Stranger Than Truth

by Vera Caspary

  Riordan shook his head. “I don’t indulge.”

  “Great!” shouted Barclay. “I congratulate you. Look at him, kids. A man of action and achievement, he doesn’t think he has to prove his manliness by smoking and drinking. I wish you’d tell these youngsters, Riordan, why you eschew tobacco.”

  Riordan acknowledged the tribute with a jerk of his head. “I used to smoke two packs regularly every day of my life, but I wanted to see if I could get along without ’em. That was a year ago St. Patrick’s Day.” He did not mention his capacity for rye whiskey. Neither did I. It would be unbecoming for a host to remind his guest of the cost of entertainment.

  “Before we go a step further, Captain, I want you to know something.” Barclay moved toward Riordan. He must have counted ten before he spoke. His timing was perfect. We were all on the edge of our seats.

  “I like the way you’ve handled this case. I must confess I’m deeply impressed by your honesty and your straightforward methods, Captain. I wonder if you’d mind if I mentioned it to the Commissioner. I’d like to congratulate him on the efficiency of his staff, particularly a certain officer…”

  Riordan had turned as pink as a newborn baby. “Just as you like, Mr. Barclay. Glad you feel that way.”

  “That about finishes it, doesn’t it, Captain? If you want us, you know where we can be found.” Barclay had picked up Riordan’s overcoat.

  Riordan stood up, brushed wrinkles from blue serge. “You’ll all be asked to appear at the inquest.”

  “We know that.”

  Riordan smirked. This was his big moment, one he could brag about to his in-laws. “Thanks for everything, Mr. Barclay. It’s a privilege to know a man like you.” Riordan shook hands with Barclay, nodded at Eleanor and me.

  I was burning. Efficiency. Straightforward methods. The same old Barclay guff and Riordan eating it up like a turkey dinner. Once I had fallen for Barclay’s line; I had let him call me a pint-sized runt and had wrung his hand in gratitude. But that was different. That was appeasement for a story he did not want printed in a magazine. This was murder.

  “Wait a minute. Haven’t you forgotten something,” my voice echoed sarcastically Barclay’s flattering use of Riordan’s title, “Captain?”

  “Forgotten something?” Riordan looked around.

  “Warren G. Wilson. Remember him? The man who was murdered last May. When I called you last night and told you I suspected Lola hadn’t committed suicide, I said there might be a connection between her death and Wilson’s. You know now that it wasn’t suicide, but what about Wilson? That was your case and I thought it was why you asked to be put on the Manfred investigation. Or am I wrong?”

  Eleanor slid forward on the couch. Riordan transferred his hat from his right to his left hand, and shifted his weight. Barclay frowned in my direction. It was a warning.

  Undaunted, I plunged into the gale. “When you talked to Mr. Barclay last night, Captain, did you mention Wilson?”

  “The lad’s tenacious,” Barclay said, winking at Riordan. “Once he gets a notion in his head he sticks to it. Some people might call him stubborn, but I admire his tenacity. It’s a sign of character.”

  A sign of character, is it? Okay, Barclay, I’ll show you the quantity and quality of character in John Miles Ansell. “Was Mr. Barclay able to tell you anything about Wilson?”

  Eleanor coughed. On Valentine’s Day Warren G. Wilson had given her a book inscribed to a genteel lady. Until I forced it out of her, she had not mentioned her friendship with a murder victim. I tried to catch her eye, but she was looking down into the china box as if she expected to find a pearl among the cigarettes.

  “Mr. Barclay didn’t know Wilson,” Riordan told me.

  “You asked him?”

  “Last night.” Riordan swung around on his heels and glowered at me. “What gives you the idea that these people knew Wilson?”

  “I told you.”

  “What did you tell me? That you had a hunch Miss Manfred was connected with the Wilson case. You had no proof.”

  “Look,” I said, trying to give him a straight answer while I let Eleanor know that I had not mentioned her name, “I told you I had a hunch Miss Manfred had known Wilson. I told you what happened when I asked her if she’d known him…”

  “What happened?” Barclay asked.

  “She denied it,” Riordan said.

  “Denied it!” Barclay shouted.

  “Yes, she denied it,” I said, “but the way she denied it made me suspect that she was lying. She was too defiant, too emotional…”

  “Had she been drinking?” asked Barclay.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Wasn’t it characteristic of Miss Manfred to be defiant and emotional, particularly when she’d been drinking?” Again Barclay answered without giving anyone else a chance. “You see, lad, I know the tendencies of alcoholics better than you. My own unfortunate history gives me particular insight into their emotional responses. You say she was defiant in denying she’d known Wilson. Typical. Typical.”

  A door slammed. Eleanor had gone into the bedroom. I did not know whether she was irritated because I had divulged a family secret or because her father was an oily hypocrite. I did not much care.

  Barclay appeared not to have noticed Eleanor’s retreat. He was too intent upon his argument. “You see, Captain, the boy’s got no proof that Lola knew Wilson. She was drunk, she was defiant, and he wants to make something of it. What’s your opinion?”

  “I can’t see it,” Riordan said. “Last night, when he told me about it, I was willing to take a chance. When you want to clean up a case, you’ll follow any lead. But now that I’ve heard everything, Mr. Barclay, I’m inclined to agree with you. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Okay, it was just a hunch,” I said. “But a valuable hunch, wasn’t it, Riordan? How about Munn’s having been with Lola? Would you have known that without my hunch?”

  “Doesn’t prove that either of them knew Wilson,” Barclay laid his hand consolingly on my shoulder. “I know it’ll hurt you to hear me say this, lad, but you never could take that turn-down, on the Wilson story. You thought you’d written a masterpiece, and ever since then you’ve had some cockeyed notion that I had a personal reason for rejecting it. You…”

  “Look, Mr. Barclay…”

  “You’ve got to learn to take it, son. You’re not perfect; you’re only human like the rest of the race. Everyone makes a mistake some time in his life. You may be a hell of a writer, but even Shakespeare turned out a few duds. It’s going pretty far, don’t you think, Captain,” Barclay’s hand fell from my shoulder as he turned toward Riordan, “when a fellow has to accuse others of intrigue just because they turn down his literary efforts?”

  “Hell,” I said, “I’ve had stories turned down before. Better stories and by better magazines than Truth and Crime. If you’re trying to say that’s the reason I think you…”

  “What other reason could you have? What proof have you that Munn or I—since you insist upon involving me in this fallacious theory—had any connection with Wilson except that we didn’t like your story of his death?”

  I looked around for something to throw. There was only Eleanor’s old china and antique furniture.

  “Look, Mr. Barclay, was I or was I not poisoned the night after I started asking questions about the Wilson story?”

  “Poisoned?” Barclay did not seem to understand.

  “I don’t eat shrimps, Mr. Barclay. I’m allergic to shellfish.”

  “Come now, John.” That was the old Barclay, the smoothie, the professional confidant. “You’re not going to deny facts. Everyone, Smith of the Grille, the waiters, the doctor, your nurse, they all knew you had ptomaine from eating contaminated seafood. Look up the hospital records—they’ll show you. To say you were poisoned is not only absurd, boy; it’s dangerous. Shows you to be suffering from a persecution complex.”

  “I didn’t eat shrimps. I never do. Look, Riordan, he might have bribed them t
o say I did; I’ve suspected that all along, but it’s not true. I’m telling you…”

  Barclay smiled. He was so damn tolerant that I wanted to smack his sleek puss. Against that calm self-confidence my raging sounded like the anger of a three-year-old.

  “I was poisoned!” I beat my heels against the floor and pounded my fist on the table. Mahogany shivered and china rattled.

  Barclay smiled sadly. From the way he took it, an outsider would think I had only just made up the poisoning story and was trying to uphold my fiction with a display of temper.

  “Why didn’t you report it?” Riordan asked.

  Barclay almost purred.

  “I was bribed,” I said. “By a raise of seventy-five smackers per week.”

  “Yeah?” Riordan looked at Barclay for confirmation.

  “I wasn’t aware, John, that you felt that way about your promotion. At the time your gratitude seemed sincere.” Barclay turned the full light of his countenance upon me. His voice dripped sympathy. “What did you have on your conscience, lad, that you couldn’t accept a promotion and a raise without explaining it to yourself in that distorted fashion? What secrets are you hiding? What truth about yourself are you afraid to face?”

  “For Christ’s sake!” I said.

  “He probably believes he was poisoned,” Barclay told Riordan. He spoke in the voice of a high-priced specialist who has been called in to advise the family doctor. “It’s remarkable how easy it is for some people to believe what they wish to believe. It proves what I said in my book and what I keep on saying in the magazine: anyone can believe anything if the urge is strong enough. You know what it proves?” His voice dropped. The confidence was directed at Riordan, but he was careful to see that I did not miss a syllable. “It proves that there’s something deep in this lad that he can’t face. You’ll never find a healthy man, a happy man, a strong and confident man who can’t dig down into the depths of himself and acknowledge the bitter truth. When a man has to go as far as this young man has gone to show that others are trying to harm him, there’s something unhealthy inside. Don’t you agree, Captain?”

  “You’re not kidding,” Riordan said solemnly. “In my line I’ve met plenty of crooks who blame their troubles on the other fellow.”

  Barclay nodded his approval of this sagacity. “The human mind,” he continued, “is the greatest natural phenomenon of all time, the eighth wonder of the world. Science has studied it for centuries, and what has it discovered? No more than I can tell you now in a single sentence. A man can will himself to believe that anything is the truth, and if he believes hard enough, it is the truth.”

  Riordan pondered and moved toward the cigarette box.

  Barclay went on with the lecture. “It’s as true in religion as in science. Faith, self-confidence, belief can work miracles. Have you read my book, Captain?”

  “Sorry,” muttered Riordan.

  “Oh, I don’t mind.” Barclay was forgiving. “Lot of people haven’t read it yet. I’ll send you a copy. Read it. You’ll find the case of this young man clearly explained, Captain.”

  “You’ll find Mr. Barclay, too. His life story is told in the most intimate detail. Don’t skip the Introduction. It’s the greatest human document ever written on human despair.”

  The lid of the cigarette box banged shut. Riordan turned, putting temptation behind him. He held his hat in both hands, revolving it slowly.

  “We’ve come a long way from murder,” I said. “A long way from the Wilson case and Lola’s death and Munn’s escape. Barclay’s philosophy is fascinating, don’t you think, Captain? Probably you’ve heard some of the ideas before. Barclay’s borrowed a lot from Christian and pagan, from medicine men and scientists, from theosophists, theologists, psychoanalysts, and the crank religions of the twentieth century. It’s remarkable what men can believe, particularly when you know how many of them have swallowed Truth-Sharing.”

  Riordan’s hat whirled faster. He was a detective, not an arbiter of philosophies.

  Barclay sensed the delicate balance. Winningly, as if he and Riordan were allies of long standing, he said, “Haven’t you noticed, Captain, that cynics are all the same? What difference is there between those who scoff at the old religions or those who scorn the revelations of a modern philosophy? What is it in their souls that makes these men so inflexible? Why do they hate themselves and despise the rest of humanity? Can it be envy? Must they sneer at Belief because they are incapable of Belief?”

  Barclay bent forward, peering first into Riordan’s face, then into mine. He looked and spoke as if he were addressing an audience of fifty thousand. All of his tremendous energy was concentrated in his ardent voice.

  “Don’t be distressed, John. It’s been tough, but you haven’t failed yet, lad. It’s just that stubborn will of yours, that determination to beat the bigger fellow. Face yourself, boy, accept your shortcomings. You’ll be bigger than any man on earth.”

  Riordan smirked. I knew what he was thinking. Just what Barclay wanted him to think: that I was a frustrated, envious, bitter, five-foot-five runt who used cynicism and sarcasm as a weapon against the six-footers. It was not a new tactic. Barclay had once done it with a mirror, but this time he put on a better show; he didn’t need mirrors. He had me where he wanted, helpless and squirming. If I had argued, he would have twisted my arguments against me. If I had stated fact he would have proved that my facts were conceived out of frustration and envy. Barclay was the big man and he had more than inches to prove his stature. He had faith. That made him secure. I possessed no weapon strong enough to pierce that armor, no shield to protect me from his blows.

  Therefore, ergo and q. e. d. I had not been poisoned. I had eaten shrimps.

  The phone rang. I welcomed the interruption. Sweat rolled down my face. The act of wiping it off embarrassed me. I hoped the argument was over.

  Eleanor hurried out of the bedroom. But Riordan had already answered the phone. It was his office reporting information just received from the Philadelphia cops. The man who had stolen Barclay’s black coupe had been found dead in his cell. An empty glass vial lay on the floor beside the body. The police had not discovered it when they originally frisked him.

  I watched Eleanor. She had not been present when Riordan told Barclay about the theft of the car and the arrest, in Philadelphia, of the drunken driver. The news meant nothing to her until James B. Thorpe’s name was mentioned.

  Her body stiffened. She stared at her father. “So it wasn’t the terrace?” She had barely breath enough for the words.

  “Terrace?” Riordan was puzzled.

  “I thought he jumped off or had…” She caught Barclay staring at her and turned away. “It must have been a dream, but it seemed so real. It couldn’t have, could it? There’d have been a body on the street. It seemed…”

  “Stop chattering,” Barclay commanded. To Riordan he said, “He was dead, you say, when they found him.”

  Riordan nodded.

  With a fine monogrammed handkerchief Barclay wiped sweat from his forehead. “Then he didn’t say anything? Didn’t reveal his identity?”

  “Know who he was?”

  Barclay’s head was bowed. The handkerchief hid the expression on his face. “Poor Ed,” he said and blew his nose. “Poor fellow, he must have known the game was up.”

  The inquest was apathetic. Lola Manfred was declared dead. A few grains of tobacco, several minute balls of crumpled cigarette paper, an unopened box of American Beauties might have proved that Edward Everett Munn had been her final visitor, but they did not prove that he had mixed bichloride of mercury with her last whiskey and soda.

  Riordan thanked me publicly for my assistance in the Manfred case, but he did not mention Wilson nor my hunch that there was a connection between the two murders. Probably Barclay had won him to the belief that I wanted revenge because my Wilson story had been rejected. In his own way, Riordan was right. Not a shred of evidence linked Lola Manfred’s death to the murder of Warren G
. Wilson. Time and the taxpayers’ money could not be wasted on theories offered by a guy with a chip on his shoulder.

  There was a surprise Witness. His name was Botticelli. He looked and acted like Chico Marx. Every week his boy had delivered flowers to Miss Lola Manfred. When Botticelli testified, the Coroner and the jury rocked with laughter. In spite of the comedy, the florist’s testimony clinched Barclay’s theory. With American Beauties at eighteen dollars a dozen, it had to be love.

  Eleanor testified briefly. She had come in late, walking between her father and his attorney. She wore her black suit and a black sweater and a string of small pearls. She looked severe, like an old-fashioned schoolteacher. All the little soft curls had been combed flat. Her hair looked dark. Purple shadows circled her eyes. She did not take off her white gloves.

  She appeared not to notice that I was in the room. We had not seen each other during the week-end. On Saturday morning, when Barclay and Riordan left, she had asked me to go, too. She was tired, she said. I had telephoned several times, both on Saturday night and Sunday, but she was always too tired to see me.

  I was puzzled. This seemed a curious time for her to give me the brush-off. I asked myself a lot of questions, but the answers added up to a bright zero.

  Noble Barclay took the oath. Everyone in the courtroom edged forward in his chair. Eleanor’s white-gloved hands played with the pearls. I, Noble Barclay, swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth. He was big, handsome, self-assured and earnest. He spoke in a mellow but clear-cut voice. There were no pauses, no evasions. He looked every juror in the eye and showed clearly that he was more than willing to co-operate with the officials.

  Barclay admitted that he had difficulty in adjusting himself to the idea that his close friend and trusted assistant could commit murder. Although, Barclay added, he had been aware that in having relations with Miss Manfred, Munn had been playing with fire.

  “Do you know certainly, Mr. Barclay, that she was Munn’s mistress?”

  “Does anyone in this room doubt it?”