by Vera Caspary
“What did you tell the police? You must have told them that Ed was there if they asked about Johnnie’s knowing it. I suppose you had to tell them. Too many people knew—Gloria and Hardy and the elevator men.”
“Eleanor…”
“What did you tell them?”
“My own daughter, my eldest, my favorite.”
“How did he get away?” I persisted. “When I left the study to answer the doorbell, he was almost unconscious. Did he also go by the service elevator or was he hiding on the terrace? I noticed the door … I was afraid…”
Father sighed. The room seemed still to be shrinking, the walls closing in. The freesia petals were brown at the edges and shriveled. My father, too, seemed to be shrinking, closing in on himself.
“They’re going to ask me what happened, Father. What shall I tell them?”
“You know nothing,” he said, articulating carefully like a man who has been ill and is just recovering the power of speech. “You left the study. Ed was there with me. You went to the front hall, opened the door, greeted John, stopped to chat, probably to kiss him or let him kiss you…”
“I fainted.”
“No need to bring that up. They’d ask a lot of fool questions. I told them you’d stopped for a little conversation or love-making, about five minutes, I said. I went out to see what was taking you so long and Ed disappeared. That’s what I told them.”
In my dream the night had been darker than death. I had tried to call for help, but I had no voice. He had carried me to the edge of the precipice and I had known his intentions, but I could not cry out for help because the man had been my father.
After a little while I said, “You didn’t find the manuscript, did you?”
“How do you know?”
“I know.” My voice was light, my eyes cold, my smile mocking.
“You, Eleanor…You’ve got it?”
I laughed.
“Where is it?” He waited but I did not answer. He caught hold of my wrists, jerked me toward him. “Eleanor … daughter…”
I tried to escape, but his hands tightened and they seemed so large, so tense and strong that I felt my bones crack beneath them. I tried again to pull free, but the pressure increased and I was afraid that his hands would break my wrists. Closing my eyes, shutting out the cruel brilliance of his glance, I saw again the jutting rocks, the nightmare road, the precipice.
Part Five
TO A GENTEEL LADY
BY JOHN MILES ANSELL
“I will know myself. I will recognize and admit the truth about myself no matter how shameful and guilty it may seem, for I know there can be no shame in me, no guilt, no weakness if I face the Truth and freely name aloud my shame, my guilt, my weaknesses.”
My Life Is Truth
NOBLE BARCLAY
IT WAS SATURDAY morning. In the tabloids and Hearst papers Lola Manfred had become headline news. Greenwich Village Poetess Believed Slain. That she was old, fat, weary and alcoholic seemed not to matter. No reporter bothered to mention the fact that she had not written a poem for years. Murder had restored her dignity.
The respectable papers were less rhapsodic. The word “alleged” was used frequently.
I read about it in a drugstore on Eighth Street and University Place. I drank two cups of alleged coffee and learned that the police were seeking a man believed to have been with Miss Manfred the night of her death. No paper named Edward Everett Munn. I ordered a third cup of coffee, so that I could stay at the counter and read the newspapers.
Eleanor had wanted me out of the way while she talked to her father. I hadn’t needed any special lenses nor an improved hearing device to perceive that she was hiding something from me. Before she went to bed she had been nervous and later the nightmare had almost paralyzed her. She thought she had fooled me, but I knew she kept her light on and rattled papers for an hour after she pretended to be asleep.
In the morning I was supposed to have found her the cheerful little woman, a ribbon in her hair and her apron strings tied in a coy bow. That’s what she thought. I wondered if she knew she had sugared my eggs.
I made up my mind to play it her way, just to see how far she would carry the ball. The arrival of Noble Barclay saved me from the sweetened eggs. After he had shed his paternal light upon us, there was no need to continue the pretense of appetite. I cleared the table for Eleanor and threw the eggs into the garbage pail.
For twenty minutes I dallied in the drugstore. My intensive study of alarm clocks, stuffed animals and la grippe cures must have convinced the manager that I was opening a rival pharmacy. Finally I bought three packs of cigarettes and started back. As I turned the corner on East Tenth Street, I saw a long black sedan stop in front of the remodeled brick house on whose second floor dwelt Miss Eleanor Barclay, the original Truth Girl.
It was a police car. Riordan got out. “Just the man I want to see,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder.
The vestibule was three steps down. On one wall were mail boxes and brass-bordered cards printed with the tenants’ names. Riordan gave the cards the once-over, but did not immediately ring Eleanor’s bell.
“When you called Barclay last night, did you know Munn was there?” he asked.
“I didn’t call Barclay. I was trying to locate Miss Barclay.”
“You weren’t sure you’d find her at her father’s?”
“No. I called here first, but she wasn’t at home. So I took a chance and called her father.”
“He says you didn’t talk to her.”
“I asked for her, but he seemed unwilling to call her to the phone. So I let him have it.”
“What do you mean, let him have it?”
“The news that his assistant, his supervising editor, his best friend had committed murder.”
“We’re not sure of that,” Riordan said.
“What the hell!”
“All the evidence we have is some tobacco and a couple of wads of cigarette paper.”
“What about the flowers? Did G. Botticelli know Munn? Had he bought her flowers there before?”
“Doesn’t prove Munn killed her,” Riordan said.
“Have you picked him up yet?”
“He’s scrammed.”
“No!”
Riordan nodded.
“Doesn’t that prove something?” I asked. “He knew you were after him and he skipped. Must have had a guilty conscience.”
“Did you know he was at Barclay’s when you phoned?”
“Hell,” I said. “If I’d wanted to cover up for the guy, would I have shown you the evidence in the ashtrays? You could spend forty years, Riordan, looking for a man who gets rid of his stubs that way. If I hadn’t given you his name, would you have guessed that E. E. Munn, editor of Truth Publications had called on Lola that night?”
“Botticelli might have told us. We might have had a chance to pick up Munn before he was warned,” Riordan said.
I was sore. When he sat with me in bars, drank rye at my expense and gave me stories for Truth and Crime, Riordan had seemed a friend. I saw now that he was less friend and more cop.
“You haven’t answered my question,” he said. “When you called Barclay’s place, did you know Munn was there?”
“Hell, if I’d known, do you think I’d have phoned? Be yourself, Riordan, I’m the guy who tipped you off to Munn.”
“Miss Barclay’s your girl friend, isn’t she?”
“We’re going to be married,” I answered.
“Maybe that’s why you were so anxious to let her know that the other guy, the ex-boy friend, was mixed up with the Manfred dame?”
“Are you suggesting that I gave you the dope on Munn because I was jealous? Because I wanted him out of the way?”
“Could be.”
“Nuts to that.”
“When you got to Barclay’s place last night, who opened the door?”
“Miss Barclay.”
The answer must have checked with Barclay’s story.
Riordan nodded. “How long did you two stay out in the hall together?”
“Three or four minutes. When she saw me she fainted.”
“Fainted? Barclay didn’t mention it.”
“It’s the sort of thing Barclay wouldn’t mention: He wouldn’t want to get out that his daughter, brought up by the Truth and Health method, could be so frail and human.”
Riordan grimaced. I could see that he did not believe all of my answers. This made me feel as if I were on the spot and had to defend myself. I felt guilty.
“Why do you ask me that? Was Munn supposed to have made his getaway while I was in the hall with Eleanor?”
“That’s Barclay’s story. Munn was supposed to have been in that room, the loony one that looks like the reception room of an asylum, with Barclay and the girl. You rang the bell. She went to open the door and was gone quite a while, so Barclay went to see why. While he was gone, Munn took a powder…”
“The hell you say!”
“Barclay thinks he slipped down the back way. There’s a self-operated service elevator and a corridor in the basement that goes clear to Madison Avenue.”
“I know. That’s how Eleanor and I left.”
“You did, huh? Why?”
I wondered. Barclay had been so urgent and Eleanor so eager that I had not stopped to ask questions. To Riordan I said, “It was when you came. Eleanor was exhausted and her father thought she’d better rest before she talked to you. He suggested the service elevator.”
Riordan pushed the button beside the slot with Eleanor’s calling card. A buzzer sounded. The latch of the inner door clicked open. I ran ahead.
Barring Riordan’s way, I asked, “Did you mention Warren G. Wilson when you talked to Barclay last night? What did he say?”
Riordan pushed past me and started up the stairs. On the landing above we heard a door open.
Barclay swung out his hand to Riordan, wished him a good morning. “Back again, lad?” he said jovially to me.
There was no. sign of Eleanor. The couch had been cleared of sheets and blankets; dishes and cups had been removed from the breakfast table.
“Sit down, Captain. Take his coat, John. I suppose you’d like to see my daughter.” It seemed Barclay’s home, rather than Eleanor’s.
I took a position like a St. Bernard before the bedroom door. Riordan chose a stiff chair and Barclay seated himself comfortably on the couch.
“Any trace of the fugitive?” Barclay asked.
Riordan said, “Why didn’t you report the theft of your car, Mr. Barclay?”
Barclay scratched his head. “One of my cars stolen? I didn’t know. My chauffeur hasn’t reported any theft.”
“At three-fifteen this morning a man named James B. Thorpe was picked up in Philadelphia.”
“In my car?” Barclay asked.
“Black Chrysler coupe, registered in New York as the property of Noble Barclay.”
“I have a black coupe,” Barclay said. “Used it yesterday.” His fist crashed against the table. “Damn it, I must have left it out again. Yes, I did. I’m afraid,” his voice showed remorse, “the keys were in it. I sometimes leave it for the chauffeur to pick up.”
“What about this Thorpe?” I asked. “Who was he?”
“Never heard of him,” said Barclay.
“He carried a California driver’s license. According to the description in it, this Thorpe was six foot three, weighed around two hundred and twenty. Doesn’t weigh that much now. Skinny guy and just about six foot, the report says.”
“Why was he picked up?” I said.
“Drunken driving.”
“Drunk.” Barclay whispered it like a dirty word. Clearing his throat, he asked, “Has he been questioned? Did he confess to stealing my car?”
“Wouldn’t talk without his lawyer.”
“Oh!” was all that Barclay said.
We all waited.
“Then he said he wanted the best lawyer in Philadelphia. The best, he kept on insisting. Said he was a man of importance, that they’d be surprised if they knew who he really was. He had ten grand in his wallet.”
Barclay raised his eyebrows. “Has he talked to his lawyer yet?”
“They’ll let us know when anything new turns up.” Riordan appeared nonchalant, but he was watching Barclay’s reactions out of the corner of his eye.
Eleanor came out of the bedroom. She had changed from her robe to a blue skirt and white sweater. She looked beautiful but unhappy. Dilated pupils made her eyes seem dark.
Her father beckoned but Eleanor would not sit beside him. She went to the far end of the room. “This is Captain Riordan, Eleanor. Captain, my daughter.”
Riordan asked her about Lola. He wanted to know how friendly Eleanor and Lola had been, how many personal secrets Lola had confided, and if on the day of her death she had shown signs of despondency.
“Yes, she did,” Eleanor answered emphatically. “She’d been all right in the morning, but in the afternoon she was strange. She lost her temper and threw her fur coat on the floor and stayed in the Ladies’ Room for a long time. It was either because she’d had too much to drink at lunch or because someone had sent her some roses. Someone she disliked, I imagine.”
“Roses,” said Riordan. But no more on that subject. “Was that the last you saw of her?”
Eleanor looked up. She had been rubbing her wrists. “Yes, it was. I left about an hour later. I had some shopping to do. I wanted to buy a new hat.” She tossed the phrase, defiantly, in my direction.
“What do you know of her relations with Munn?”
“She loathed and despised him.”
“Are you sure?”
Eleanor went on massaging her wrists. “Positive.”
Riordan turned to Barclay. “That’s not what you told me.”
“My daughter believed what Miss Manfred wanted her to believe. What the rest of the office believed.” Barclay looked wise and secretive. “Miss Manfred told everyone she despised Ed Munn. It was a ruse to keep them from knowing the truth.”
Eleanor jumped up. “I don’t believe it! I worked with Lola. I saw her every day. I knew her better than anyone in the office.”
“You knew exactly what Lola chose to have you know,” said Barclay in a voice as smooth as castor oil. “Miss Manfred —though I don’t like speaking ill of the dead—was sly. She didn’t want anyone in the office, and particularly Eleanor, to learn about her relations with Ed because…” Barclay smiled and shook his head, “Eleanor had been engaged to him.”
“No one in the office knew.” Eleanor returned to the couch. She leaned against the cushions wearily as if, at this hour of the morning, she was already exhausted. “I can’t believe Lola’d ever have looked at him. She’d have laughed if Ed had even tried…”
“Your voice is getting shrill, child. Remember what I told you this morning,” Barclay interrupted.
Eleanor groped in her belt, found a handkerchief, covered her mouth. She was on the verge of hysterical laughter.
Riordan looked to me for help. The switch from the Truth and Crime angle to a Truth and Love scene disconcerted the detective. But I was no tower of strength. Barclay had once taken me in with that smooth manner. Experience made me wary. On the other hand, there was a certain amount of credibility in his story. Lola had been drunk and wanton; she might also have been sly. When she abused or insulted Munn, or regaled us at the Editors’ Table with stories of his stupidity, she might have been laughing secretly at our naïveté.
“Did you know about this affair before Lola died?” I said to Barclay.
“For quite a while,” he answered.
“Had Munn confided in you?”
“Don’t like to be caught napping, do you, John?” Barclay laughed. To Riordan he commented, “Our young friend is typical of the skeptic who doubts whatever his own eyes have failed to see. What’s your opinion, Captain? Do you think I’m fabricating?”
Riordan hesitated. He was, after all, a cop. And Barcla
y a big shot, a millionaire, author and publisher, owner of property, a boss. Why should Barclay fabricate? Had the boss anything to gain by making up a story about a love affair between his assistant and a loose woman?
“What reason would you have to make up the story?” Riordan asked.
Barclay turned his charm full upon Riordan. “I admit,” he confessed ingenuously, “that I was deceived. I certainly misjudged Ed Munn. I knew this woman taunted him, tortured him, flaunted her lovers before him, but I never thought he’d go so far as to kill her. Frankly, I didn’t think,” the pause was effective, “that Ed had it in him. I’ve seldom met a less violent man.”
Riordan fingered his ear. “I’d like to ask Miss Barclay a question. I asked you last night, but I want to hear her answer.” This was police subtlety calculated to inform Miss Barclay that her story had better check with her father’s, or else. “When your father answered John Ansell’s call and told you we were after Munn in connection with Miss Manfred’s death, what did he do?”
“He denied it.”
“Denied what?”
“Killing Lola.”
“And we believed him, didn’t we, Eleanor?” Without giving her an opportunity to answer, Barclay went on, “That was natural, don’t you think. Captain? After all, when you’ve been associated with a man for years, it’s hard to believe he’s committed a murder. And I’ll tell you something else, Captain.” Barclay was rueful. “I don’t think I’d believe now that Ed had done it if he hadn’t run off like that.”
Eleanor had started rubbing her wrists again. I tried to catch her eye, but she avoided my glance. She was very nervous.
“I’m a man who prides himself on being a judge of human nature,” Barclay said. “It just goes to show how your pride can deceive you. And how little one man knows of what’s in another’s heart.”
We took it silently. Eleanor reached across the table for a china cigarette box. She offered it to Riordan and to me.