Death Likes It Hot

1

DINNER was a forced affair. Luckily, Miss Lung was in an ebullient mood and kept us in stitches with her “book-chat.” I tried not to look at Mrs. Veering who had decided to have just a touch of Dubonnet against doctor’s orders. She was so well lit by the time coffee was served that Randan and I were able to slip away without much explanation to anyone, except Miss Lung who was roguish.

It took almost half an hour to get from Easthampton to Southampton.

The moon was down and the night sky was partly obscured by clouds moving in from the north.

We didn’t talk much, both occupied with our thoughts. At one point Randan tried to pump me about the tax case but I wasn’t giving him any of my cherished leads. This was one story I intended to have all to myself.

It was just as we were getting out of the car in front of the mansion on Gin Lane where the party was being held, that Randan said: “I guess we both knew who did it.”

I nodded. “We should’ve figured it out sooner. There were enough loose ends left flapping.”

“I thought it was skillfully done.” He switched off the ignition. “When did you catch on?"

“With Alma Edderdale yesterday. She let the cat out of the bag, talking about Rose’s tax problems.”

Randan nodded. “It ties in. You going to tell Greaves? Before the Special Court?”

I shook my head. “No, I’ll try and work it out for the Globe first. Then, when I think I’ve got it plotted just right, I’ll talk to Greaves . . . that way I’ll be sure to have the story before anybody.”

We went to the party. I was feeling just fine, walking on clouds of fatuity.

The ballroom (it was, so help me, a ballroom) was a vast affair with parquet floors and huge pots of ferns and three chandeliers and a gallery where musicians played soft music. Everybody, as they say, was there.

I paid my respects to Lady Edderdale who stood with a bewildered expression beside her host, a man who had made his millions mysteriously in World War II ... no doubt stealing tires and selling them to the black market.

“Ah, yes, Mr...” she sighed as we shook hands, my name forgotten. “I have such an awful time with names but I never forget a face. When did you leave London?”

I got away as soon as I could and went through the milling throng to a dining room where a buffet, complete with four chefs, had been prepared and here, as I expected, was my light of love, gorging herself on smoked turkey and surrounded by a circle of plump, bald, dimpled batchelors.

“Peter! You could make it.”

“With you any time,” I said in my best vulgar Marlon Brando voice. The bachelors looked at me nervously; a stud trotting through a circle of horses to the nearest mare.

The mare looked particularly radiant in white and gold, wearing family diamonds which made me wonder if perhaps a marital alliance might be in order.

I glared at the bachelors and they evaporated. We were left with smoked turkey and champagne and Cole Porter from the orchestra in the ballroom and no one but people to interrupt our bliss.

“Why did you go running off like that this afternoon?” Liz looked at me curiously; I prayed for a jealous scene. But there was none. In fact, she didn’t even wait for an excuse.

“I hear it’s all over. Somebody told me Brexton won’t have a chance, that they got a full confession.”

“Are you sure?” This would be, as they said, the ultimate straw.

“No, I’m not really. It’s just the rumor going around.”

“What’re you doing after this, hon?” I spoke out of the side of my mouth; the other side was full of food.

“Tonight?” Well, I’m going home as every proper girl should.”

“Let’s go to bed.”

“Bed?” she said this in such a loud startled voice that one

of the chefs noticeably paled. “Bed?” she repeated in a lower voice. “I thought you only liked to romp among the cactuses . . . or maybe you mean a bed of nails somewhere...”

“Young women should never attempt irony,” I said coldly. “It’s not my fault that, through bad management, you haven’t been able to provide me with the wherewithal to make love properly, preferably in a gilded cage. You do have an income, don’t you?"

“I want to be loved only for my money,” she said, nodding agreeably. “After all beauty passes. Characters grow mean. But money, properly invested, is always lovable.”

“Yours improperly invested? In gilt-edged or at least deckle-edged securities?”

“Yes, but I didn’t know you cared.”

“So much so that I am willing to put you up for the night at the New Arcadia Motel, a center of illicit sexuality only a few miles from here.”

“What will my family say?”

“That you are wanton. The money’s in your name, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes, Mummy had her second husband make me a trust fund . . . sweet, wasn't it?”

“Depends entirely on the amount.” I started to put my arm stealthily around her when Elmer Bush came roaring down upon us.

“How’s the boy? . . . say now! Is this the same pretty little girl I met today on the beach, Miss Liz Bessemer?”

“The same pretty little girl,” agreed Liz with a dazzling smile. “And this, I suppose, is still the famed Elmer Bush who, through the courtesy of Wheat-mushlets, is heard over N.B.C. once a week?”

That slowed him up. “Quite a bright little girl, isn’t she, Pete? You’re some picker, boy. Well, I guess lucky in love unlucky in crime. Ha! Ha!” While we were doubled up with merry laughter at this sally, Liz stole quietly away.

“Say, didn’t mean to barge in on you and the girl friend.” Elmer positively smacked his lips as he followed Liz with his eyes as she strolled into the ballroom: all eyes were upon her, her shoulders bare and smooth above the white and gold dress.

“No, Elmer, I’d rather see you any day.”

“Some kidder.” Elmer was perfunctory now that there was no one around to impress except me and he knew of course I wasn’t one of his fans. “Want you to do me a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“I’d like to get an interview with Mrs. Veering. I can’t get through to her. She’s playing hard to get... God knows why since she’s a real publicity hound. Now if you would ...”

“But Elmer, we’re rivals.” I pretended surprise. “After all I’m still trying to get myself out of a hole...”

“This is for the Globe. Not for me.” He stood there, noble, 112

self-sacrificing. ... I half expected to hear the soft strains of the Marseillaise in the background.

“Well, I’m sorry, Elmer, but you’ll have to get her on your own.”

“Now look here, Sargeant, I've been sent here by the Globe, same paper that’s been paying you for those dumb articles on why Brexton didn’t do the murder. I can tell you one thing: you don’t stand any too well around the office. Now if I tell them you’ve been cooperative, really helpful, they might not write you off as a complete loss.” He stared at me, hard and menacing, the way he does when he attacks the enemies of a certain senator who is trying to root out corruption and Communists.

“Elmer,” I said quietly, “I hate you. I have always hated you. I will always continue to hate you. There is nothing I would not do to show you the extent and beauty of my hatred. I would throw you a rock if you were drowning. I would . .

“Always the kidder,” said Elmer with a mechanical smile to show that he knew I was joking. “Well, I’m not kidding. The paper expects you to cooperate. If you don’t you might just as well give up all ideas of working for them again.”

“Suppose I’m right?” I was getting tired of him fast but I realized my situation was hopeless anyway if I didn’t produce the real story, and soon. He was out to cut my throat, as they say in the profession.

“That Brexton didn’t kill his wife and Claypoole?” Elmer looked at me pityingly.

“I wouldn’t bank too much on Claypoole’s accusation, before he died.” My shot in the dark hit the target.

Elmer blinked. “Know about that, eh?”

“That’s right. I also know the prosecution is going to build its case on Claypoole having said Brexton murdered his wife...”

“He told the whole story to the police the day he was murdered.” Elmer looked smug, just as though he had done it all himself with his little hatchet. I was glad to hear my guess confirmed. Elmer had served his purpose.

2

“I’m sure they’ll check up on me, just to be unpleasant.” Liz sat with nothing on in front of the dressing table, arranging her hair: she is one of those women who do their hair and face before dressing. I lay on the bed, blissful, enjoying the morning sun which fell in a bar of light across my belly. It had been an excellent night . . . morning too. Nothing disturbed me.

“What do you care?” I said, yawning.

“I don’t really.” I watched her shoulder blades as she made mysterious passes at her hair and face, her back to me. “It’s just that when I said I was staying with friends in Southampton I shouldn’t’ve mentioned Anna Trees. They’re bound to see her and my aunt will ask her about my overnight stay and ...”

“And you’re worrying too much. Besides, I’m sure your aunt would approve of the New Arcadia. Clean sheets. Private bathroom. View of a roadhouse and U.S. Route One as well as the company of a red-blooded American boy. , . . Come here.”

“Not a chance in the world, Peter.” She rose with dignity and slipped on her silk pants. “You’ve had your kicks, as they say . . . brutish, prancing goat...”

“I never prance.” I wanted her again but she had other plans. Sadly, I got up myself and went into the bathroom to take a shower. When I came out, Liz was fully dressed and going through the wastebasket in the preoccupied way women have when they are minding some one else’s business.

“Ah, ah,” I said sharply, the way you do to a child. “Might find something dirty. Don’t touch.”

“Nonsense.” Liz pulled out a newspaper and a cigarette butt. “Just as I thought: marijuana. I thought I smelled something peculiar.”

“Well, don’t touch it. I thought all women were mortally afraid of germs.”

“Stop generalizing.” Liz dropped the butt back into the wastebasket and opened the newspaper absently. I got dressed.

A sharp sound from Liz halted me. “Is this Claypoole?” she asked, holding up the paper for me to see.

I took it from her. It was a Monday edition of The Journal American. There were several photographs of the principals involved in our local killing. One was of Claypoole. I nodded, giving her the paper back; I combed my hair in the dusty mirror. “What about it?”

“Well, I know him.”

“Kn ew him. So what? A lot of people did.”

“No, but I saw him only recently. I didn’t really know him but I think I met him ... or ran into him, or something.” She paused, confused, poring over the newspaper intently. “I know!” She squealed.

“Well?”

“It was Sunday night, at the Club . . . before I went on to Evan Evans’ party. I dropped in with some people, with a boy I know. We looked around just to see who was there. It was dead, you know the way Sunday night is, so I had my escort drive me over to Evan’s . . . anyway, before I left I remembered seeing him. Claypoole, ever so distictly. He was awfully good-looking in an older way; I noticed him because he was by himself, in a plain suit. Everybody else was dressed. He was standing all alone in the door which opens onto the terrace...”

“You didn’t speak to him?”

“No, I just caught the one glimpse.”

“What time was it?”

“Time? Well, not much after twelve thirty.”

I was excited. “You realize that you may be the last person to’ve seen him alive?”

“Really?” She was properly impressed. “I don’t suppose it proves anything, does it? He must’ve strolled over from the North Dunes. Peter, I’m starved, let’s get some breakfast.”

Stealthily, we left the New Arcadia Motel, the way hundreds of couples every week did, their unions blessed only by the gods of love, the sterner bonds of society momentarily severed or ignored.

We found a pleasant inn just south of the village of East-hampton where we ate a huge breakfast. It was an odd morning with a white mist high overhead through which the sun shone diffused, bright but not concentrated.

“I love those spur-of-the-moment adventures,” said Liz, eating more eggs than I’ve ever seen a slender girl eat before.

“I hope you don’t have a great many of them.”

“As many as I can squeeze in without being untidy,” she said comfortably, leaving me to guess whether she was serious or not.

“I suppose next thing, you’ll tell me you do this all the time, in motels.”

“There’s an awfully disagreeable streak of Puritanism in you, Peter. I worry about it.”

“I just want to be able to think of you as being all mine, clean from the word go.”

“From the word go, yes.” Liz beamed at me over coffee. She was a beautiful creature, more like an act of nature than a human being ... I thought of her in elemental terms, like the wind or the sky, to wax lyrical. Usual laws of morality didn’t apply to her.

I changed the subject . . . just looking at her upset me. “How much longer do you intend to stay down here?”

Liz sighed. “Tomorrow I go back. I tried to talk them into letting me stay longer but they wouldn’t. I don’t think any magazine should try to put out issues in the hot weather. Nobody’ll read them.”

“Who reads fashion magazines? Women just buy them to look at the pictures of clothes.”

“Well, it’s an awful strain working in New York in the hot weather. I was supposed to go back yesterday but I got an extra day. When will you be back?”

“Friday. I’ll have to stay here for the Special Court, to testify. I’ll go back to New York right afterwards.”

“What an interesting week end it turned out to be,” said Liz, putting ice from her drinking glass into her coffee cup. “I don’t know why I never ask for iced coffee when I hate it hot. Peter, do you really think Brexton’s innocent?”

I nodded.

“But if he didn’t do it, who did?”

“Somebody else.”

“Oh, don’t be sillyl Who could possibly have done it?” “Somebody with a motive.”

“Well, you must have some idea who it was if you’re so certain it wasn’t Brexton.”

“Oh, I know who did it all right.” And I did. I had known for nearly half an hour.

Liz’s eyes grew round. “You mean you’re sitting right here having breakfast with me like this and you know who killed Mrs. Brexton and Claypoole?”

“I can’t see what having breakfast with you has to do with it but, yes, I know who the murderer is. Thanks to you."

“To me?” What have I done?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

Liz looked at me as though she wasn’t sure whether or not to telephone for a squad of men in white. She tried the practical approach. “What’re you going to do about it now that you think you know everything?”

"Now that I know, not think. I’m sure. I have to tie up some ends first. Even then I may not be able to prove what I know.”

“Oh, Peter, tell me! Who is it?”

“Not on your life.” I paid for breakfast and stood up. “Come on, dear. I’ve got to take you home.”

“I have never in my life known such a sadist.” Liz was furious and persistent but I wouldn’t tell her anything. She hardly spoke to me when w^re pulled up in front of the North Dunes and I got out. She slid haughtily into the driver’s seat. “It’s been very nice, Mr. Sargeant.”

“I’ve had a swell time too.”

“Beast!” And Liz wheeled out of the driveway on two wheels, the gears screeching with agony. Smiling to myself, I went into the house. I had a tough day ahead of me.

3

No one but the butler was in sight when I arrived. He bade me good morning and made no comment about my night out. I went upstairs to my bedroom and immediately telephoned Miss Flynn.

“I have undertaken the Tasks assigned,” she said, in her stately way. “The following are the Results of my Herculean Labors.” She gave me several pieces of information; one was supremely useful. I told her to expect me Friday afternoon and, after a bit of business, we rang off.

I was surprisingly calm. The identity of the killer had come to me that morning with Liz. Something she said had acted like a catalyst: everything fell into place at once ... all those bits of disconnected information and supposition had, with one phrase, been fused into a whole and I knew with certainty what had happened, and why.

I packed my suitcase; then I went downstairs and left it in the hall. I was not going to spend another night in this house.

On the terrace, watching the mist grow dense, become fog, 116

was Miss Lung. She was sitting quite alone with a brilliant Guatemala shawl about her shoulders.

She jumped when I approached. “Oh, Mr. Sargeant. What a start you gave me! A little bird told me you didn't come home last night.”

“The little bird was on the beam,” I said, sitting down beside her. “Looks like a storm coming up.”

She nodded. We both looked out to sea, or rather at the line of gun-metal gray breakers: the horizon was gone already and fog was rolling in from the sea in billows. It was suddenly chilly, and uncomfortably damp.

“We have had such lovely weather,” said Miss Lung nostalgically. “I suppose this must be the end of summer. It comes like this, doesn’t it, all at once.”

“Not until later, about the time of the equinox,” I said absently, watching her out of the corner of my eye. She was unusually pale, her book-chat manner entirely discarded. I could almost imagine the slender good-looking woman imprisoned beneath the layers of fat and disappointment. “You were very fond of Mr. Claypoole, weren’t you?”

“What makes you ask?” She looked at me, startled.

“I’m curious about this case, that’s all. I’ve always thought there were some very important facts the police didn't know.”

“I’m sure there’s a great deal of importance the police don't know,” said Miss Lung sharply. “And I’m in favor of keeping them ignorant, aren’t you?”

“In general, yes. That was what you meant, though, wasn’t it? About not wanting too close an investigation . . . you remember the other day when you told me...”

“Yes, I remember. I have nothing criminal to hide. It’s certainly no secret about Fletcher and me. I’m sure if it hadn't been for Allie (whom I adore, believe me) we might have married once. She wouldn’t let him; then Mildred tried, and failed too . . . that’s all.”

“Yet why should that bother you? I mean what difference would it make if it should all come to light, about you and Fletcher?”

Miss Lung paused before answering; then she said, with an odd look in her eyes, “I’ll tell you exactly what I feared, Mr. Sargeant, but you must promise me never to refer to this to anyone, certainly never to write about it in the press. Do you promise?”

“Well . . . yes, I promise.”

“I was afraid that if the police should start prying around in our past, Fletcher’s, Paul’s, mine, they would sooner or later discover that Paul Brexton painted me, fifteen years ago, in the . . . well the altogether. You must know that I have fans everywhere in the United States and Canada and if that painting should ever come to light and be reproduced in the Yellow Press I would be absolutely finished as the authoress of ‘Book-Chat.’ You see now my fear of investigation?”

It was all I could do to keep from laughing. “I see exactly what it is you feared. As a matter of fact, I did hear about the painting.”

“You see? Already people have begun to talk about it! Ever since this hideous business started I’ve been in mortal dread of someone unearthing that picture. In my last conversation with Paul before he was taken to jail, I implored him to keep silent on that subject, come what may.”

“I’m sure he will. I hear, by the way, it was quite a good painting.”

“I was not ever thus,” said Miss Lung, with a brief return to her sly-boots self.

We chatted a while longer. Then I went into the house. Everything was shaping up nicely. So nicely that I was scared to death.

On the second floor, I slipped into Brexton’s room. No one saw me. The room had been straightened and now looked perfectly ordinary. I checked the lock of the door to what had been Allie’s room (another key replaced the one the prosecution had taken for an exhibit) ; the lock worked smoothly. Then I went to the window and examined the screen. As I expected, there were scratches on the sill, at either comer. Long regular scars in the weathered wood. Tentatively, I pressed my finger against the screen: it was loose. I was not able to check the other windows for, as I was about to enter Allie’s room, Mrs. Veering appeared in the doorway.

“Mr. Sargeant!” She seemed genuinely surprised. “What are you doing in there?”

“I ... I was just looking for something,” I stammered stupidly.

“In this room? I can’t think what,” she said flatly, as though suspecting me of designs on the flat silver. “Mary Western told me you were back. I’d like to talk to you.”

“Certainly.” We went downstairs to her alcove off the drawing room.

She was all business, a tumbler of Dubonnet on the desk in front of her. “I’ve decided to go ahead with the party,” she said.

I was surprised. “I thought . . .”

“At first, I thought it would be in bad taste. Now I think I can’t afford to back out of it. People expect one to carry on.” She took a long swallow of Dubonnet, carrying on.

“You may be right,” I said. “I’m afraid though I won’t be able to handle it. I’m due in New York Friday. , . .”

“Oh. Well, I’m sorry. If it’s a matter of fee...” She seemed disturbed by my refusal.

“No, it’s not that at all. I just have an awful lot of work piling up and ...” I made a series of glib and, I hoped, plausible excuses. I couldn't tell her my real reason; she would find out soon enough.

“I’m very sorry. I hope at least you’ll still be kind enough to advise me now.”

I said that I would and we had a brisk business talk in which I confided to her what I’d felt all along: that she was quite capable of mapping out a publicity campaign on her own. She took this without elation or demur.

“Thank you. I do my best. As you probably know, I have had certain difficulties lately.” She looked at me shrewdly to see how I’d react; I didn't bat an eye; I looked at her as though it was the first I’d heard of these troubles.

She continued, satisfied apparently with my silence. “People have actually started a rumor that I’ve been wiped out financially. Well, it isn’t true and for that reason I don’t dare not give this party. I sent the invitations out this morning.”

So that was it. She was spending Mildred’s money before she got it. I couldn’t blame her under the circumstances . . . it was an act of God.

4

To my surprise Allie Claypoole and Greaves showed up together for lunch.

She was pale and she walked as though she were unsure of her legs, like an invalid new-risen. Greaves was jubilant in a restrained, official way.

“Certainly is nice to see everybody like this," he said. “Not official or anything like that.”

“WeTe always happy to see you, Mr. Greaves,” said Mrs. Veering smoothly from the head of the table. The butler passed champagne around. It was quite a luncheon.

Randan and Allie sat next to each other and talked in low voices through most of the lunch while the rest of us either listened to Mary Western Lung or drank our champagne in silence.

It wasn't until dessert that I was able to turn to Greaves who was on my left and ask a question which could not be heard by the rest of the table: Miss Lung was loudly recounting a bit of scandal which had taken place at a meeting of the Ladies' Paintbox and Typewriter Club.

“What did the knife look like?" I asked in a low voice.

Greaves looked surprised. “Knife?”

“Yes, the one they found beside Claypoole. I never got a close look at it.”

“Just an ordinary knife, very sharp. A kind of kitchen knife with a bone handle and Brexton’s initials on it.”

“Initials?” That was it! “Were they prominent?”

“Yes, they were pretty big. What’re you up to, Sargeant?” He looked at me suspiciously.

“I may have a surprise for you.”

“Like what?” ’

“Like the real killer.”

Greaves snorted. “We got him and don’t you go rocking the boat. We have enough trouble without your interference. Elmer Bush’s told me about the way you operate. I told him if you tried anything . . .”

“Elmer is my best friend,” I said, hardly able to contain my delight, “One other question and then I’m through. Sunday morning Claypoole said he went to the olhn Drew Theater to look at the paintings. Well, I happen to know the theater was closed that morning, I figure he went to see you.

“What if he did?” Greaves squirmed uncomfortably.

“I have a hunch he drove over to Riverhead and told you Brexton murdered his wife. I believe your District Attorney, misled by you, is building his case and political ruin on that visit.”

“I don’t like your tone, Sargeant.” Greaves had turned very red. “But since you know so much already I’ll tel! you that, yes, Claypoole came to see me and he accused Brexton. I don’t think Brexton knew it . . . that’s why he killed him that same night, to keep him quiet, not knowing it was already too late. I should’ve acted right away. I realize that now but I didn’t think anything could happen in a house with two M.C.I. men on hand. Anyway it’s all over. Nobody can save your friend Brexton,” said Greaves, quietly folding his napkin and placing it beside his plate.

“He’s not my friend; he’s also not your clay pigeon, Greaves.”

“Now look here...” but Mrs. Veering had got to her feet; she led us all into the drawing room for coffee.

I got Allie Claypoole away from Randan for a moment. “You’re not giving in, are you?”

“About Paul?” She sighed and sat down shakily. I sat down beside her. “I don’t know what to think. Greaves has been with me all morning. He’s trying to make me believe Paul tried to murder me but I can’t ... I just won't believe it.”

“Good,” I said. “You stick by what you feel. You’re right.” She clenched her slender white hands into two fists. “But if Paul didn’t who could've done it?”

"The same person who killed your brother.”

“Do you know who it is?”

I nodded. She looked at me with real terror in her eyes. Then Greaves, suspecting I might be intimidating a valuable witness, joined us and I excused myself.

I was about to go telephone 1770 House to see if they might have a room for the night when Randan, with a smirk, said: “What happened to you and Liz? Suddenly you both just disappeared and Miss Lung tells me you didn’t come home at all last night. I looked around for you when I left but you’d gone by then.”

“Miss Bessemer and I spent the night with the Times crossword puzzle at the New Arcadia Motel,” I said and walked away.

I made a reservation for that night by telephone. Then I slipped out of the house by way of the front door. I wanted one more look around before I finished my case.

I walked among the umbrellas on the terrace, sad-looking in the gray fog which had already blotted out the ocean only a few yards away. It was as thick a fog as I’d ever seen. The umbrellas looked like monsters, looming in the mist.

Then I took out my watch and began to walk, at a good pace, down the beach to the Club.

Five minutes later I reached the Club.

It was a strange walk. I couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of me. If it hadn't been for a cluster of rotten black pilings which marked the beginning of the Club beach I shouldn’t have known where I was. The Club House was invisible. There was no sound from its general direction.

I had the impression of being packed in cotton wool. I almost felt that if I put my hand out I could touch the fog, a gray heavy damp substance.

Far out to sea, I heard the horn of a ship, lonely and plaintive. Well, it would soon be over, I told myself. I was oddly depressed. I had solved the case but there was no elation, only relief and perhaps a certain fear.

I made my way back slowly. I followed the edge of the water which eddied black upon the white sand. If I hadn't, I would’ve got lost for there were no landmarks: nothing but white sand and gray fog.

I timed my return trip so that I'd know when I was abreast the North Dunes. Otherwise I knew I might keep on until Montauk without ever knowing where I was.

I was three minutes and two seconds from the Club when a figure appeared, tall and dark. We both stopped at the water’s edge: each had been following the water line. Then Randan approached. He was carrying my suitcase.

“I thought you were taking a walk,” he said amiably. “I followed you.”

“You thought I'd walk to the Club?”

He nodded. “It's a nice walk, isn’t it? Perfect for a foggy day.”

“I like the fog.” I glanced at the suitcase in his hand: this was it at last. I knew what was coming. “Not such a good walk, though, if you’re carrying something.”

“Like your suitcase?” he grinned.

“Or like your uncle.”

The smile faded from his face. We were only a yard apart and yet his features were faintly blurred by the intervening fog, white and enveloping. We stood within a circle of visibility whose diameter was not more than a yard. Somewhere far above, in another world, the afternoon sun was shining. We were like the last survivors of a disaster, alone with our secrets.

A wave broke close to us. Water swirled about our shoes. Simultaneously we moved farther up the shore, each keeping the other in range. Was he armed? The question repeated itself over and over in my brain. If he was...

“You know a great deal,” said Randan. He put the suit-

case down, He was wearing a trench coat, I noticed . . . very sensible, I thought inanely, keep the damp out: fog caressed us like damp cotton; my clothes were soaked, and not only from fog.

“I have my suspicions,” I said, trying to sound casual. “But they don’t do me much good since there’s no evidence of any kind.” Anything to throw him off the track. I was positive he was armed. I planned a sudden break up the beach, into the fog. One leap and I’d be out of sight. But if he were armed...

“You’re not stupid,” Randan sounded somewhat surprised.

“Thanks. Unfortunately neither are you. There’s no way of making a case against you. I think I know exactly what happened but there’s no proof of any kind. You thought of everything.” But he was too smart for such flattery. I was talking fast, to no point. My suitcase in his hand meant this was the pay-off.

“Tell me what you know, Sargeant.” The question was put quietly, without emphasis.

“Not enough.”

“Tell me anyway.” He put his hand in the pocket of his coat. I went death-cold: was he armed? was he armed?

I decided to talk, my legs tensed for a spring into the whiteness about us, into the protecting, the murderous fog. My mouth was dry. Sweat trickled down my side. With difficulty I kept my voice steady. “I think you made your plan in Boston, the night before you came here. You heard about the murder on the radio ... or rather the mysterious death of Mildred Brexton. You knew her husband would be held responsible. You also knew of Fletcher’s dislike of Brexton, on Mildred’s account. On a wild chance, you thought there might be an opportunity for you to kill your uncle, making it look as though Brexton had killed him.”

“AH this from having heard over the radio that Mildred Brexton drowned accidentally?” He sounded amused.

1 nodded. “Also from a conversation with Allie, by telephone, the day before. I think she told you pretty much the situation down here. You knew what to expect.” This was a guess. It was accurate.

“I didn’t think Allie would mention that telephone call,” said Randan. “Yes, that gave me the . . . the background of the week-end party. Go on.”

“Just in case, you prepared, in Boston, the note saying Brexton was the killer. I had my secretary check the Boston papers for your last day there: none carried an account of Mildred’s death . . . too soon. Because of that you weren’t able to get an X or a K out of the headlines. This bothered me when I first saw the note. I figured that anyone of us preparing such a note would have had no trouble finding Xs and Ks since the papers were full of references to Brexton, to Mildred’s death.”

“Good, very good.” Randan seemed pleased. “I was wor-122

ried that the police might discover my note was made from Boston papers. Fortunately, they were so positive Fletcher fixed the note that they didn’t bother tracking it down. Then what happened?”

“You arrived in the early morning, Sunday, by car. You went straight to the house. The guard was asleep. You looked around. In the living room you found Brexton’s palette knife with his initials on it, left there after Mildred attacked Mrs. Veering Friday night. You took it, for future use. You were in the kitchen . . . perhaps examining the fuse box, when I arrived. You struck me with...”

“Of all homely items, a rolling pin.” Randan chuckled. “Not hard enough either.” A gull shrieked. The surf whispered.

“You then left the house, making your official appearance later on that day. You found out soon enough what was going on. Your uncle no doubt told you he suspected Brexton of murdering his wife. He might even have told you of his denunciation of Brexton to the police. If he did, and I think he did, the moment was right. Your uncle had accused Brexton of murder. Your uncle is murdered. Brexton, without a doubt, would be held responsible. The rest was comparatively simple.”

“I’m all ears.”

I watched his face while I talked, reading his responses in his expression rather than his words. I recapitulated quickly. “Mildred died by accident. Brexton knew this. The rest of us did too until that policeman, prodded by your vindictive uncle, scenting an easy case, decided to make something out of it. Both he and your uncle played your game to perfection ... to their regret.”

“Greaves will certainly benefit. He’s already a hero.” Randan was smug. I played right along.

"That’s right. I don’t suppose Greaves will ever know that he’s sent an innocent man to the chair.”

“No, he’ll never know,” Randan agreed cheerfully. “There’ll be no one to tell him he was wrong.”

I pretended not to get this but I did and I was ready: he was armed all right. Under cover of the fog he would commit his last murder, destroy the only witness of his cunning. I made plans while we talked.

“You fixed two alibis for Sunday night, the night you killed your uncle. First was at the Club. The second was at the Evans party where you ran into us ... an unexpected meeting, I’d say. You made a date to meet your uncle at the club around twelve thirty. You drove over. He walked . . . along the beach. You met on the beach, I think, probably near the cabanas, in the dark. You talked. Perhaps you strolled away from the Club, toward the house. At some point you both sat down. You struck him on the head with some object...”

“Very like a stone.”

“And dragged him to the house where you knew the police would be busy with the tampered fuse box and the others would’ve gone to bed. You then cut Claypoole’s throat with Brexton’s knife and rolled the body under the swing, leaving the knife near by to implicate Brexton. Aware that friend Greaves would be sufficiently simple to think that a man of Brexton’s intelligence would leave a knife with his own prints and initials on it beside a dead body.”

“Pretty good, Sargeant. You’ve missed a few subtle touches here and there but you have the main points. Go on.”

“Then you went back to the Club, putting in a second appearance, pretending you were there all along. After that you went on to Evans’ party. You didn’t make a single mistake.” I laid it on. I had two alternatives. One was to disappear into the fog and run the risk of being shot; the other was to try a flying tackle before he could pull the trigger of that pistol which, I was sure, was pointed at me in his trenchcoat pocket.

While I made up my mind, I talked quickly . . . flattered him, made it appear that I thought he was in the clear, that I was only an appreciative audience, not dangerous to him. He was too smart to fall for this but he enjoyed hearing me praise him. “After all,” he said, “you’re the only person I’ll ever be able to talk to about this. Tell me how you happened to suspect me. No one else did.”

“Just luck. I told you something you didn’t know, remember? I told you Allie had been with Brexton at the time of Claypoole’s death. I knew this was something the murderer couldn’t know and that the others hadn't heard. You acted quickly, as I thought you would. Allie must never regain consciousness. Her testimony would save Brexton. Her death would incriminate him once and for all. You had to kill her. At this point, though, you brought up a second line of defense which I admired particularly. Rose’s tax difficulties. No doubt your uncle or Allie had told you about them. You knew she was a potential candidate for murderer of Mildred . . . she had the best motives of all, really. You took one of her handkerchiefs with the idea of planting it in Allie’s room in case something went wrong. It would’ve implicated Rose but either you forgot to use it or else you were too sure of success. You came back to the house when the nurses were changed, at midnight. You had less than five minutes to give Allie the strychnine which you’d already got from Mrs. Veering’s bathroom. You pushed the screen out of your window. You walked along the top of the porch to Allie’s room. You pushed that screen in. You turned the key to Mrs. Veering’s room which was lucky because you nearly had a visit from Miss Lung. You started to give Allie a hypodermic but there wasn’t time to do it properly. Miss Lung had sounded an alarm. You unlocked the door between the two

rooms, went back out the window to your own room and then made an appearance.”

“Excellent.” Randan was pleased to hear from me the story of his cleverness. “Couple of good details involved. One was planting the key to Allie's room in Brexton’s pillow the day before . . . just in case. The other was the business of the screens. Had to loosen them with a knife . . . I thought I’d never get them right. Fortunately, they were all warped from the damp weather and they stuck in place even after being loosened. You're right about the handkerchief bit too. I was going to use it if Allie got Brexton off the hook.”

“Your mentioning the murder of Sir Thomas Overbury helped put me on to you.” I moved a millimeter closer to him. “The case was somewhat the same...”

“Not at all the same. Did I mention him? I'd forgotten that. A slip. What else put you on to me?”

“A remark . . . you said something about ‘spur of the moment.’ It stuck in my head; I don’t know why. I never believed, frankly, that Mildred was murdered. Claypoole of course was. It could only have been a spur-of-the-moment murder, improvised on the spot, under cover of a suspected killing and arranged to fit in with the details of the first, the false murder. Then, last night, Liz gave me a piece of information I needed: she'd seen Claypoole at the Club a few minutes before he died. Nobody knew he’d gone there. She got a glimpse of him only by chance. We knew that you had been there at the same time. Everything began to add up. Then, when I found out about the Boston newspapers...”

“It’s been nice talking to you.” He stepped back a pace.

Soon. Soon. Soon. I braced myself. I talked fast. I inched toward him as I did. My plan decided up. “Why did you kill him though?” That’s one thing I could never figure out. I could never fix a proper motive.”

“Money. He was permanent executor of my trust fund. As long as he lived I couldn’t touch my own money until I was forty. I didn’t want to wait until then. He was severe. I always hated him. When Mildred died I saw my chance. There’d never be another opportunity like it. I improvised, as you said. It was fascinating too. I’ve always studied murders. Planned them in my head, just for sport. I was surprised how easy it was to commit one . . . how easy to get away with it.” I had moved, without his noticing it, a foot closer to him.

“But now,” he said quietly, “Mr. Sargeant will unexpectedly leave Easthampton before the Special Court, baggage and all. By the time he is reported missing in Manhattan, Brexton will be well on his way...”

I hit him low and hard. There was a pop, like a cork being blown from a bottle. A smell of gunpowder. For a mo-125

ment, as we wrestled, I wondered if I’d been hit. Sometimes I knew, from the war, you could be shot and not know it.

But I was not hit. We fought hand to hand grimly at the water’s edge. Randan swore and gasped and kicked and struggled like a weak but desperate animal; it was no use though and in a moment he lay flat on the sand, breathing hoarsely, barely conscious, a hole the size of a silver dollar burned in his coat where he’d fired at me . . . his revolver a yard away in the sand. I pocketed it. Then I picked him up and carried him back to the house . . . sea foam, frothy as beer, in his hair as I followed the same route he himself had taken three days before when he had dragged the unconscious body of Fletcher Claypoole to the house.

5- “A Miss Bessemer is in the Outer Office,” Miss Flynn looked at me with granite eyes. “She has No Appointment.”

“I’ll see her anyway. Poor child . . . she was involved in a white slave ring in Georgia. I’m trying to rehabilitate her.”

Miss Flynn’s reply was largely italics. She disappeared and Liz bounded into my office, her face glowing. “A hero! Darling Peter a herol When I read about it I didn’t believe it was the same one I knew ... the same Peter Sargeant who...” Words for once failed her. I allowed her to kiss my cheek.

“I had no idea you were so brave. . .

“Ah.”

“And so right.” Liz sat down in the chair beside my desk and stared at me.

I waved modestly. “I was merely doing my duty, Ma'am. We here in southern Ontario feel that duty’s enough without any of this horn-blowing...”

Liz’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I must say I suspected him too. Oh, I didn’t say anything about it but I had a hunch . . . you know how it is. Especially that night at Evans’ party, right after he killed his uncle ... his eyes were set too close together.”

“Eyes?”

“You can always tell: eyes and hands ... set too close together means a criminal.”

“His hands were set too close together...”

“Now don’t be maddening! He shot at you, didn’t he?”

I nodded calmly.

“Then you threw him to the ground and used judo to make him confess.”

“A somewhat highly colored version of what happened,” I said. “I was very brave though. Since he has the build of a somewhat frail praying mantis, you might say I had the edge on him.”

“Even so he had a gun. I suppose he’ll get the chair.” She sounded matter-of-fact.

“Never can tell. They’ll probably plead insanity ... especially after they read those notebooks of his. He gives the whole thing away . . . writes about a perfect crime which resembles the one he committed. I think he was a kind of maniac...”

“Oh you could tell that just by looking at him. I knew the first time I ever laid eyes on him. Not that I ever thought he’d done it. ... I won't say that...”

“Yet.”

“No, I won't say that but I did think him peculiar and you see how right I was. I’ve never seen so much space as the Globe gave you . . . that Mr. Bush must’ve been livid.”

“I think he was distressed.” It made me feel good, thinking of Elmer’s column being all chopped up because the issue which had contained my story had had a particularly well-displayed “America’s New York” telling how Elmer himself had helped gather the evidence which was to send Brexton to his just reward.

“Where’s Brexton now?”

“I don’t know. I think he’s gone off somewhere to hide . . . also to marry Allie when this thing dies down.” I got up and went over to a corner of the office where, face to the wall, was a large painting. “Brexton, with tears in his eyes, said he would give me anything I wanted: money, paintings . . . anything. I asked for this.” I turned the canvas around and there, triumphantly nude, reveling in her own golden skin was the young Mary Western Lung, not yet a penwoman, not yet the incomparable, fertile source of “Book-Chat.”

Liz shrieked with pleasure. “It’s Miss Lung! I can tell. You know she wasn’t at all bad-looking.”

“I ‘intend to keep this in the office for all to see. I shall collect a small but useful sum each month to keep it out of the hands of her competitors and enemies...”

“Her breasts were too big,” said Liz critically, that sharp slanted mean look on her face that women assume when examining on another.

“Many people like them that way,” I said, turning the picture back to the wall.

“Shall I go?”

“No, as a matter of fact there is an exercise which I’ve only just submitted to the patent office: it will make a pair of water wings out of the most nondescript. ...” I was heading purposefully toward Liz when the title box on my desk spluttered, exactly like Miss Flynn. I answered it.

“That Mr. Wheen who has been trying to contact you . . . he is on the Wire.” Miss Flynn’s voice dripped acid . . . she knew what was going on in the Inner Office. “I'll talk to him,” I said.

Liz came and sat on my lap, her hands were busy and embarrassing. “Stop that!” were the first words of mine Mr. Wheen heard.

“Stop what?” The voice was harsh, gravelly. “I just now got you, Mr. Sergeant...”

“I didn’t mean you, sir,” I said smoothly. “I understand you've been trying to get in touch with me...”

“Yeah, that’s right. I think I got a job for you. It’s about Muriel Sandoe.”

“Muriel Sandoe? I don’t think...”

“She was an associate of mine. You know her maybe by her professional name in the circus: ‘Peaches’ Sandoe. Well, you see this elephant. . .