My Son, the Murderer

by Patrick Quentin

  “Don’t pay any attention to him, Mr. Duluth. Please.” Jean came to me. She put her hand on my arm. She looked old. It was the first time I’d ever seen a nineteen-year-old girl look old. “I’m sorry. I’m terribly sorry. But, Mr. Duluth, you believe me, don’t you?”

  I would have given a lot to have kept her from asking that— to have saved myself the humiliation of having once again to say:

  “Yes.”

  “I knew you would. And now—I think you’d better go.”

  “Not if I can be any help.”

  “No. Please go. It’s the best thing.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. And I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused.”

  I glanced at Ronnie. He was standing at the mantel, staring down at the fragments of porcelain at his feet. I had never felt so deeply separated from him nor, paradoxically, so tender towards him—in spite of those histrionics which, in any other man. would have been repulsive. Suddenly I resented all the Laceys with a bitter resentment—Jean and her genius father and her quiet, pretty mother and their dedicated earl’s daughter. Why the hell hadn’t they stayed in Shropshire? Things were all right before they came.

  But I didn’t really feel like that. I only wanted to feel like that. I wasn’t blaming Jean any more than I was blaming Ronnie. It was all Bill’s fault. My son with his stubborn, besotted kid’s passion had been merciless, lying to me, tricking Jean, turning Ronnie into a monster, blundering through all our lives like a randy bull calf.

  Bill was the villain.

  Jean was holding out her hand. I took it.

  “Call me if you need me.”

  “Yes. But I won’t need you. Somehow I’ll make it all right.”

  She stood there, trying to look brave and polite and Britishly undaunted.

  Somehow she’d make it all right! How? By looking up the solution in her Girl Guides’ Manual?

  I went out of the room and out of the house.

  8

  I went home, anxious, depressed and rather frightened. I let myself into the apartment. It was Thursday, and Leora wasn’t there, which was a relief. I poured myself a drink. I started to wonder whether I should have left Ronnie. For Ronnie, with his pathetic vanity, what had happened must be almost as destructive as what had happened to me with Felicia. But how could I have helped if I’d stayed? When I’d been there, I’d only made things worse. Angie, who knew him best, was probably right. The moment Angie had heard the rumble of thunder, she had fled.

  I called the garage. My car was back. The attendant told me Bill had brought it in about four. I imagined my son last night in that horrible little Fire Island cottage of Felicia’s. Had Jean been telling the truth? Had Bill finally figured the thing out and realized how much damage he was doing to everyone? Had he really gone to 58th Street in remorse, merely to apologize and to make a theatrical “good-bye-forever” gesture? If he had, it was ironic that Ronnie should have walked in at that of all moments. And, of course, if my son had been contrite when he went to 58th Street, Ronnie’s treatment of him would have driven every good intention out of his mind. Now Bill would be in a storm of rage against Ronnie; and Bill’s rages were as irresponsible as Ronnie’s.

  Wearily, I realized that I’d better find him.

  I called his number in the Village. It didn’t answer. I could think of no other place where I could reach him. I made myself a sandwich in the kitchen and kept calling every few minutes.

  About eight-thirty the phone rang. It was my brother.

  “Jake?”

  “Hello. Peter.”

  “Jake, is Bill there?”

  His voice was very quiet and guarded. I knew that meant something was wrong.

  I said: “No. He isn’t here. I’ve been trying to locate him.”

  “You don’t know where he is?”

  “No.”

  “He’s been here.” Peter paused. “He left about an hour ago. Maybe we should have called you before. We couldn’t make up our minds … Jake, what’s the matter with him?”

  I hadn’t told Peter and Iris anything. They were always sympathetic about my troubles with Bill. But this time it had been too serious to spread around, even to the people I loved. I stalled. “The matter?”

  “Have you two had another fight?”

  “What happened?”

  “We thought he was drunk at first. He came round without phoning. Lucia—the maid—let him in. We were just starting dinner early because Lucia had a date. He wouldn’t eat anything. He didn’t seem to have anything to say. He just sat there a while, watching us eat. Then he went off into the living-room. He was kind of wild, Jake, as if he was burning up inside. And his hands were shaking. They were shaking so he could hardly light a cigarette. Iris went after him into the living-room. She asked if he was sick. He just muttered something she couldn’t make head or tail of and walked right out of the apartment.” He paused. “It’s none of our goddam business if you’ve had a fight. You know we never butt in. But there’s something else. Of course, it’s probably a coincidence, and you’ll think this is terribly corny of me. But, by the merest chance, after dinner, Iris and Lucia were looking for something—a recipe or something that someone had given Iris and Lucia wanted to take to her sister. They searched in a desk drawer in the living-room. I keep an old service revolver there. It’s gone.”

  The carpet under my feet seemed to be shifting uneasily. Peter was saying: “Of course, we hardly ever look in that drawer. The gun might have gone weeks ago, but..

  “Come over,” I said. “Can you? Can you both come over now?”

  “Sure, Jake.” He was too tactful and bright to ask questions. “We’ll be over in ten minutes.”

  They arrived in less than ten minutes. Iris was wearing slacks. She never liked to go out in them, but she hadn’t waited to change.

  I told them the whole thing. It was bad enough now when I had to have help.

  Iris said: “Jake, darling, why on earth didn’t you tell us before? The little idiot! And the girl—what a monster the girl must be.”

  “No,” I said. “It isn’t Jean’s fault.”

  I broke off. My voice had sounded wrong. Both Iris and Peter looked at me oddly.

  Then Peter said: “You think he took the gun, Jake?”

  Of course he’d taken the gun. I said: “He knew it was there?”

  Peter glanced at Iris. Iris blurted: “Last month—sometime last month—I was looking for a cigarette-holder with a filter. Bill was there. We looked for it together. Bill found it—in that drawer.”

  “Maybe he didn’t see the gun.”

  “But he did. He talked about it. He said: ‘I didn’t know Peter kept a gun. Is it loaded?’ And I said: ‘I think it is. It’s for burglars.’ ” She put her hand on my arm. “Darling, you should have seen him tonight! I’ve never seen him like that. I thought he was sick. But he’d never…”

  “He wouldn’t?”

  “Jake, you’d better call Ronnie.”

  Peter shook his head. “No. We’d better go round.”

  My brother turned towards the door. Iris and I stood looking at each other. The phone rang. I went to answer it.

  It was Jean’s voice. It was pinched and thin like a ghost’s voice.

  “Mr. Duluth?”

  “Jean.”

  “Mr. Duluth, I’m in my room. After you left, Ronnie locked me in. I can’t get out. He made Johnson take the evening off and Angie’s out. Mummy and Daddy are out too. Mr. Duluth, you’d better come, because…”

  “Because—what?”

  “Just now—just before I rang—I heard shots. Two shots. Downstairs in the living-room.”

  To me that seemed like the end of everything.

  “Mr. Duluth, I couldn’t hear anything else. Just the shots. No—no voices or anything. Shall I call the police?”

  “No,” I said. “No.”

  Dimly I heard her voice going on:

  “You’ve got a key for the front door. The o
ther day you let me in. You’d better bring it.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’m coming.”

  I put down the receiver. I glanced at my watch—9.25. My mind was confused. I could only think of what she’d said about the key. I had Ronnie’s key in my pocket.

  Behind me, Iris’s voice rasped: “What is it, Jake?”

  I felt in my pocket for my key ring.

  “Jake, what is it?”

  I turned. “Jean Sheldon. She’s locked in her room. She’s heard shots downstairs.”

  Iris ran to me. “Jake…”

  Peter crossed to me, too. I felt his hands on my arms. “Jake, are you all right? Can you make it?”

  I said: “I’m all right.”

  “Iris, maybe we should leave him. He’s all in. He’s…”

  “No,” I said. “I’m all right, I tell you. I’m coming.”

  My brother said: “Go ahead and grab a taxi, Iris, I’ll bring him.”

  Iris ran out of the room. Peter put his arm around my waist. I shook myself free.

  “For God’s sake, leave me alone.”

  “Then come on.”

  We went together out into the hall. The lift had gone down with Iris. We stood there, waiting for it. Suddenly Peter said:

  “Felicia! That bitch Felicia! ”

  I might have been astonished that Peter, who never mentioned my wife, could have said that. But I wasn’t. I only thought: There it is again. The old, worn-out alibi. Blame Felicia. My God, were we going to go through life forgiving the little brat every criminal folly he perpetrated? Poor Bill! Poor little boy! What can you expect when his mother … ? The lift came up. We went down together. Iris had a taxi. We went to 58th Street. My brother and his wife were sitting on either side of me. They were like nurses with a crippled old lady. But I felt better because I’d steeled myself to the inevitable. There was no use in trying to hope. That would only make it worse.

  Iris slipped her hand into mine. “It’ll be all right, Jake.”

  “Shut up, baby,” said Peter.

  My brother paid off the taxi. I rang Ronnie’s front-door bell. There was no reply. I opened the door with the key. We went upstairs to the living-room. Peter hurried ahead. He wanted to shield me from the first shock. I could almost always tell what my brother was thinking. All the lights in the living-room were burning. Peter crossed the threshold and then came to a sudden halt.

  “Iris, keep Jake out of here.”

  Iris grabbed at me. I avoided her. I went up to Peter’s side.

  Ronnie was lying on his back in front of the fire. There was blood trickling from his mouth and blood all over the front of his shirt. On the carpet by his side was a revolver.

  I knew I should have been thinking about the revolver. It was the revolver that was going to tell just how black the future would be. But my thoughts wouldn’t stay with it. I could think only of Ronnie. Lying there, he didn’t look like Ronnie. He was just a man, a body—something sprawled across a carpet. And yet, that thing was Ronnie Sheldon—Ronnie whom I’d seen almost every day for twenty years. Ronnie who with all his insecurity, his irresponsibility, his childish need for affection, was the man I’d known better than anyone else, the man I had loved.

  Peter had dropped to his knees. I watched his hands moving competently across the body. I thought of Jean locked upstairs in that room. We would have to get her. Then I thought: No. Of course not. Ronnie had locked her in. His fingerprints would be on the lock. Things like that would be important now. Our lives would be ruled by little frightening things which never before had mattered but which now could mean hope or ruin. So long as Ronnie’s fingerprints stayed on that lock, no one could say that Jean …

  Iris had joined me. She was standing very still at my side. Peter looked up. “He’s dead,” he said.

  “And the gun?” asked Iris.

  My brother rose to his feet.

  “It’s my gun,” he said.

  9

  I stood there, trying to be calm. But it was as if all this had happened before, as if three years had never been and I was back in the drab police-station house, listening to the eyewitnesses describe Felicia’s jump. Then, I had felt hopelessness, despair and anger—but mostly anger at the terrible, unsuspected egotism which had driven her on to do that thing, utterly ignoring the horror she was leaving behind for us. Now, as I looked down at Ronnie, that same anger, even colder and more bitter, engulfed me.

  With a dreadful finality, I thought: Like mother, like son. How dared he? What did he think he was that he could destroy… ?

  Iris and Peter were watching me. Their awed, apprehensive pity for me made me even angrier. What were they waiting for me to do? Break down and weep because my poor motherless child was in a jam?

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s call the police.”

  Both of them looked incredulous as if I couldn’t have said that.

  “But, Jake,” faltered Iris, “if—if we call the police, they’ll arrest Bill.”

  “Why not?” I said. “Who else killed Ronnie?”

  Iris began: “But…”

  “He’s my son? He’s your nephew? He’s blood of our blood? Is that what you’re going to say? It’s our noble, clannish duty to protect him? Should we try to hide the gun, for example—-ignoring the fact that it’s licensed in Peter’s name, that your maid knows it was stolen and that Bill was at your apartment tonight? Should we lie about his little escapade when Angie was right in the middle of it—and the butler? The police aren’t morons. They'd see through that sort of protection in twenty seconds. And why should we protect him anyway? He tried to grab a girl; he couldn’t get her; he had his feelings hurt, so he shot her husband. Is that the sort of character you want to protect? He didn’t think twice about dragging you into this, did he? You, an actress with a reputation, a name that’s going to be flung over every newspaper headline! Oh, no, you and Peter were just an easy place to snitch a gun. And me! Did he think about me, that Ronnie was my best friend, my…”

  “But, Jake, he’s only a child.”

  “A child!”

  My legs were weak and my head was aching. I sat down on the arm of a chair. I put a hand over my eyes. I felt Iris’s arms around me and smelt the faint scent of her perfume.

  “Jake, darling. Jake, you poor darling.”

  I said: “Why don’t you and Peter go? At least there’ll be less of a Press barrage if you keep out of the discovery.”

  “As if we’d leave you! ”

  I was afraid of her sympathy and the comforting softness of her arms. I wanted to cling on to my anger. I got up and crossed to Peter. Ronnie was lying beside him under the mantel, under the best Braque.

  I said: “You understand, Peter.”

  My brother’s face was bleak. “Sure, Jake. You’re right. It’s hopeless to try to hush things up. If it was only the three of us…” He shrugged. “But it’s gone too far.”

  Iris said: “At least we can get Jean first. She may know something.”

  “No,” I said. “Ronnie locked her in that room. His fingerprints will be on the lock. We’ve got to preserve them for the police.”

  Peter moistened his lips. “Maybe we could talk to her through the door.”

  “Why? Tell her her husband’s dead? She’ll hear that soon enough. She doesn’t know anything. She told me all she knows on the phone. After I left, Ronnie locked her in the room and sent the servants away. Then she heard the shots.”

  As if I were a doctor looking at myself from the outside, I knew exactly how much I could stand. It was the delay that was so bad. Since what had to happen was irrevocable, it must happen now. I went to the phone. Peter came after me.

  “Jake, you’re sure?”

  “What the hell do you mean—sure? What else can we do?”

  “All right then. But let me do it. I know a policeman.”

  “Lieutenant Barnes?” asked Iris.

  “Barnes.”

  Peter took the phone from me. I didn�
�t argue. It didn’t matter who called the police. It didn’t matter what policeman came. Barnes? Who was Barnes? I heard my brother talking quietly on the phone. I went to a chair and sat down. From where I was sitting, I couldn’t see Ronnie. But that hadn’t been deliberate. I just happened to pick that chair. I lit a cigarette. Ronnie’s Tamayos were on the wall in front of me. I looked at them. I thought: That’s a terrific painter. Then, suddenly, because of that incongruous thought, my defenses collapsed and the truth hit me like a meat-cleaver.

  Ronnie was dead. My son had killed him.

  The police came in about ten minutes. There were six of them—four plain-clothes men and two cops. The most important detective—Lieutenant Barnes—was tall and surprisingly young, under forty. He greeted Peter and Iris not like people he knew particularly well but like social acquaintances he was always running into at the same cocktail parties. There was a sort of cocktail party manner to him anyway, an elegance, an understatement of authority as if he were trying to deny the fact that he was only there because he was a cop and someone had been murdered. His air antagonized me. His quiet, educated voice, giving orders to the other detectives, antagonized me too.

  He moved away from Peter and Iris and looked down at Ronnie. He might have been a very well-bred, very intelligent botanist, studying an interesting plant. I was standing by my chair at the back of the room. I wanted to shout at him: “That’s Ronnie, goddam you! It isn’t Exhibit A.”

  A man came hurrying in with a black bag. He knelt down by Ronnie. He was obviously the police doctor. The two cops stood by the door, burly, bored and rather ill-at-ease. They looked wildly inappropriate in the magnificence of Ronnie’s living-room. That’s how the police should be, I thought.

  Disaster should bring violent contrasts and heavy boots. It shouldn’t come like Lieutenant Barnes.

  Peter was telling Barnes about Jean being locked in the room upstairs and suggesting, rather awkwardly, that the lock should be tested for Ronnie’s fingerprints. It was startling enough information—that Ronnie’s wife should be locked in a room upstairs. But Barnes carefully didn’t let it startle him.