Escapade

by Walter Satterthwait

  “I’ve heard that, yeah.”

  “Well,” he smiled, and clapped me on the shoulder again. “To bed then, eh? Pleasant dreams, Phil.”

  “You too, Harry.”

  “Ugh,” he said. “Ha ha.” Cackling, shaking his head, he padded from the room.

  I waited on the bed. In ten minutes, I heard him finish in the bathroom. In another fifteen, I heard his snoring start in the bedroom. At twelve-thirty, I got up and left.

  “COME IN,” SAID Mrs. Corneille. I stepped in and she shut the door.

  I was still wearing my rented dinner jacket. She was wearing her red robe, its dark silk looking sleek and bright below the bright sleek spill of black hair. Between the scarlet neck of the robe and the marble neck of Mrs. Corneille, on both sides, ran a slender frill of black lace nightgown. She wasn’t wearing a corset beneath the nightgown, or much of anything else.

  “Please,” she said, “do sit down.” She indicated a small love seat along the wall, braced by two end tables. “May I pour you a brandy?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Thanks.”

  I sat.

  This room, which was a bedroom in the suite I shared, and in the suite shared by Mrs. Allardyce and Miss Turner, was a kind of parlor here. Off to the left was the door that led to her bedroom.

  The furniture here was just as old as the furniture in mine, but it was light and feminine, with a lot of fluffs and flounces and floral patterns. There were old paintings on the walls misty landscapes and pictures of vases filled with flowers. There were more flowers, maybe just as old, embroidered into the carpets on the floor. And more of them, older still, embroidered into the scent of her perfume.

  She poured brandy from a pale green bottle into two snifters that sat on a dark wood sideboard. She set down the bottle, lifted the snifters, and carried them over. She stepped lightly around the coffee table and she handed me a snifter and sat down on my left. She moved like someone who had practiced moving, years ago, until she got it exactly right and then never needed to think about it ever again.

  She sat with her body leaning slightly toward the room and her knees together beneath the robe. To the late Earl, she said, and raised her glass.

  I raised mine. “To the Earl.” I sipped at the brandy. “You knew he was dead,” I said. “Before the seance.”

  “Alice told me.” She lowered the snifter to her lap and held it with both hands. “Are you really planning to fight with David tomorrow morning?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “You feel that this is absolutely necessary?”

  “It is now.”

  “I’ve heard that David’s a very good boxer.”

  “He probably is.”

  “And what does Mr. Houdini think about this?”

  “He thinks it’ll be a swell performance.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “He isn’t concerned for you?”

  “Everything Harry does, he does better than anyone in the world. He probably thinks that I wouldn’t have gotten into this unless I could pull it off.”

  “And can you?”

  “I guess we’ll find out.”

  “You aren’t concerned for yourself?”

  “Wouldn’t help any.”

  She sipped at her brandy, eyed me over the snifter. “Is that bravery speaking, or stupidity?”

  “Stupidity, probably.”

  She smiled. “But just now, shouldn’t you be getting some rest?

  I know I asked you here, but that was before this bout of yours was arranged. I shouldn’t be offended if you wish to leave.”

  “Thanks,” I said, “but I’m not tired. What did you think about the seance?”

  “We’re changing the subject, are we?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well,” she said. She looked down, smoothed the robe along her thigh, looked up again. “I thought it was a charming piece of theater. I understand how they did most of it, I think. They re working together, of course. Madame Sosostris and her husband.”

  I nodded, sipped at my brandy.

  “The roses,” she said. “They were in her wheelchair, beneath that gown of hers. Mr. Dempsey released her hand and she simply reached down and retrieved them. And then tossed them onto the table.”

  I nodded again.

  “And the bell and the trumpet,” she said. “She keeps them beneath her gown as well.”

  “The chains, too.” I had figured most of this out, too, even before the Great Man explained it all.

  Her red lips tightened thoughtfully. ‘ That thing that touched me on the shoulder. Could that’ve been one of those extending tools that shopkeepers use? Do you know what I mean? To reach something on an upper shelf?”

  “Probably.”

  “When Running Bear—” She smiled suddenly, amused at herself. “When Madame Sosostris was talking about the Earl, she said that he’d imposed his sick desires upon an innocent young woman. Presumably she meant the kitchen maid, the woman that Briggs mentioned to you in the library.”

  “Darleen.”

  “Yes.” She frowned. “Briggs is a bit of a cad. Telling tales on his employer. And on a former sweetheart.”

  “Not a very nice guy,” I agreed.

  “He must’ve given the same information to Madame Sosostris. And told her of the Earl’s death.”

  “If it was Briggs, he didn’t give it to her.”

  She smiled. “He sold it, you mean. I’m sure you’re right.” Her face went serious again. “But what did she mean, do you think— Madame Sosostris—when she said that the Earl hadn't ended his life? She said that his life had been taken.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “That was when Lord Purleigh showed up.”

  “Yes.” She sighed, softly shook her head. Lamplight shimmered along the black sheen of her hair. “Poor Robert. For years he’s been telling people he wanted his father dead. Now that it’s actually happened, I think he’s rather at a loss. I feel terribly for him. He’s such a sweet man.”

  “What does Lady Purleigh think?”

  “Regarding the Earl’s death?”

  “Yeah. Was she surprised?”

  “Surprised? Yes, of course. Wouldn’t anyone be?”

  “Sometimes people see it coming.”

  “But Alice didn’t. She was shocked. She told me she couldn’t imagine why he’d do such a thing.”

  Just then, I think, she realized she was talking about friends of hers, and to a stranger. Smiling, she changed the subject. “But the two of them are quite good, aren’t they? Madame Sosostris and her husband. It was quite an accomplishment, I thought, producing all those apparitions without giving themselves away. And with people sitting on either side of them, holding their hands.”

  “Practice,” I said.

  She cocked her head. “But in a way, you know, I was ... rather disappointed.” She moved her shoulders in a small, dismissive shrug. “I’d been hoping for something more, I suppose.”

  “Real ghosts?”

  “Something with a less obvious explanation. A more persuasive apparition, perhaps. Something surprising.”

  “You seemed a bit surprised there, for a second or two.”

  Her face was calm but those black, almond-shaped eyes were watchful. “Oh?”

  “When your daughter was mentioned.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “It caught you off guard,” I said.

  “Yes.” She looked down, lightly ran the tip of her finger along the rim of the snifter. “Not everyone knows about my daughter.” She looked up at me. “But Alice does, which no doubt means that her servants know as well. Including Briggs, I imagine.”

  I nodded.

  “But why should they bother learning about my daughter?” she asked me. “Why choose me?”

  “You have money.”

  She blinked her long black lashes. Money was something that wasn’t discussed in polite conversation. Then she understood what I meant and her eyebrows lowered. “You’re saying that they found ou
t about Esme, and they deliberately used the information to impress me, to bring me into . . . To . . .” She frowned impatiently. “What is the word I’m looking for?”

  “Enlist?”

  “To enlist me as one of their followers?”

  “Probably.”

  She stared at me for a moment, her wide red mouth open, her black eyes narrowed. Finally she said, “But that’s filthy.” She looked off, her mouth grim now. “That’s vile. ”

  “Yeah.”

  She drank some more brandy.

  “How old was your daughter?” I asked her.

  Still looking off, she said, “Five.”

  “When did she die?”

  “Six years ago.” She turned to me. “I’d prefer not to talk about her, if you don’t mind.”

  “Fine.”

  “Tell me something,” she said. I think she heard her own voice, heard how curt it sounded. She added, “Would you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why were you asking Briggs all those questions?”

  “That’s what I do for a living.”

  “Yes, but why those questions, and why Briggs? The Earl committed suicide. It’s a tragedy, of course, a terrible tragedy, but it has nothing to do with this magician you're after, this Chin Soo.”

  “Probably not. I’m just basically nosy.”

  “Tell me about this Chin Soo.”

  I told her. It took a while but she listened well. When she asked a question, which wasn’t often, it was a good question. From time to time her glance dipped down toward my mouth and then slipped back up. It made me very conscious of my mouth. And very conscious of hers—I realized that my own glance was doing pretty much the same thing, sliding down along her cheekbones to flick against her wide red lips, then darting back up to her almondshaped eyes.

  When I was finished, she said, “You no longer believe that it was Chin Soo who fired that rifle this afternoon.” She looked at the clock on the end table, looked back at me, smiled. “Yesterday afternoon.”

  “No,” I said.

  “You believe that it was one of us. One of the guests.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. There were four guests who weren’t on the lawn. Four guests who could’ve fired the rifle. Lady Purleigh, Cecily Fitzwilliam, Dr. Auerbach, and Sir David. Can you think of any reason why one of them would want to shoot at anybody?

  Shoot at you, for example?”

  “Me?” She laughed. “You can’t really think that someone was shooting at me?”

  “Someone was getting shot at. If it wasn’t Harry, it had to be one of you.”

  “But it couldn’t possibly have been me. It couldn't have been any of us, but who on earth would shoot at me?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t really see Lady Purleigh or Cecily using a rifle. Dr. Auerbach has an alibi, or says he has. Besides, you never met him before this weekend. Or did you?”

  “No. He’s a friend of a friend of Alice’s. He learned about the seance and asked Alice if he could attend.”

  “That leaves Sir David.”

  She laughed again. “David? Why would David want to shoot me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Really, Mr. Beaumont, the idea is ridiculous. I’ve known David for years. He can be unpleasant, he often is unpleasant, as you saw for yourself, but he’d never shoot anyone. And he certainly wouldn’t shoot me.”

  She leaned slightly toward me and gave me a martini smile dry, with a twist of lemon in it. The scent of her perfume grew stronger. She said, “I think you’ve been letting your imagination get the better of you.”

  “Maybe. That happens.”

  She leaned away but her perfume hung there in the air between us like an invitation, or a promise. She said, “And why are you so concerned about the gunshot in any case? If, as you say, it wasn’t fired by Chin Soo?”

  “Habit.”

  “Ah,” she said. “You told me in the garden that smoking cigarettes wasn’t one of your bad habits. Is this one of them?”

  “Which?”

  “Asking these questions.”

  I shrugged. “Like I said. It’s what I do for a living.”

  She eased herself comfortably back against the love seat and she looked over at me. “What are your bad habits?”

  “Is that why you asked me here? To find out about my bad habits?”

  “Among other things.” She raised the snifter to her mouth, sipped at it.

  “Which other things?”

  “I told you in the library. Alice is a friend of mine. If you’re asking questions about her household, I’d like to know why.”

  “And like I said then, do you feel better now?”

  She smiled. “Not remarkably so. Not yet.”

  “Not yet?”

  The black eyes were staring steadily into mine. She was holding the brandy snifter lightly in both hands, the index finger of her right hand pointed upward. The polish on her long nail was the same bright red as her lips.

  She said, “Are you quite certain you don’t feel like resting?”

  I could hear the ticking of the clock on the end table. I took in a breath. It seemed to me that all the air in the room had been replaced by the scent of her perfume. “Not yet,” I said.

  “Then don’t you think,” she said, “that you’re a trifle overdressed?”

  I smiled. I turned, set my brandy on the end table, turned back to her. I reached for her glass and she handed it to me. I set it beside my own. When I turned back again, her head was back and her black hair was fanned across the cushion of the love seat. The black eyes were staring up at me, the wide red lips were parted in another smile.

  I leaned toward her.

  Someone knocked at the door.

  It had a tentative sound, two or three light raps, as though the knocker, whoever it was, didn’t really want to bother anyone this late at night.

  I sat up.

  Without moving her head from the cushion, Mrs. Corneille reached out and put her hand on my arm. “They’ll go away,” she said softly.

  The knocking came again, harder.

  “I don’t think so,” I said.

  She sighed, lightly squeezed my arm, and stood up. “Don't move,” she said.

  She waltzed around the coffee table and across the carpet to the door. She opened it a few inches, craned her head around its edge,

  and suddenly she said, “Jane!”

  She opened wide the door and stepped out into the hallway, then stepped back into the room with her arm around Miss Turner’s shoulders.

  Miss Turner’s brown hair was loose, tumbling to her shoulders. She was wearing her gray robe. It was streaked with dust and spotted with clumps of what looked like fur. Her arms were hanging limply at her sides and in her right hand she held a shiny double-bladed dagger.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  I STOOD UP.

  Miss Turner saw me and she said, “Oh!” Her blue eyes flew open as she wheeled to face Mrs. Corneille. She put her hand to her chest, the hand that held the dagger, its bright blade aimed toward the floor. “I didn’t know, I didn’t realize you had a guest. I’m so sorry!”

  “It’s quite all right, Jane,” said Mrs. Corneille, and led her to the love seat. “Mr. Beaumont and I were just talking. Here. Do sit down.”

  A gentleman might have offered to leave the parlor right about then. I took a few steps sideways, to give Miss Turner room on the love seat. Still gripping the dagger between her breasts, her knuckles white, she sat down and she leaned forward, balancing herself on the edge of the cushion. She looked up at me and suddenly her face and her throat went red. It made the blue of her eyes seem deeper and brighter. She looked away and then looked back, her lashes fluttering. “I’m sorry,” she told me. “I truly am. I didn’t mean to disturb anyone.”

  She looked up at Mrs. Corneille, who stood bending over her, her hand on Miss Turner’s shoulder. “I think it would be best if I left,” Miss Turner said.

  “Jane, really,
don’t be silly,” said Mrs. Corneille. She looked at me. “Please, Mr. Beaumont. Sit.”

  I sat.

  Miss Turner said, “I . . .” She looked down at the dagger. She held it out, away from her, and she stared at it as if she couldn't understand how it gotten there.

  “Why don’t I just take that,” said Mrs. Corneille. I didn’t say anything—if there had been any other fingerprints on the knife, they were gone now, smeared by Miss Turner’s. Mrs. Corneille reached out and Miss Turner surrendered the weapon, then winced and wiped her hand on her thigh as if her palm were bloody.

  Standing upright, Mrs. Corneille examined the knife. Both the blade and the ornately carved handle were silver. “It’s very pretty, Jane,” she said. “Wherever did you find it?”

  Miss Turner’s hands clutched at each other on her lap. She looked up said, “It was in my bed. I think someone tried to kill me.” She turned to me. “Does that sound utterly insane?”

  I said, “Not if they used that knife.”

  “You were in bed,” said Mrs. Corneille, “and someone tried to kill you?”

  Miss Turner shook her head. “No, no. I was in the Earl’s room when it happened.”

  Mrs. Corneille looked at me, looked back at Miss Turner. She nodded. “This sounds as though it may take a while. Would you like a brandy, Jane?”

  “Yes,” said Miss Turner. “Please. Very much.”

  “You sit back,” said Mrs. Corneille. “Relax. No one will harm you here.”

  “Yes,” said Miss Turner. She sat back, glanced quickly around the room again. She took a long deep shuddery breath. “Yes,” she said.

  She peered down at herself and she sat forward. “Oh dear,” she said. Her voice was higher now, and it sounded as if it might crack. “What a fright I look.” She brushed at the front of her robe and then plucked away a tuft of what I’d thought was fur. It wasn’t fur. It was a flattened dustball, the kind that grows underneath sofas and beds if you don’t sweep often enough. Wincing again, her mouth twisted, she shook it from her hands, then quickly rubbed her fingers on the robe.

  Those sapphire eyes were a bit wild and I thought she might leap up and run away. Out the door, maybe out the window.