The Devil Loves Me

10

Dinah was the first one down for breakfast the next morning.

Jackson was plugging in the percolator when she came in. He straightened up and gave her a deferential smile but his eyes were a little surprised. It was only eight o’clock for one thing, and she was dressed to go out. For another, she seemed to have forgotten the past forty-eight hours. She looked almost the same as on the day she had arrived, her thin mouth fixed in a permanent half smile, her eyes narrowed and knowing and cold.

She wore a yellow wool dress with a brown belt tight around her waist. Her hair was combed back from her smooth white forehead.

“The usual, Jackson,” she said.

“Yes, Mrs. Revel.”

On his way to the kitchen he passed behind her chair and looked down at her. He could see the layers of powder on her face and the skin under her eyes like gray-white crepe paper. He was a little shocked.

When he came back with her orange juice he said, “Lovely morning, isn’t it?”

She looked out of the window. An uncertain sun was feeling its way down through the thin air. She turned her eyes away.

“I don’t like the fall,” she said. “It’s lonely. It’s like death.”

Jackson laughed. He wanted the laugh to tell her that he understood exactly but that it was an absurd idea. He wanted it to tell her to forget Williams, who was a bum, and to realize that he, Jackson, was a very remarkable fellow.

It didn’t do any of these things. It sounded like a giggle and Dinah’s voice cut through it: “What’s funny?”

“I— Nothing. I was simply being agreeable,” he said lamely. “I wanted to cheer you up.”

“One sure way not to cheer me up is to giggle in my ear, Jackson. Let’s get that settled.”

“Yes, Mrs. Revel.”

He poured her coffee and handed it to her silently. She lit a cigarette and watched him through the smoke.

“You don’t belong here, Jackson.”

Jackson was very polite. “No, madam.”

“Why are you here?”

“Three square meals and a bed, madam. And I find the work congenial.”

“I suppose you write poetry in your off hours, or movie scripts or novels all about life as it never has been and never will be lived.”

Jackson thought of the half-finished novel locked in a drawer of his bureau and his “No, madam,” was not convincing.

But Dinah was paying no attention anyway.

“Realism,” she said. “Sometimes I think some of these realistic sex novelists have never been to bed with a woman except perhaps in a house catering to the college trade. They go to the movies and they see a big love scene and they think, now if I replaced that Schiaparelli nightgown with a two-bit tablecloth from Woolworth’s, I’d have life as it really is. I don’t know why it’s so much realer to go to bed with a man on a squeaky cot than on an inner spring mattress. But there it is. I’m told it’s so.”

There was a gasp from the doorway. Jane was standing there with her mouth open and her eyes widened, and, Dinah thought cynically, with her ears pricked up.

“Dinah! Honestly!” She came into the room with indignant little bounces. “What will Jackson—? I mean, hadn’t you better—? Oh dear!”

She sat down, exhausted from the effort of trying to express herself, and told Jackson in a very cold voice that she was not at all hungry and he was to omit the bacon from her usual breakfast.

Jackson went out.

“You eat like a bird, my love,” Dinah said silkily. “A robin, for instance. Do you know that a robin will eat sixteen feet of earthworms in a day? Someone told me that once. I thought it only goes to show, doesn’t it?”

“Sixteen feet? Really?” Jane sipped her grapefruit juice thoughtfully.

Dinah leaned across the table.

“Jane,” she said, “I know you’re dumb. But how dumb? That’s what I keep asking myself: How dumb is Jane?”

“Honestly, I never—”

“Is she, I ask myself, dumb enough not to know that Duncan was smuggling something across the border in his luggage to hand over to Revel?”

“Smuggling?” Jane repeated, frowning. “Oh, you must be crazy, Dinah. Duncan had plenty of money. He had no need to smuggle anything anywhere.”

“Maybe he wasn’t doing it for money. Maybe he wanted some excitement. God knows if I had to look at that dead pan of yours every day I’d want some excitement too.”

“You’ve had your excitement!” Jane cried. “You’ve disgraced the whole family with your dreadful marriage.”

“It was dreadful,” Dinah said softly, “hut it was a marriage.”

When Jackson came back he found them glaring at each other silently. He said, “I hope you find your egg satisfactory, Miss Stevens.”

She started and glanced down at the plate in front of her. “It’s fine,” she said. “Thank you.”

A short time later Prye appeared, exchanged greetings, and sat down beside Jane.

“You look spry,” Dinah observed.

“I should. I’m trying hard,” Prye said, grinning. “Every morning when I wake up I remind myself that I am thirty-eight and that it becomes increasingly difficult to look spry as one ages. So I hop out of bed, attach my smile, and look spry.”

“Are you really?” Jane said.

Prye looked at her in surprise. “Am I what?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“At least thirty-eight,” Prye said solemnly.

“How does it feel?” Jane asked.

“It feels like eighteen,” Prye said. “I’m still trying to decide what I’ll be when I grow up.”

“If you grow up,” Dinah said.

Prye smiled at her. “Claws all sharpened up this morning, Dinah?”

“Dinah is in a vile mood,” Jane said sadly. “I don’t see why we can’t all be pleasant to each other. I’m sure I’ve suffered more than anyone has and I’m not being unpleasant. Live and let live, I say.”

“An unfortunate phrase,” Dinah said. “As most of your phrases are.”

Jackson placed a rack of fresh toast on the table and went out again.

“If Jackson doesn’t take to blackmail,” Prye said, “it won’t be from lack of material. We’ll all have to be more careful of our words.”

Jane put down her toast and drew a deep breath. “I agree with you. Dinah’s too... too informal. She was telling Jackson about sex when I came in.”

“Cheer up,” Prye said. “Maybe he’ll pass it on to you.”

Jane got up from the table and faced them both accusingly. “Do you know what I think?”

“No,” Prye said.

“I think you’re all mean, just plain mean!”

She swept out of the room and slammed the door behind her.

“So do I,” Prye said. “I feel rather mean this morning, don’t you?”

“Quite,” Dinah said.

“It’s probably the weather. Or the toast. I have a theory about this toast. Want to hear it?”

“Not much.”

“Well, Mrs. Hogan makes it before she goes to bed and leaves it out all night to air.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Dinah said.

She stubbed her cigarette in her saucer and got to her feet. She didn’t walk away, but stood, hesitating, gazing down at him for some time.

“My dear Dinah,” Prye said finally, “I can’t stand people who stand around watching other people eat. It makes me feel coarse and unspiritual. If you have anything to say, say it. I guarantee an answer.”

She said, “Are you an honest man, Prye?”

“Oh hell,” Prye said, shaken. “This is my most embarrassing moment.”

“You guaranteed an answer. Remember?”

“Very well. I think I’m pretty honest, in most things, in my profession, in my relations with my friends, about money—”

“And about facts, unpleasant ones?”

Prye smiled ironically. “I recognize unpleasant facts when they confront me but I haven’t your zest for going around hunting them. What are you leading up to?”

“The murderer,” she said. “I want the murderer to hang.”

“The customary end for murderers in your country, I believe,” Prye said. “What has my honesty to do with anything?”

“I want you to help me investigate. But, you see, it just might turn out to be someone you like, and you might not want a hanging.”

“True.”

“Can you honestly say that you want the truth to come out no matter what it is?”

“No,” Prye said.

She put her hand on his shoulder. “I thought not. You may be honest but you don’t carry it too far? I see.”

“Honesty,” Prye said, “is the word most frequently used or misused by the superior type of neurotic. The neurotic is fundamentally dishonest. His very personality is dependent on a confounding of issues. Hence the repetition of the word ‘honesty’—”

Dinah was not listening. “You have a reputation for snooping, but I notice you’ve been very quiet these days, very subdued. You aren’t sticking your nose into people’s drawers or tapping walls or tearing around in your stocking feet in the middle of the night.”

“I never have,” Prye said. “I always use running shoes in case of nails on the floor.”

“So my guess is you know who killed Duncan and Dennis and you’re not telling.”

“I don’t know.”

“And you know why they were killed.”

“Yes,” Prye said. “But Sands knows too. I’m not holding anything back.”

“Are you going to help me?”

He was silent, his eyes resting on her speculatively. “No, I’m not,” he said finally. “Because I’m not sure you didn’t kill them yourself.”

She was not offended. She merely turned away with a sigh. “I see.” She went out.

Shortly afterward the doorbell rang and Jackson came through the dining room to answer it. Prye could hear men talking in the hall. Their voices were loud and slightly belligerent, as if they were nervous underneath and would not admit it. When Jackson came back his face was white with anger.

“What’s up?” Prye asked him.

“Three plain-clothes men,” Jackson said. “They’ve got a search warrant.”

“That’s to be expected. Sands with them?”

“No sir. What do they expect to find in this house? It’s an imposition.”

Wonder what he’s got hidden in his room that he doesn’t want found, Prye thought. A diary, perhaps. Or some letters, or a collection of French photographs.

“They won’t read your correspondence,” Prye said. “They’re after something weightier.” He paused. “You know something, Jackson? When anyone says anything that interests you your ears wiggle. Honestly. It’s quite pronounced.”

Jackson put one hand up to his ear, blushing.

“Another argument for evolution,” Prye went on.

“I think,” Jackson said, “that you’re baiting me, and I don’t like it.”

“I’m trying to make you angry, Jackson, so you’ll make some off-the-record remarks you wouldn’t make otherwise. But I guess that won’t work. You Harvard men are too casual. You dress casually and talk casually and get casual haircuts. I often wonder where all this casualness is going to lead us.”

“So you think I’m holding out on you?” Jackson said bitterly. “To hell with you. You gave me twenty bucks yesterday to report a telephone call. Well, here’s your twenty. Now forget it. From now on—”

“I hate gestures,” Prye said. “Keep the twenty. Sorry I misjudged you.”

He went to the door and turned around with a dry smile. “If I misjudged you,” he added.

In the hall he saw two of the plain-clothes men on the way upstairs. The third, a tall, gangling young man, was standing on tiptoe peering behind a gilt-framed oil painting. He had his back to Prye.

“Looking for pixies?” Prye said pleasantly.

The man jerked around and stuck out his chin. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“The name is Prye, tough child. Dr. Prye.”

“Oh.” The man seemed embarrassed. “Well, I’ve got a message for you from Inspector Sands. He had to go to Boston.”

“What’s the message?”

The man looked cautiously up and down the hall and edged closer to Prye. “He said you could save him some trouble by getting handwriting samples from everyone in the house. He said you’re to be subtle.”

“Did Sands say that? The dog. I’m always subtle.”

“Those were his very words, ‘be subtle.’ He said to make a game of it, you know, like charades.”

“Sands,” Prye said, “is losing his grip. You don’t get handwriting samples by playing charades.”

“He says so,” the man repeated. “He says, too, if you don’t want to co-operate you don’t have to, but if you don’t he’ll have to get the samples by stealth or force.”

“I put my money on stealth. That’s all he said, eh? When will he be back?”

“Tonight.”

“I’ll get them,” Prye said coldly; “but Sands or no Sands you don’t get handwriting samples by playing charades.”

“He says so,” the young man repeated, and walked away toward the basement.

For the next two hours the Shane household found stray policemen in the most unexpected places.

Aspasia came upon one in her bathroom and promptly burst into tears. Jane, in a spirit of sweet helpfulness, attached herself to the policeman who searched her room. After falling over her several times the policeman escorted her firmly to the door and told her to go away.

Saddened and bewildered by this lack of appreciation, Jane drifted into the drawing room. Nora was at the piano idly picking out some mournful chords. Revel was sitting in a chair by the window holding a book. His eyes were closed.

“Hello,” Jane said. “I think policemen are horrid. One of them just shoved me.”

Revel opened his eyes and said, “The brute. Tell us all about it. Was it a hard shove? And in what spirit was the deed performed? Playful or sinister?”

“Oh, George,” Jane said reproachfully.

“Don’t mind him,” Nora said. “George has a bad conscience this morning.”

Revel smiled. “It isn’t so bad. I’ve made certain necessary adjustments of the truth but my hands are bloodless.”

“Rather a pity,” Nora said. “If true. You know, I can’t say I’m very fond of you, George. I think you know why.”

“Dinah,” Revel said.

Nora nodded. “Yes, she’s changed a lot in the past few years.”

“That couldn’t have been her fault, of course?”

“The judge thought not.”

“Judges,” Revel said, “don’t know everything. And, I’m sorry to be ungallant, neither do you.”

He flung his book down and went out. Jane stared after him with puzzled eyes.

“Oh dear!” she cried. “What is the matter with everyone? Whatever anyone says around here seems to have two meanings. When I say something it hasn’t got two meanings.”

“You’re damn lucky if it’s got one,” Nora said. “Oh, wake up, Jane! We’ve had two murders in this house. Our nerves are on edge. Don’t take everything we say literally. We’re just working off steam.”

“Why does everybody have to work off steam on me?” Jane wailed. “What have I done?”

Nora got up from the piano and went over and patted Jane’s plump shoulder.

“You haven’t done anything,” she said soothingly. “You’re just the victim type. Some are and some aren’t. You are.”

“It’s not fair. I always try to be pleasant. I never say mean things to anybody. Why, I never even think mean things about anybody.”

“That,” Nora said, “is the trouble. Go on. Think of something mean about me right now.”

Jane frowned thoughtfully into space for some time.

“Well,” she said finally, “I don’t much like your gray dress with the funny pockets. The pockets make you look rather... rather hippy, I thought.”

Nora sat down abruptly.

“You win,” she said.

At that moment Hilda came in the door and strode angrily over to Nora.

“I quit,” she announced.

“You did quit, Hilda,” Nora said coldly. “It’s becoming almost a habit, isn’t it?”

“That guy’s going through my letters up there. I won’t stand for it! I’ll scratch his eyes out!”

She was close to tears. Nora said in a kindly voice, “Do, if it will make you feel any better.”

“I never murdered anyone,” Hilda cried. “Why, I never even stole anything in my whole life. And now that guy’s reading my letters.”

“That’s not a tragedy, is it?” Nora put her arm around the girl’s shoulders. “I know you haven’t done anything, Hilda.”

Nora guided her out of the door, talking steadily. A policeman was coming down the stairs. He walked aggressively toward Nora.

“What’s in that big box in your room? It’s locked and I can’t find a key.”

“I’m a secret drinker,” Nora said. “That’s where I keep my empty bottles.”

The policeman grunted. “I’m not getting much help around here. The inspector’ll hear about this.”

“It’s a shame,” Nora said. “And you so sweet and pleasant. The box is a cedar chest.”

“You mean a hope chest?”

“If you really crave accuracy,” Nora said, “call it a blasted-hope chest.”

“And the key?”

“Third drawer in my bureau under some pink silk pants.”

The policeman blushed and said, “Oh, there?”

He turned on his heel and went back up the stairs. For lack of anything interesting to do Nora followed him up. In the hall on the second floor they came upon Prye explaining to the tall, gangling young man that what the police lacked was System.

“You should,” Prye said, “begin at the top and work down.”

“Or begin at the bottom,” Nora said helpfully, “and work up. It amounts to the same thing. Or you might even try working both ends against the middle.”

There was another exchange of glances between the policemen. The older one sighed and said, “Sorry, but the inspector told me if I encountered any resistance I was to put you all together in a room and get on with my work.”

“So it’s come to this,” Nora said.

“It has,” the policeman assured her grimly. “Are you going downstairs peacefully?”

“We certainly are,” Nora said.

When they reached the drawing room they found Jane still curled up in a chair. She had obviously been pondering on her conversation with Nora, for her opening remark was:

“What do you mean, I am a victim type? It sounds silly to me.”

Prye, sensing a battle, withdrew to the windows.

“Nothing,” Nora said, sinking into a chair. “Sorry I broached the subject.”

“Well!” Jane sat up indignantly. “But you did broach it. What am I a victim of, I’d like to know?”

“I apologized, didn’t I?”

“Well, I should hope so. Duncan always said that it was an extremely rude thing to insult a guest in your home.”

Nora sniffed. “Duncan. If you don’t stop quoting Duncan, you—”

“ ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud,’ ” Prye said loudly “ ‘That floats on high o’er vales and hills.’ ”

“—wretched little—”

“ ‘When all at once I saw a crowd,

“ ‘A host, of golden daffodils.’ ”

“—daffodil!”

“Daffodil!” Jane shrieked.

“Girls,” Prye said. “ ‘The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year.’ ”

A voice from the doorway said, “What in the hell is going on here?” and Dinah came in, looking from one to the other inquiringly. Aspasia and Mrs. Shane were right behind her.

“We were having a spot of poetry,” Prye said easily.

“How nice!” Aspasia said warmly. “Jennifer, remember how Father used to recite Yeats to us?”

Mrs. Shane glanced dryly at Prye. “I had no idea you were fond of poetry, Paul. Don’t let us interrupt you.”

“The spell is broken,” Prye said.

Jane gave a loud, vigorous snort.

“One feels suddenly like quoting poetry,” Prye explained, “and then, quite as suddenly, one feels like not quoting poetry.”

“I see,” Mrs. Shane said mildly. “That exhausts the subject as far as I’m concerned. Shall we have some bridge while we’re waiting for the policemen to finish?”

“Oh, no thinking game, please,” Aspasia pleaded. “Honestly. I’m so upset. I walked into the bathroom and there he was. Revolting! He snarled at me.”

“I was shoved!” Jane said in a tone of delicate superiority.

“You’ve both been badly used,” Dinah said. “I suggest that you write letters to the Prime Minister about the whole dastardly episode. Meanwhile, the rest of us can play bridge.”

“Charades,” Prye said.

“Let’s all write letters to the Prime Minister,” Nora said. “Get everything off our chests. Then we’ll tear them up, of course.”

“Disloyal,” Aspasia muttered.

Dinah turned to Jane. “Can you read and write, you darling?”

“I am not speaking to you,” Jane announced. “And anyway I don’t know who the Prime Minister is, and I don’t care to play such nasty games. Unless everyone else is playing too. I’m sure I’m the last person to spoil anyone else’s fun.”

The next half-hour was filled with quiet activity. The only sound in the room was the cracking of Jane’s pencil between her teeth.

An hour later, while Inspector Sands was in Boston talking to the most beautiful blonde he’d ever seen, Prye was in his room reading five letters to the Prime Minister. One of these he singled out and studied for some time. The writing was so similar to Duncan’s that it might have passed for his.

The letter was signed Dinah Revel.

Dinah, Prye thought. It might have been Dinah who wrote the letter beginning Dear George. Dinah was seen coming out of Duncan’s room...

No, it wasn’t possible. Dinah and Duncan were cousins. The handwriting of relatives tends to be similar.

“Besides, I like her,” Prye said.

Funny, he thought, I’m doing what Dinah herself was afraid I’d do, making excuses for someone because I like her.