The Old Die Young

by RICHARD LOCKRIDGE

  We meet the characters on a sunny afternoon in June—the twenty-first of June and birthday of the host. It is an “Anybody for tennis” afternoon, and Askew actually uses that famously antique line, in a wry fashion; it is spoken by Louis Derwent and is intended as a comment on his own maturity. We find the characters at cocktails on the terrace of the Derwents’ Long Island House….

  Shapiro did not finish that review, either. They obviously were not raves—not likely to bring ticket brokers racing to the box office waving checks, or to form long lines of customers at the box-office windows, unless to cancel and get their money back. If the wire-service reviewers reacted similarly, visitors to the city might also stay away. Of course, the sharpest criticism was of Branson, and there wasn’t any more Branson. It wasn’t Nathan’s worry. After all, if he accepted Simon’s invitation, as he probably would, he would be seeing Summer Solstice the next night. With Rose in the next seat; with Kenneth Price playing the part of Louis Derwent.

  Shapiro went downtown by subway to the second-floor offices of Homicide, Manhattan South. Deputy Inspector William Weigand was gone for the day. Acting Captain Carmichael was in charge of the four-to-midnight shift. The full autopsy report on Clive Branson hadn’t come through yet.

  Shapiro went home to Brooklyn and to his wife.

  8

  Rachel Farmer did not answer her doorbell when Tony Cook rang it in the Gay Street entrance. Tony was not greatly surprised. Probably there was still enough north light to paint by and Rachel was still standing, naked and perhaps shivering slightly, in a drafty studio. It is her view that studios are built to accumulate drafts.

  Tony rang a second time before he used his key. He would leave a note asking her to come upstairs, or to telephone upstairs, because there was a favor he wanted to ask of her.

  But in the living room of the apartment, which overlooks Gay Street, he could hear the shower running in the bathroom off the bedroom. Looking in, he could see Rachel’s clothes lying on the bed—the wide bed which had replaced the narrow one she had had there when they met.

  He sat down where he could look into the familiar bedroom and waited. He did not have to wait long. The bathroom door opened and Rachel, all the long grace of her, came out into the bedroom. She was not wearing anything. It was warm in the apartment. She saw Tony and said, “Hi.” Then, as she walked toward him, she said, “You’re early, Tony. Way early. What time is it?”

  It was a few minutes after five, and he told her so.

  “We said seven,” she told him. “Almost two hours early. Not that I mind, although I’d thought of having a nap. But a drink will do as well, I guess.” She came out into the living room and sat on the deep sofa. She was still naked, but it was still warm in the apartment. As far as Rachel is concerned clothing is to keep off cold. Oh, and to dress up to go out. Tony got chilled bottles from the refrigerator—dry sherry for Rachel, gin and dry vermouth for himself. He poured her sherry into a chilled glass, mixed his martini, served them both.

  He managed not to touch her, although the avoidance was difficult. He did sit on the sofa beside her.

  “The thing is,” he said, “Nate and I could use your help on something.”

  “So Branson was murdered,” she said. “The radio was pretty vague about it. Sort of evasive. The way it can be, you know.”

  “Yes, it looks as if he may have been.”

  “Atwitz keeps the radio on while he’s painting. On loud. But he does keep his place reasonably warm, I’ll say that for him. I suppose it’s warmer if you’re wearing something. Help on what, dear?”

  “Have you got an agent? I mean one to get you parts in plays.”

  “No. Only Ray Lambert. You’ve met him.”

  Tony had met Ray Lambert, who was an agent for models, not for actors. But Rachel had only in the last year or so been getting acting jobs.

  “And,” Rachel said, “I’d better get one or give the whole thing up. I can’t go on sitting around in casting offices, trying not to look too tall. So what, Tony?”

  “You are a member of Actors Equity?”

  “Of course. Have to be, if you’re a pro. And I’m getting to be a pro, Tony.”

  He knew she was. He had seen her in a play. Hers was a small part; from Tony’s point of view, she stole the show.

  He told her he knew she was. He said, “This Equity. Do you suppose it has a list of actors’ agents? Of people it can recommend to members?”

  She didn’t know. Probably it had. But to recommend one over others, she doubted. “Why, Tony?”

  He told her why—background and general standing of an agency named Martha Abel Associates.

  “I think I’ve heard of it, dear. But—wait a minute. I know somebody who knows everything about everybody. In the theater, I mean. A very good actress. Always working. And I know where she’ll be at—what time is it now? I’m not wearing my watch.”

  Tony had noticed that, and that she was not wearing anything else, a condition of which she was probably unaware. It was twenty minutes of six.

  “Then in about an hour, Janice will be having a drink in the Algonquin lounge. When she’s working, which is almost always, she has one drink at six thirty and a bite to eat—just a bite, she says, before the performance. If we hurry, we can catch her in the lounge. Or in the restaurant. If we leave right now and are lucky about a taxi.”

  She moved on the sofa as if to get up and start looking for a cab.

  “Clothes, dear,” Tony said. “And I could do with a shower. And a clean shirt.”

  “You know where the shower is,” she told him. “I don’t run to clean shirts. That one looks reasonably—”

  “Ten minutes,” Tony said. “Back by the time you dress.”

  Upstairs in his own apartment, it took fifteen minutes for him to shower and get into a suit recently back from the cleaners. Rachel was dressed and ready when he went down. On Sixth Avenue they were lucky with a cab. It was six twenty when they found a place in the Algonquin’s lounge-lobby, from which they could see the elevators.

  Janice—Janice Towne, it turned out to be—came out of the elevator at precisely six thirty. She was a slim woman, probably in her mid-forties, and wore a gray dress with red splashings which did little to blur the outlines of an admirable body. Rachel started to get up, presumably to wave greeting and invitation to Janice Towne, but Tony touched her arm and shook his head.

  “No reason to have to explain me,” he told her. “For the moment, we’re not together. I’m”—he looked around the room, which was filling, in which bells were tinkling—“over there.” He went over there. He watched Rachel, full of innocent surprise and pleasure, summon Janice Towne to the seat he had just vacated. He watched as their table bell brought a waiter hurrying to them. He already had a martini on a tray and put it on the table in front of Miss Towne, who clearly was a patron whose wishes were known and were to be anticipated. Miss Towne evidently said, “Thank you,” and the waiter bowed over her drink. He bowed again as he took Rachel’s order, of course for a very dry sherry, Tio Pepe if available. Janice Towne began to sip, and the two began to talk.

  Tony tapped the bell of his own table. The response was not so prompt. The lounge was filling rapidly. But a waiter did come and take an order for a very dry martini. Tony lighted a cigarette and waited. After a few minutes, his drink came and Janice Towne finished hers and smiled at Rachel and stood up. She went to the restaurant, where the maître d’ waited to greet her.

  Tony, after a pause, went to join Rachel, carrying his drink.

  Rachel said, “Is there a the Jason Abel you know of, Tony?”

  For a moment, Tony could not think of any Jason Abel who merited a the. Unless—

  “A financier,” he said. “One of the country’s big fortunes. Maybe the world’s big fortunes.”

  “Sounds right. Mrs. Abel was married to him. For about five years, Janice thinks. Married her when she was a young actress and, as Janice says, very fetching. They split up fiv
e or six years ago, Mr. Abel being the major splitter, she thinks. Found somebody even more fetching, the rumor was. Married her, too. Marrying type, apparently. Paid Martha for not making a fuss about it. Rumored amount of settlement, something over a million. So Martha went into the agenting business with a good cushion to lean against. She takes on only top clients: the big names, who get the big salaries and, sometimes, percentages of the gross. Here and in Hollywood.”

  “Like the late Clive Branson, I gather?”

  “Yes, Tony. And even bigger ones. There’s no use my trying to get Martha Abel Associates to take me on. Janice did give me the name of a man who might. She’s really a sweet person, Janice is.”

  “Was she curious that you’d be asking about Martha Abel Associates right after Branson’s death?”

  “She didn’t seem to be. I just said I was looking for an agent and had heard of the Abel outfit and what did she think? And wasn’t it lucky running into her?”

  He told her that it was good going and tapped the bell for another round. They sipped drinks and watched people, a few of whom went directly into the restaurant.

  They finished their drinks and Tony tinkled the bell again and the waiter came again, this time more quickly. While they waited for his return, Tony walked to the restaurant door and the maître d’. Yes, they could have a table for two. The one there, at the end of the bar, would be all right? The table at the end of the bar is a choice one at the Algonquin. Sitting at it, one—or more likely two—can see whoever comes in. And, of course, be as easily seen, which to many has its points. In about ten minutes? Certainly, sir.

  Tony went back to Rachel and they finished their drinks, not hurrying. Rachel put her glass down. She said, “One thing Janice told me I almost forgot. But probably it doesn’t matter, hasn’t got anything to do with anything. There’s a woman named Barnes in this play Mr. Branson was starring in—Summer something, isn’t it?—Helen Barnes, and a very good actress, Janice said. Character parts the last few years. Mother roles. That’s what she is in the Branson play. Somebody’s mother. Isn’t that right?”

  “The young wife’s mother,” Tony said. “What did Miss Towne tell you about her?”

  “Well, she used to be married to Branson. Years ago, apparently. Only it didn’t take, Janice doesn’t know why. And I’m beginning to get hungry, I think.”

  At the table the captain was alert. Yes, they did care to order now. Certainly, Mr. Cook’s roast beef would be rare. And a chef’s salad for madame? But of course. And a martini for you, sir? Extra dry? And a twist, no olive. Yes, certainly.

  “I thought you were hungry,” Tony said. “A salad?”

  “The way they make it here,” Rachel said. “And are you sure you really need another drink?”

  Tony was sure enough, although “need” was not precisely the word he would—

  He stopped and looked at the youngish, slim man who had just come in from the lounge. The man hesitated just inside the dining room, only feet from their table. The maître d’ greeted him. The maître d’ said, “Good evening, Mr. Askew. Just one, sir?” to the author of Summer Solstice.

  Askew merely nodded and was led down the long room. The maître d’ pulled a single table away from the wall, and Askew sat on the banquette. A waiter was there at once.

  “Bret Askew,” Tony told Rachel. “He wrote the play Branson was in.”

  “Also,” Rachel said, “he looked like being a little under the alfluence of incohol.”

  “Tee many martoonis,” Tony said, completing the elderly gag.

  The captain turned from the bar and put Tony’s martini in front of him. Slivers of lemon peel came with it, in a small separate dish. The captain, Tony thought, had an excellent memory, or remarkable intuition. Tony twisted a lemon strip over his drink and rubbed it around the edge of the glass. But he did this automatically. He continued to look down the restaurant at Bret Askew, who was sitting very erectly on the banquette and who had both hands on the table.

  “You could be right,” Tony told Rachel.

  He watched as Askew’s waiter put a jigger containing bourbon, to judge from the color, on Askew’s table, a glass with ice cubes in it, and a small pitcher of water.

  Askew poured bourbon on the ice cubes. He ignored the water. If Askew was feeling no pain, he was, even more clearly, feeling no need for caution.

  Tony looked thoughtfully at his own drink. It was just possible Rachel had a—his mind did not finish the sentence with its inevitable word. Movement by Askew interrupted it. The movement was the abrupt raising of the bourbon on rocks, the draining of it, the putting it down again on the table. Askew put his empty glass down hard, almost with violence. Then he pushed the table away from him, that movement, too, abrupt; the table teetered a little. The waiter steadied it, perhaps just in time, and pulled it out, freeing Askew. The waiter said something, but Tony could only guess what. He could see Bret Askew shake his head. He also accepted the waiter’s offered hand as he stood. Then he walked toward the front of the long room.

  It could not be said that Askew staggered. But his gait was uncertain. Once, passing one of the central tables, he put a hand, obviously a steadying hand, on the back of one of its chairs. He came on toward the bar. When he reached it, he put his left hand on it and turned to face Rachel and Tony at their table. He leaned a little toward them, still clutching the bar.

  “You’re the police, aren’t you?” Askew said. At least it sounded like that to Tony. Askew’s voice, which had been sharply crisp and precise earlier in the day, was muffled now, just intelligible.

  Tony said, “Yes, Mr. Askew.”

  “Something in my drink,” Askew said. “Feel terri—n.” He gave up on the word. He turned away and moved, still uncertainly, toward the entrance to the lobby.

  There had been something in his drink—drinks—Tony thought. The something had been alcohol. Probably on an empty stomach. Probably drunk too fast, as he had gulped the one at the table. Tony watched the slim man walk toward the elevators, walking very carefully among the lounge tables, now all occupied. Of course, Askew had been under a strain. Everybody connected with Summer Solstice had had a day of strain. Askew, probably, had sought relaxation too ardently. Still—

  His pupils had been dilated—very dilated. He had not only looked down at Tony, he had peered down, as if he were peering through a fog. Of course, excessive alcohol has effects which vary with individuals. With some it leads to clouding of the mind; some it elates and some are depressed. And with some, motor impulses are interfered with, and they stagger. But dilation of the pupils? Tony did not know. He watched Askew go not too steadily into an elevator car.

  “Well,” Rachel said, “the poor guy.” She made rather a point of looking fixedly at Tony’s still barely touched martini.

  Challenged, Tony sipped from it. But he only sipped. He put the glass down the width of the table away. Still, of course, within reach.

  “Sorry,” Rachel said. “Didn’t mean to be wifely.” She reached over and touched his hand. Tony closed his fingers around hers. The waiter brought their food then, and the captain served it. He mixed Rachel’s salad in a wooden bowl and put only a part of it on her plate. He moved the salad bowl out of the way. It had been a good deal of salad. It contained strips of chicken and what Tony took to be ham. Chef’s salads vary, presumably with chefs. Tony released Rachel’s hand, freeing it for a fork.

  Tony’s roast beef was properly rare. The slice included the rib.

  Tony took another sip of his martini, to prove nothing in particular—except that the drink was no longer very cold—and ate roast beef. But he thought of dilated pupils. Unsteady gait, mumbled speech, yes, of course. To be expected from a too hurried search for relaxation of nerves by the alcoholic route. A glassiness of eyes? Sometimes. But pupils so obviously dilated?

  “You’re letting your food get cold,” Rachel told him. “Are you all right, Tony? Or have you gone back to working on this case of yours? Yours and Lieutenant
Shapiro’s?”

  “Sorry,” Tony said. “Salad all right?”

  The salad was all right. It was fine. So, returned to, was the rare roast beef. As they ate, they talked little. Over coffee, they talked, but not of murder. After Tony had signed the check he suggested brandy in the lounge. Rachel said, “Well—”, doubt in her voice.

  “After all,” Tony said, “I never finished my cocktail.”

  “I’m sorry I sounded wifely,” Rachel said again. “Cognac would be fine. You may have to carry me to the cab, of course.”

  There was a sofa free in the lounge. It faced the hotel desk, and the clerk behind it was a man Tony knew. Campbell. That was his name. Tony tinkled the bell and a waiter came.

  “Two Martells,” Tony said. “Not in snifters. And two small coffees.”

  The waiter said, “Sir,” and went away.

  “Would you like to be?” Tony said.

  “What? Like to be what, dear?”

  “Wifely,” Tony said.

  She looked at him for a moment, thoughtfully. “Not especially,” she said, after the pause. “We’re all right the way we are. Aren’t we?”

  “We’re fine the way we are,” Tony said. “I just wondered.”

  “We’re fine,” Rachel said. “I like things the way they are. If I—well, if I change my mind I’ll mention it. Probably.”

  Their drinks and coffee came. Tony signed for them and they sipped, sitting close together on the sofa, watching other people in the relaxing room. There was a couple in long dress and black tie, and the man looked, several times, at the watch on his wrist.

  “Early for a party somewhere,” Rachel said. “Killing time.”

  “Or heading for a first night,” Tony said.

  “I don’t think there is any tonight,” Rachel told him. “Anyway, people don’t dress for them much anymore. And also, they’d be late.”