by Jack Iams
“And the third bear, the little one—”
“The little bear,” said Sybil’s calm and not unamused voice from the doorway, “cried, ‘wee-wee-wee’ all the way back to his own bedroom.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Status Quo Post Bedroom
The rain had stopped the next morning, and the sun had come out, but breakfast was something less than jolly. The sunlight was of a cold, pale variety that probed the dining-room surgically, resting with particular unkindness on Millie’s rather heavy make-up.
Millie had made a feeble stab at establishment of a status quo ante bedroom by remarking that she did declare, she’d had so many drinkies the night before she didn’t remember a thing after the sandwiches. Nobody believed her, but it provided her with a line on which to fight it out.
Sybil buttered toast with cool self-possession, as if she were at a table in a crowded restaurant with two strangers from a lower stratum. One passed them the marmalade but one didn’t become familiar.
As for Tim, he just sat and suffered. Any grim satisfaction he might have felt at uncovering damning evidence against his wife had been wrecked by his own ridiculous fall from grace. Certainly he had been in no position to play the outraged husband and face Sybil with the proof of her—of her what? Infidelity? He didn’t know. Whatever it was, and aside from his adventures with Reddylocks, he had decided his best move was to lie low in the bushes and see what happened. Meanwhile, he had to sit at the breakfast table in a dignity as shredded as the cereal.
It was a relief all round when the time came for Sybil and Millie to depart. If any hair-pulling developed en route, thought Tim, at least he’d be well out of it.
“When do you expect to be back?” he asked Sybil.
“I’m not quite sure. In any case, I’ll knock this time.”
Tim felt himself flushing. “I thought I might meet you at Bankville.”
“I’ll take a taxi.”
“What about Squareless? Is he better?”
“I think so. You might look in.”
“All right.”
“Anything else?”
“Guess not.”
Sybil bestowed another chilly peck on his cheek.
“Good-by, Mr. Ludlow,” said Millie. “Thank you for a simply lovely evening even if I don’t remember it.”
“Good-by,” said Tim. He waited until he heard the sound of the convertible pulling away from the house, then he went into the little library and aimlessly began to shuffle papers.
* * * *
The red convertible bowled through the barren streets of Merry Point, across the marshland, and then along the straight sandy road through the pines. Bankville came and went, and the thick, fragrant woods closed in again. For perhaps half an hour, neither woman spoke. Then Sybil, leaning back on the leather seat with a cigarette, said, “Miss Marsden, we’ve quite a long trip ahead of us. I’ll stop playing wronged wife if you’ll stop playing defiant hussy.”
“Defiant hussy!” exclaimed Millie. “Well, I like that!”
“What would you suggest?”
“Innocent victim,” said Millie blandly. “After all, I was plied with liquor and chased into bed.”
“I thought you didn’t remember that part.”
“I don’t. Except like a bad dream.”
“A bad dream?” murmured Sybil. “Ah well, de gustibus non est disputandum”
“Keep it clean,” said Millie.
“It would be rather amusing,” said Sybil, “if your Racy Ruth should ask me what I think of American women. Then I could say, well, having found one in bed with my husband last night—”
Millie chuckled but her sidelong glance was uneasy. “Now, honey,” she said, “you wouldn’t do a thing like that to me, would you?”
“It would ginger up the program.”
“We have incidental music to do that. Kidding aside, Mrs. L., no funny business on the air.”
“You’ll admit I’d be justified.”
“I admit no such thing,’” said Millie. “Look, I was tight and I guess your husband was and nothing really happened, anyway. Couldn’t we just forget the whole thing?”
“I’m perfectly willing,” said Sybil, “but I want you to ask me to.”
“Okay. But why?”
“Because I want to ask you something in return.”
“I’m easy to get along with,” said Millie. “What is it?”
Sybil took her cigarette out of her mouth and considered it. “The thing’s complicated,” she said. “And highly confidential.”
“Oh?” said Millie. “Is it legal?”
“Mmm, borderline. Tell me, does your job bring you into much contact with newspaper people?”
“Plenty. I’ve got an ex-husband on the Times.”
“Would he know much about the underworld and that sort of thing?”
“No,” said Millie. “Stamps and pets. That’s his field.”
“Oh,” said Sybil. “Do you know anyone who would know his way about in—well, not underworld circles exactly, but you know what I mean.”
“You mean you’re one of those Britishers who wants to meet a real live gangster?”
“Possibly. I want to get in touch with a man named Jacob Burlick. Perhaps you—”
“Jake Burlick!” exclaimed Millie. “Honey, that’s awful tough company.”
“Do you know him?”
“I don’t exactly know him but I’ve been to the Breeze Club a few times and met him. He’s nobody to fool around with.”
“Well,” said Sybil, “that’s the favor I’m asking. To be put in touch with Jake Burlick.”
“Isn’t he in the jug?”
“Out on bail, according to the papers.”
Millie concentrated for a moment on the road. They were out of the pine belt, now, and the shuttered hot dog stands and roadside taverns stood forlorn against the flat meadows. “Okay,” she said finally. “I know a guy who could fix it up. When do you want to sec him?”
“Soon as possible.”
“Tonight?”
“I thought it might be easier to catch him in the morning. A man who sleeps late, wouldn’t you say?”
“If he ever sleeps. You mean this morning?”
“Yes.”
Millie frowned. “Look, I don’t know what you want with this lug, but don’t go getting mixed up in anything that’ll keep you from the broadcast.”
“Don’t worry,” Sybil reassured her. “How do we go about this?”
Millie looked at her wrist watch. “Tell you what,” she said, “there’s a cute little bar the other side of the tunnel and we can stop there for a pick-me-up and do some phoning. Now am I forgiven?”
“Thoroughly,” said Sybil.
* * * *
“Cute” wasn’t quite the adjective Sybil would have applied to the establishment into which Millie led her. It was located in the lower depths of Greenwich Village, fly-blown and pungent with last night’s beer and today’s cleaning fluid. Still, it was peaceful and soothing, and Sybil settled gratefully enough to a genteel glass of sherry. And a biscuit. Millie ordered a whisky sour and went into the phone booth.
She came back a few minutes later and said, “B-r-r-r-r. Where’s that drink?”
“No luck?”
“Oh, yes, luck. But the guy I called is a late sleeper, too. Nobody a sheltered girl should phone before noon.” She climbed to a barstool beside Sybil and made a face at her first swallow.
“Here’s the dope,” she went on. “Jake lives in a big apartment house across the street from the club. I’ve written down the address for you. He lives in apartment 6-F and the idea is you go straight to the sixth floor. Don’t speak to the guy at the desk. If he stops you, slip him a fin and say you work for the News. If that doesn’t hold him, tell him
Buck Darcy vouches for you. He’s the News crime man.”
“Is he the man you phoned?”
“Yeah,” said Millie, “but let’s not go into that. He’s got one of these wronged wives, too.” Her blue eyes flickered and Sybil grinned.
“You can use Buck’s name on Burlick, too,” continued Millie. “And Buck says for God’s sake to go easy; Jake’s jumpy as a rabbit these days. A mean rabbit.”
“Millie,” said Sybil, “you’ve been a poppet. A perfect poppet.”
“Don’t mention it. But for the love of pete, be in that studio at three o’clock, will you?”
“I will,” said Sybil. “But, Millie—” She paused and her voice grew serious. “It by any chance I’m not—and it’s a hundred to one—I want you to do something else for me.”
“Boy,” murmured Millie, “you’re sure making that bedroom scene pay off.” Then she recognized the gravity in Sybil’s face and sobered. “Sorry, honey. What is it?”
Sybil reached into her bag and brought out a white envelope. “If I don’t turn up,” she said, “and if you don’t hear from me again by midnight, mail this letter special delivery to my husband. It’s stamped and addressed.”
“Okay,” said Millie. She took the letter, then asked, “How will I hear from you?”
“Have you a phone?”
“Uh huh. It’s in the book. Don’t call before eleven, though. I got a dinner date.”
“I hope I don’t have to call at all.”
“So do I.”
Sybil slid off the stool. “Wish me luck,” she said.
“I wish you in that studio at three o’clock.”
“Hundred to one,” said Sybil. She patted Millie’s arm and turned toward the door.
“Wait a minute,” cried Millie. “Buck said to ask you, are you the gal that testified at some inquest yesterday about meeting a body in your birthday suit?”
Sybil stared. “How did he know?”
“He says it’s in all the papers.”
“Oh, dear God,” said Sybil. “How pleased Tim’s going to be.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
A Lady Is Missing
Tim was having a bad enough day as it was. His mind was in a turmoil and the mass of notes and diaries and memoranda on his desk made no sense to him at all. It reminded him of an occasion when he and another young instructor, after a convivial night, had inadvertently swapped lecture notes and he found himself on the rostrum with pages of mathematical symbols in front of him.
It was a relief when a man came to connect the phone. Tim stood around and watched him and asked the kind of dumb questions that mechanically inclined people expect professors to ask.
“How about some coffee?” Tim suggested when the man had finished.
“Like to,” the man said, “but I got another job. Got to fix the phone in that house across the inlet.”
“Squareless’s house?”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t think he had a phone.”
“Sure he’s got a phone. It’s unlisted but he’s got one.”
The man packed his tools into a black valise and departed. Tim sat down at his desk again but his papers were as meaningless as ever and his distraction was increased by the presence of the shiny instrument in working order. He couldn’t get his eyes off it, or his mind of! the note in his pocket, the note he had found in Sybil’s pajamas. He smoked two cigarettes and forced himself to concentrate on a monograph on the works of Hans Memling. All he got out of it was Memling, mem-a-ling, ting-a-ling. He pushed the monograph aside, took the note out of his pocket, and stared at the number. Then he lifted the phone and called New York.
The double buzz came and went in the receiver. He was about to hang up when there was a click and a woman’s voice said, “Yah?”
“Who’s that speaking?” asked Tim.
“This is the cleaning woman. Nobody home.”
“Look,” said Tim, “I’m not sure I have the right number. Whose number is this?”
“I told you, this is the cleaning woman. Nobody home.”
“Yes, I know, but who lives there?”
There was a short silence. Then the woman’s voice said, “A fellow what minds his own business.” There was another click.
“Hello, hello,” said Tim, then he put the phone back and pushed it away. He hadn’t found out much but at least it was a fellow. A phrase of his schooldays came back to him: a girl’s fellow. Sybil’s fellow.
Almost at once, the phone rang. He jumped and looked at it. He had an uneasy feeling that he was about to be accused of something. Of spying on his wife, probably. But it was the comfortable voice of Mrs. Barrelforth that boomed out of it.
“Hullo, that you, Ludlow? Thank God, you’ve got a phone. Simplifies everything.”
“Where are you?” asked Tim.
“Bankville. I’m on my way over. No, don’t bother to fetch me. I’ll take a cab. There’s hell to pay.”
“What’s happened?” asked Tim in alarm.
“Haven’t you seen the morning papers?”
“No.”
“I’ll read you a couple of headlines. Brace yourself.”
“I’m braced.”
“Here we go, then: Inquest Bares War Bride’s Bare Dip.”
“My God!,” said Tim. “They don’t mean Sybil?”
“Who else? Here’s another one: War Bride Is Raw Bride As She Strolls Beach.”
Tim digested this in shocked silence. Then he said, “Well! Just the background for a professor’s wife.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” said Mrs. Barrelforth, “but it’s a terrible black eye for the Association. I’m coming straight over and give that wife of yours a good talking to.”
“She’s not here.”
“Not there? Where the deuce is she?”
“Gone to New York.”
The outraged gusto vanished from the voice at the other end of the wire. Mrs. Barrelforth’s next words were businesslike and sharp. “Did she go alone?”
“No. She went with a girl who works for Ruth Royce Rollick; you know, the radio female. She’s going to appear on the program.”
“Hell’s bells,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. “Why didn’t she tell me?”
“She didn’t know about it till after you’d left.”
“She could have phoned. Confound it, that’s the sort of thing the Association should be consulted about. The way your Lady Sybil carries on, our next batch of brides will think they’ve nothing to do but run around naked and sing on the radio.”
“She’s not going to sing,” said Tim.
“That’s beside the point,” snapped Mrs. Barrelforth. “Sit tight, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
She arrived in twelve minutes, actually, and Tim found himself immediately cheered by the sight of her large red face and billowy tweeds. A drink was promptly requested and promptly produced; then Mrs. Barrelforth wanted to know what about this ridiculous radio business, from start to finish. Tim described Millie’s visit, with suitable omissions.
“Did this Millie girl have credentials of any sort?” asked Mrs. Barrelforth.
“It didn’t occur to me to ask her.”
“Look, laddy,” said Mrs. Barrelforth earnestly, “queer things are going on around here. Credentials, insist on credentials.”
“Right-o,” said Tim. “Shall we start with yours?”
Mrs. Barrelforth snorted. However, she opened her bag and brought out a small leather case containing a police pass which commended Mrs. Lemuel Barrelforth to the good offices of the authorities. “Now then,” she went on, “about this wretched broadcast. We’d better listen to it. What time does it go on?”
“Four.”
“Good. That gives us half an hour to chat. Who, besides you, knows Lady Sybil has gone
to the city?”
“Well, Miss Marsden, of course—”
“You referred to her as Millie a minute ago.”
“I did?”
“Yes. Was she pretty?”
“Mmm, so-so.”
“I see. Anybody else?”
“I imagine Squareless knew. Because Sybil put off the trip to stay with him last night.”
“All night?”
“No. Just the evening.”
“How about Whattleboot or whatever his name is?”
“Mr. Whittlebait? I don’t see how he could have known.”
“Unless Squareless told him,” suggested Mrs. Barrelforth.
“Why should he?”
“I don’t know. I was thinking about that mysterious note that either or both of ’em had a chance to plant. Which reminds me, did Lady Sybil mention its being missing?”
“She sure did.” He recounted the acid conversation and Mrs. Barrelforth clucked sympathetically.
“Afraid I put you on a spot,” she said. “But I thought you’d better know.”
“Speaking of notes,” said Tim, “I’ve got a couple of new exhibits.”
Mrs. Barrelforth sat up with interest while he fished in his pocket. “Sybil sent this from Squareless’s house last night,” he explained, handing her the folded slip of paper.
Mrs. Barrelforth looked at it, then brought the other note out of her bag and smoothed out the two of them on her knees. “Same sort of paper all right,” she said, “but, on the other hand, it’s a garden variety of scratch pad. You’d never hang anybody with this.”
“Nice cheerful phrase,” said Tim.
“You never can tell,” said Mrs. Barrelforth placidly. “What’s the other exhibit?”
Tim hesitated. “Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” he said. “It’s on the domestic side.”
“All communications treated confidentially,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. “Let’s have it.”
Tim fingered the bit of paper that had fallen from Sybil’s pajamas. “It probably doesn’t mean a thing,” he said.
“Where did it come from?”
“Sybil’s pajamas. I dare say some lovelorn laundry worker slipped it into the pocket.”
“I dare say.” Mrs. Barrelforth plucked the note from his reluctant fingers and read it, frowning. Then she looked up and exclaimed, “Why, that’s Sam Magruder’s number!”