My Son, the Murderer

by Patrick Quentin

  I said: “I’m terribly sorry, Johnson.”

  “I can’t believe it, sir. I just can’t believe it.”

  “I’ve got to see Mrs. Sheldon. It’s very important.”

  “Yes, sir. She’s in the upstairs apartment with her family. She spent the night there.” He looked down at his feet. “They arrested Master Bill.”

  “Yes.”

  “I told them something about Master Bill. I had to tell them because he said it. He did say it.”

  He glanced up at me almost fiercely. Probably he was hating me. Why should he feel anything but hatred and contempt for the father of Ronnie’s “murderer”?

  I said: “Sure. Of course you had to tell them. Don’t think I blame you.”

  I started away towards the door to the upper apartment. He stood quite still for a moment and then came after me, putting his old hand on my arm.

  “Mr. Duluth, sir, please. If you’ll talk to Miss Angie.”

  I turned. He was trying to smile, to be amiable, to show that he didn’t think of me as an enemy, but his face was too disintegrated to indicate any distinct expression.

  “Please, Mr. Duluth. If you’ll talk to her. I got her to bed finally, I did. But she didn’t sleep. Not a wink. And she’s just sitting there in the bed and she won’t touch her breakfast I brought up for her and—Mr. Duluth, she’s fond of you. You’re the only one she has a fancy for. If you’ll go to her. Please, if you’ll go to her …”

  Massa’s in de cold, cold ground. I thought of Angie’s loneliness and grief which had been blurred for me by my own loneliness and grief. Poor Angie. She and I were two of a kind. I didn’t imagine she could help me. I didn’t see either how it could help her to see me under the circumstances. But if Johnson thought so, I should try. I owed that to Ronnie.

  I went with Johnson into the house and up the stairs past the living-room. The whole house had been Ronnie, I thought.

  Without Ronnie, it was a shell. Johnson took me into Angie’s room without knocking—just as if she were still the little girl she had been when first he came into her father’s service. It was touching, and it was touching too how he talked to her coaxingly as if she were a difficult little girl to whom he was bringing a surprise present.

  “See who I’ve brought, Miss Angie. I’ll make fresh coffee and you’ll have a nice cup with Mr. Duluth.”

  He left us, taking away the breakfast tray. I looked at Angie awkwardly, almost with awe, thinking how monstrously life now was altered. She, almost certainly, was thinking of me no longer as the familiar “Jake”, but as the man who had spawned horror and disaster. As for me, everyone, from now on, was my potential energy, the potential murderer of Ronnie, the potential betrayer of my son. I couldn’t look at anyone, even at Angie, without that diseased suspicion distorting everything.

  Can it be she? Even she?

  She was sitting up, big, clumsy, indistinct, against the pillows in a pink bed-jacket which made her skin almost silvery white. She looked as if she had been mortally sick for months. But I didn’t see the expected hostility on her face. I saw only an odd tenderness and a kind of pity.

  I had been in Angie’s bedroom before, not often, but I had been there. Something seemed different. Then I noticed that Ronnie’s photograph and the photograph of her dead fiancé, which had stood together on the bedside table, were neither of them there. I visualized her the night before, when the police had finally gone, looking at the two photographs and sweeping them away out of sight, locking them up in a drawer, symbolically accepting the fact that her life was over. Poor Angie, whose life had been so little anyway.

  I said: “Angie, dear.”

  “Jake.”

  She patted the edge of the bed. I sat down. Her hand made a shy little movement towards mine. I took it. It was cold and still. I wondered whether in all the years I’d known her I had ever held Angie’s hand. I doubted it. But, although she’d never been more to me than a vague, kindly shadow, the years had left their mark and, because she hadn’t turned against me, I felt as if, with her, I was with my oldest friend.

  I said: “You know how I feel, Angie. I loved Ronnie. You know that?”

  She broke in: “You were a wonderful friend to him, Jake.”

  “Not more than he was to me.” I blurted: “Angie, you mustn’t feel too hard about Bill. What he did was unpardonable. But he didn’t kill Ronnie.”

  Her pale, weak eyes, dazed but still ready to be friendly, watched me in bewilderment. “But, Jake …”

  “Last night I thought he’d killed him. Of course I did. But later, I talked to him and he told me everything. Angie, he only brought the gun here because he was in such a state, because he wanted to make a grand, kiddish gesture, because— because he knew he was impossible, that Ronnie had every right to throw him out of the house. But he never intended to kill Ronnie. Never for a moment. And he didn’t kill him. He left the house over an hour before the crime. And the gun was left behind.”

  Beyond anything, then, I wanted to convince Angie. The memory of Lieutenant Barnes’s calm merciless eyes, of Arthur Freedland’s embarrassed, disbelieving eyes, the thought of all the thousands of eyes that even now, devouring the newspapers, would be accusing Bill, hemmed me in. I thought: If only I convince one person! If only even Angie can be made to see!

  She was still looking at me, trying to catch up with me. “But—but they arrested him.”

  “Of course they did. Barnes has all the evidence in the world, and I have none. But I’m going to prove he didn’t do it. Angie, can’t you help me?”

  “Help you?”

  “Don’t you know anything that might help clear him? What did you do yesterday—after I saw you in the hall?”

  “What did I do?” She picked up the edge of the coverlet between a plump finger and thumb, looking at it as if it were a reminder of horror. “I was frightened, Jake. You know that. That terrible scene with Bill! And then—then when you came, I came up the stairs after you. I thought I ought to go into the living-room, to try to help. But I was afraid. I’d never seen Ronnie like that. And when I heard him spitting out at you, threatening to destroy Sheldon and Duluth … I didn’t want to hear any more. I went up to my room. I—I changed my shoes and I went out. I went to see Gwendolyn Sneighley.”

  “Gwendolyn?”

  “Yes. She’d invited me to dinner. We’ve been friends for years. And I went. I had dinner with her. Someone’s lent her an apartment. I stayed there with her until I came back— and you were here and the police and …”

  “So you don’t know anything?”

  “No, Jake. I don’t know anything to help.”

  Johnson came in then with the tray and fresh coffee. He poured two cups. He knew exactly how Angie liked hers. He hovered over her with the cup, trying to feed her sips.

  Angie said: “All right, Johnson. I’ll drink it. I promise.”

  He went away again and Angie put down the cup. She said very softly:

  “You really do think Bill isn’t guilty, don’t you?”

  “I know it.”

  “But—but it was you who turned him in. They told me. When you came here and found the gun and—and Ronnie, you called the police.”

  “I told you. Then I thought he’d done it. I thought: If Bill killed Ronnie, he should be made to pay. I was all mixed up. Angie, you can see … After Felicia, after she did what she did, things have been bad between Bill and me. I tried. But I couldn’t do anything with him. When this started with Jean, I almost despaired. I thought he was no good. I thought there was nothing I could do any more to help. And then, when— when I found Ronnie dead and I knew Bill had stolen the gun. I thought: So it’s proved now. Like mother, like son. Ronnie’s been destroyed for this! I was so mad with Bill, so mad, I guess, with my own failure. Oh, I blame myself now. I …”

  “Blame yourself!” Angie turned towards me with sudden vehemence. “Jake, why do you always blame yourself for everything? You turned Bill in to the police because you t
hought he’d killed Ronnie. That was your duty. There’s nothing to feel guilty about. Jake—don’t you know you’re a good man?”

  That unexpected championing of me threw me off. I thought: What does Angie know about me? I said:

  “Sure, I’m a fine man—a wonderful man who let his wife jump out of a window and his son get arrested for murder, when he didn’t … when he didn’t …”

  “Jake,” she said. “Poor Jake. Dear Jake.”

  I said: “Angie, for God’s sake …”

  Her hand slipped out of mine and took my arm. “Jake, listen to me. Why do you go around with all this guilt on your shoulders? Everything’s your fault. That’s what you think. Everyone else is noble and fine. If only you were different! It’s Felicia, isn’t it? It’s because Felicia jumped. Oh,” she said. “Oh, if only you could see.”

  I returned her fixed, desperate gaze. “See what?”

  She gave her head a little hopeless shake. “You used to love Felicia the way I did. Your love for her was something good and now …”

  “Now what?”

  “You hate her, don’t you? And you hate yourself. You’ve let it turn in on you.”

  “I try not to think of Felicia.”

  “But it’s destroying you all the same. That’s what did all the damage between you and Bill. That’s—that’s in a way what caused all this horror.”

  I couldn’t stand any Feliciana then. It was Bill I had to think of. The brew was bitter enough without all this stirring of the silt at the bottom of the barrel. Suddenly I wanted to get away from Angie. We were both too grief-stricken. We weren’t helping each other. We were infecting each other.

  I said: “Angie, please drop it. Felicia’s old history.”

  “Because she’s dead?” she challenged. “Is that what you mean? Is Ronnie old history then?”

  “No, of course Ronnie isn’t old history.”

  I got up. Her hand didn’t want to release my arm. I looked down at her. She was trying to be kind, but …

  I said: “Angie, I’ve got to see Jean. She may know something. You do understand?”

  “Of course.”

  “And thank you, Angie.”

  “You don’t have to thank me. Go on. And I’ll hope and pray that you’ll find out something.”

  “Because you think Bill’s innocent?”

  It was foolish of me to press that point. I only did it because it was still so important to me to feel that there might be one ally. She looked away from me as if I’d embarrassed her and then, almost in a whisper, said:

  “Because I’d like him to be innocent more than anything in the world—for you. Life can’t be that cruel. It can’t take everything away from you twice.”

  Life had taken everything away from her twice—once when her fiancé died and then again last night with Ronnie. But she wasn’t being sorry for herself. She was thinking of me. I thought: Angie’s nicer than I ever dreamed. She’s far nicer than I am.

  I started for the door and then turned. She had picked up the coffee cup. Even though Johnson wasn’t there I could tell she was only drinking it for his sake.

  “Good-bye, Angie.”

  “Good-bye, Jake. And, Jake …”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t raise your hopes too high.”

  I looked at her, suddenly uneasy. “Why do you say that?”

  She gave me the faintest, most forlorn smile over the coffee cup. “Because I couldn’t bear it if you were heartbroken. And that’s what you’ll be if you find out you’re wrong. Jake, think all the time: Maybe he did it after all. Just maybe. That way it’ll be easier. I know you, Jake. I know you so well. Do it, please, for my sake.”

  She put down the coffee cup. “Now everything else is gone— I’ve got to have someone to think of, don’t I? You’re the only one left. Good-bye, Jake.”

  “Good-bye, Angie.”

  15

  I went out of the house, past the hovering Johnson and round the corner to the entrance for the Lacey apartment. Angie was still with me as a kindly oppressive memory, wishing me well but, with her cryptic “Don’t raise your hopes too high,” weighing me down, making me realize that, even with her, I had failed in my purpose. She didn’t think Bill was innocent. That, in her fond, awkward way, was what she’d been trying to tell me.

  I went up in the lift and rang the apartment buzzer. Norah Lacey opened the door. She looked worn, as if she hadn’t slept, but calm and gentle as ever. She was wearing an apron. That was typical of her, I thought. All the world had tumbled round all our heads, but Norah Lacey went on ministering to others. The very sight of her was comfortable. Somehow she managed to neutralize the atmosphere of anxiety and horror.

  I said: “Can I speak to Jean, Mrs. Lacey?”

  “Of course.” As I moved past her into the hall, she put her hand on my arm. The faint flush tinged her fair skin. “There’s no news about your son? Good news, I mean?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “I do hope there will be. For your sake, for everyone’s …” She broke off. “Mr. Duluth, I feel so terrible. About Jean, I mean. If only I’d known …”

  “You couldn’t have stopped it. No one could have stopped it.”

  “I should never have allowed the marriage. Jean’s so young. How could she have known how she really felt with Phyllis on at her and it all being so wonderful for Basil and …?” Sharp footsteps sounded down the hall and Lady Phyllis Brent’s clipped, haughty voice called:

  “Who is it. Norah?”

  She appeared round the corner then. She was carrying a cigarette with a sausage of ash hanging from its end. When she saw me, she came to a dead halt. She looked at me as if I were some unmentionable insect.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Norah said: “He’s come to see Jean, Phyllis.”

  Phyllis Brent ignored her, her eyes riveted on me. “Well, a fine parent you are! I suppose this is the celebrated American Progressive Education. Give the dear little brat everything it wants! If it wants your friend’s wife—hand her to it on a silver platter. You knew all about this days ago. That policeman told us everything last night. Why didn’t you stop them? Or, if you were too spineless, why didn’t you tell us? We’d have knocked some sense into Jean in five seconds.”

  Norah said: “Phyllis, please. Mr. Duluth tried …”

  “Tried! The absurd, futile mess of it all! With Basil just settled here, with Basil just starting on the book! My God, if this is America …”

  I didn’t want to hear the aristocratic Phyllis Brent’s opinion of America. I didn’t want to hear any more laments about Basil Lacey’s discomforts. I was tired of righteous female indignation. I’d been given my fill of it last night by Sylvia Rymer. I turned my back on Phyllis and moved to Norah— from the scorpion to the rose.

  “Would you take me to Jean?”

  “Yes, yes. Of course.”

  Phyllis gave a loud, contemptuous “Pah” and disappeared again round the corner.

  Norah, moving with me in the other direction, began: “I’m sorry, Mr. Duluth. It’s just that she …”

  “I know,” I said. “She’s shy.”

  “Mr. Duluth, you don’t understand her. I didn’t understand her at first. It’s just that Basil’s her whole life. She never had anything else. A dreadful existence, buried in the country with a bedridden mother and a father who despised her for not being a son—an heir. Basil’s work is everything to her.”

  “I know,” I said again. “How tiresome it must be to have people killed and arrested and …”

  “Mr. Duluth, please. I’m not like that.”

  “Of course you’re not.”

  “And Basil isn’t. Basil’s absolutely heartbroken, too.”

  I tried to think of Basil Lacey heartbroken. It wasn’t easy.

  We reached the door. She opened it. We both went in. Jean wasn’t in bed. She was standing by the window in a black dress that was new. I had forgotten Ronnie’s “dressing my clan t
o the teeth” routine which a few days ago had seemed just a rather sour comedy. I had forgotten, too, how the sight of Jean always made me catch my breath a little. Things had gone so far away from the time when it mattered that a young girl could move me.

  When she heard us, she turned quickly.

  “Mr. Duluth.”

  “Hello, Jean.”

  “Mother, please leave us alone.”

  Norah hovered. “You still don’t feel you could take a little something? A cup of tea?”

  “No, Mother. Please.”

  “Very well, dear.”

  Norah went out, closing the door behind her. Jean took a step towards me. She was too young for even this crushing tragedy to have marred her freshness. But there was that blind, lost look on her face—-the look that had been there the first night in the library. The Juliet look. It should have been shocking because her husband was dead and she was clearly as oblivious of him as if he’d been a straw dummy. But, somehow, it was too guileless to be shocking. She was utterly fixed on Bill. She couldn’t help it. It was like a disease.

  I thought: At least I’ve finally found an ally. Not that she was much of one, for Jean, as Ronnie’s wife, as Barnes’s “motive for murder” might, as an ally, be more of a liability than an asset.

  She said: “Have you seen him?”

  “I saw him last night. I went with him when they arrested him.”

  “Lieutenant Barnes?”

  “Lieutenant Barnes.”

  “How is he? Tell me, how is he?”

  I said cautiously: “He’s had a pretty bad time.”

  “Poor Bill.” She said that like a lover, as if she were breathing it in his ear. Then she clutched my arm. Her hand, I noticed, so unlike her mother’s, was smooth and pretty as milk. That was youth again. The chicken-farm hadn’t been able to leave its mark on her. “Mr. Duluth, what are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to save him,” I said.