering, her face flaming with anger, appeared in the door of the alcove accompanied by the policeman who looked a bit sheepish.

“Mr. Graves has something to say to us . . . something so ridiculous that . . .”

“Greaves, ma’am.” He interrupted her pleasantly. “Please sit down,” he said, indicating a chair. She did as he directed, controlling herself with some effort.

The detective looked at us thoughtfully. He was a sandy-haired little man with red-rimmed eyes and a pale putty face: he looked as though he never slept. But he seemed to have the situation, such as it was, well in hand.

“I hate to come barging in on you like this,” he said softly, apologetically. “I’ve got a list of names and I wish, as I read them off, you’d answer to your name so I’ll know which is which.” He ran through our names and we answered, Miss Lung startling us again with her shrill mouse-in-terrible-agony squeak.

“Thanks a lot,” he said when he’d finished roll call. He was careful not to stare at any one of us too hard or too long. He kept his eyes for the most part on the doorway to the hall.

“Now I won’t keep you in the dark any longer. There is a chance that Mrs. Brexton was murdered this morning.”

Not a sound greeted this news. We stared back at him, too stunned to comment.

He was disappointed not to have made a different effect. I could see he’d expected some kind of a rise, a significant outburst: instead he got deep silence. This gang was smarter than he’d thought, than I’d thought. I glanced rapidly at the faces but could see nothing more than intense interest in any of them.

When this had been allowed to sink in, he went on softly, “We’re not sure of course. It’s a queer kind of case. This afternoon an autopsy was performed and it was discovered that the deceased died by drowning; there was no question of a heart attack or of any other physical failure. Her internal organs were sound and undiseased. She was apparently in good physical condition. . .

“Then how could she’ve drowned like that since she was a first-rate swimmer?" Claypoole’s voice was tense with strain; it came surprisingly clear across the room.

Greaves looked at him with mild interest. “That’s why we’re here, Mr... Claypoole. There was apparently no reason for her to drown so quickly so near shore with three people attempting rescue. . .

“Unless she wanted to,” Miss Lung’s voice was complacent; she was beginning to recover her usual composure and confidence.

“That is a possibility ... I hope a probability. It is the alternative we’d like to accept. Otherwise, I’m afraid we’re stuck with a murder by party or parties unknown.”

There it was. Mrs. Veering rallied first. “Mr. Greaves, this is all supposition on your part, and very dangerous too. Regardless of what you might think, there is no evidence that my niece wanted to drown herself nor is there the faintest possibility anybody murdered her. She was in a peculiar mental state as the result of a nervous breakdown. ... I told you all that a few minutes ago ... in her condition she was quite apt to lose her head, to drown in that terrible undertow.” I was surprised at Mrs. Veering’s sharpness. She was completely sobered now and all her usual vagueness and nonsense had been replaced by a steely clarity, and anger.

“An intelligent analysis.” Greaves nodded approvingly, as though a favorite pupil had come through. “That was our opinion too when the death was reported this morning. Almost every day there’s something like this in these parts, a sudden drowning. Unfortunately the autopsy revealed something odd. It seems that before going in swimming, immediately after breakfast, Mrs. Brexton took four sleeping pills ... or was given four sleeping pills.”

This time the silence was complete. No one said anything. Mrs. Veering opened her mouth to speak; then shut it again, like a mackerel on dry land.

“With Mrs. Veering’s permission, I’d like to have the house searched for the bottle which contained the pills.”

Our hostess nodded, too dazed for words. Greaves poked his head into the hall and said, “O.K., boys.” The boys started their search of the house.

“Meanwhile,” continued the detective, “I’d appreciate it if everyone remained in this room while I interview you all, individually.” He accepted our silence as agreement. To my surprise, he motioned to me. “You’ll be first, Mr. Sargeant,” he said. I followed him into the alcove. Behind us a sudden buzz of talk, like a hive at swarming time, broke upon the drawing room: indignation, alarm, fear.

He asked me the routine questions and I gave him the routine answers.

Then he got down to the case in hand. At this point, I was still undecided as to what I wanted to do. My mind was working quickly. I've done a few pieces for the N.Y. Globe since I left them and I knew that I could get a nice sum for any story I might do on the death of Mildred Brexton; at the same time, there was the problem of Mrs. Veering and my business loyalty to her. This was decidedly the kind of publicity which would be bad for her. I was split down the middle trying to figure what angle to work. While answering his questions, I made an important decision: I decided to say nothing of the quarrel I’d overheard between Brexton and Claypoole. This, I decided, would be my ace-in-the-hole if I should decide to get a beat on the other newspaper people. All in all, I made a mistake.

“Now, Mr. Sargeant, you have, I gather, no real connection with any of these people, is that right?”

I nodded. “Never saw any of them until last night.”

“Your impression then should be useful, as an unprejudiced outsider . . . assuming you’re telling us the truth.” The detective smiled sadly at me.

“I understand all about perjury,” I said stuffily.

“I’m very glad,” said the officer of the law gently. “What, then was your impression of Mrs. Brexton when you first saw her?”

“A fairly good-looking, disagreeable woman, very edgy.” “Was anything said about her nervous breakdown?”

I nodded. “Yes, it was mentioned, to explain her conduct which was unsocial, to say the least.”

“Who mentioned it to you?” He was no clod; I began to have a certain respect for him. I could follow his thought; it made me think along lines that hadn’t occurred to me before.

“Mrs. Veering, for one, and Miss Claypoole for another and, I think, Miss Lung said something about it too.”

"Before or after the . . . death?”

“Before, I think. I’m not sure. Anyway I did get the impression pretty quick that she was in a bad way mentally and had to be catered to. It all came out in the open the night before she died, when there was some kind of scene between her and her husband.” I told him about the screams, about Mrs. Veering’s coming to us with soothing words. He took all this down without comment. I couldn’t tell whether it was news to him or not. I assumed it was since he hadn’t interviewed any of the others yet. I figured I’d better tell him this since he would hear it soon enough from them. I was already beginning to think of him as a competitor. In the past I’d managed, largely by accident ,to solve a couple of peculiar crimes. This one looked promising; it was certainly bewildering enough.

“No one actually saw Mrs, Brexton screaming?”

“We all heard her. I suppose her husband must’ve been with her and I think maybe Mrs. Veering was there too, though I don't know. She seemed to be coming from their bedroom, from downstairs, when she told us not to worry.”

“I see. Now tell me about this morning.

I told him exactly what had happened: how Brexton got to Mildred first and then nearly drowned himself; how Clay-poole pulled her to shore; how I rescued Brexton.

He took all this down without comment. I could see he was wondering the same thing I’d begun to wonder: had Brexton had a chance to pull his wife under just before we got there? I couldn’t be absolutely sure because the surf had been in my eyes most of the way out and I hadn’t been able to see properly. I doubted it ... if only because, when I reached them, Brexton was still several feet from his wife who was already half-dead. That Claypoole might have drowned her on the long pull back to shore was an equal possibility but I didn’t mention it to Greaves who didn’t ask me either. He was only interested in getting the eyewitness part straight.

I asked a question then: "Just what effect would four sleeping pills have . . . four of the kind she took? Are they fatal?”

He looked at me thoughtfully as though wondering whether to bother answering or not. Finally, he said: “They weren’t enough to kill her. Make her weak, though, groggy . . . they slowed down the beating of the heart.”

"Well, that explains the funny way she swam. I thought the others were just sounding off when they said she was such a fine athlete. She almost fell on her face in her first dive into the surf and her strokes were all off . . . even I could tell that and I’m no coach.”

“There’s no doubt she died as a result of weakness. She wasn't strong enough to get out of the undertow. The question of course is why, if she’d taken the pills herself, would she've gone in the water instead of to bed where she belonged?”

“To kill herself?” This was the puzzle, I knew.

“A possibility.”

“But then somebody might’ve slipped her those pills, knowing she would probably go swimming."

“Another possibility.” Greaves was enigmatic.

“But how could anybody count on that happening? She wasn’t feeling well . . . maybe she would’ve just stayed on the shore in the sun. From what I saw of her that would've been my guess. I was even surprised, now that I look back, that she went in the ocean at all.”

“The person who gave her the pills might have known her better than you. He might’ve known she would go in the water no matter what her condition.” Greaves made notes while he talked.

“And the person who knew her best was, of course, her husband.”

Greaves looked at me steadily, “I didn’t say that.”

“Who else? Even so, if I were Brexton and I wanted to kill my wife, I wouldn’t do it like that, with everybody else around.”

“Fortunately, you’re not Brexton.” The coldness in his voice gave me all the clue I needed. The police thought Brexton had killed his wife. I don’t know why but even then I didn’t think he was responsible. I suppose because my mind dislikes the obvious even though the obvious, as any detective will tell you, nine times out of ten provides the answer.

I threw one last doubt in his path. “Why, if somebody was going to give her the pills, didn’t they give her a fatal dose?”

“We must find that out.” Greaves was reasonable, polite, bored with me.

Wanting to attract his attention for future need, I said, coolly, “I’ll be writing about all this for the New York Globe."

This had the effect I intended. He winced visibly. “I thought you were in public relations, Mr. Sargeant.”

“I used to be on the Globe. In the last few years I’ve done some features for them. I guess you remember that business a couple of years back when Senator Rhodes was murdered. . .

Greaves looked at me with some interest. “You’re that fellow? I remember the case.”

“I was, if I say so myself, of some use to the police.”

“That wasn’t the way I heard it.”

This was irritating. “Well, no matter how you heard it, I intend to do a series on this case for the Globe, assuming there really was a murder done, which I doubt.”

“Very interesting.” Greaves looked at me calmly. At that moment one of the policemen came in and whispered something in his ear. Greaves nodded and the other handed him a handkerchief containing two small cylindrical objects. The policeman withdrew.

“Sleeping pill containers?” I guessed that one right.

He nodded, carefully opening the handkerchief. “As a professional journalist and amateur sleuth, Mr. Sargeant, you should be interested to know that they were found in two places: one bottle in Mrs. Brexton’s jewel box; the other in Fletcher Claypoole’s bathroom. Both contain the same barbiturate found in Mrs. Brexton’s system. Our problem is to determine, if possible, from which bottle the pills she took (or was given) came.”

“Just like spin-the-bottle, isn’t it?”

“That will be all, Mr. Sargeant.”

I had one more shot to fire. I let him have it: “The bruise on Mrs. Brexton’s neck was made before she went swimming. I noticed it last night at dinner.”

“You’re very observant, Mr. Sargeant. Thank you.”