Death of an Angel

by Frances Lockridge

  Mrs. Nelson was so very chic; her husband—Bill considered. It was hard to put a finger on. But Mr. James Nelson did, somehow, seem a little seedy. He was also, of course, a little drunk; it was likely that he was often a little drunk. He wore a hard straw hat. Pam, Bill thought, would be interested to hear of that.

  He found a telephone. He talked to Mullins. The man who had been keeping Sam Wyatt under observation had let him get away. Wyatt had met some people for drinks at a hotel on lower Fifth Avenue. He had taken a cab from there to his hotel. He had remained at the hotel for a half an hour or so and left on foot. He had walked to a subway station, and ridden to Grand Central. He had been lost in Grand Central.

  “One man, Loot,” Mullins said. “You know how it is. Probably noticed he was being tailed and—flut!”

  “I doubt if it matters,” Bill said.

  “The people he had drinks with,” Mullins said. “Guess who they were, Loot.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. North,” Bill said. “And Mrs. Weigand, probably.”

  “The trouble with you,” Mullins said, “is you’re clairient.”

  “Absolutely,” Bill said. “Find out what you can about a man named Nelson—James Nelson. Lives in Rye. Middle sixties, probably. Husband of Fitch’s cousin.”

  “O.K., Loo—captain,” Mullins said. “He figures?”

  “Well,” Bill said, “he wears a straw hat.”

  He hung up. He made another call.

  8

  Sunday, 5:45 P.M. to 8:50 P.M.

  Gerald North sat between Pam, on his left, and Dorian Weigand, in the semi-darkness of a movie house on Eighth Street. The screen in front of them was occupied by an enormous face, which expressed anguish. Gerald North knew it was anguish because the face had, a moment before, been parted from its love, which was as large a face. When last seen, the other face had been wearing an expression of resolution. Mr. North had known it was resolution because, just before that, the other face had confronted this face—each occupying a portion of the screen—and a public address system had said, heavily, “If that’s the way you want it.” The public address system had answered, instantly, but in a lighter voice, “That’s the way it’s get to be.”

  The face faded slowly away, revealing that it was attached to a body. The body had hands, which were held up, in an attitude of rejection. Mr. North knew the attitude was one of rejection because—

  This was, undoubtedly, the deadliest motion picture he had ever seen. He plodded through his memory. That one three weeks back? The one with a spy in it? (One could tell he was a spy, because he kept pulling down the brim of his hat, even when it was already so far down that he had to bend over backward to see out.) No, this was worse than the spy one. In the spy one there was shooting, toward the end. It had awakened Mr. North. But this was a tale of primitive emotion. A sign outside said so.

  Mr. North looked away from the screen and at his wife. She was regarding the picture with fixed attention. Loving it, Mr. North thought bitterly. The things people like! Even Pam. She can sit there, while I’m here dying of boredom, and like this preposterous—

  Pam turned just enough so that Jerry could glimpse her companionable smile. She kept her eyes on the screen. Jerry turned his eyes back to it. Loving it, Pam thought bitterly. Of all the incredible bilge! And in addition to everything else, the dress is as wrong for her as it could possibly be. The things I go through to keep that man happy! Sitting here, in the dark, hearing this braying of clichés when I might as well be home finishing the crossword. The master of the Golden Hind. Something in five letters ending in—for heaven’s sake! Drake, of course. With that I could get a whole section. And instead—

  “Oh, darling,” the loud speaker said, in its more dulcet tones. “Come back, darling—just come back. That’s all that’s—”

  Pam looked away, since the woman on the screen—name of Monica as she recalled it; word in six letters, ending in anguish—was in closeup again, and that was really too much. Jerry was staring at the screen, hanging on every word. Was that, really, the kind of woman he liked? She looked beyond him. Dorian was as intent as Jerry. What on earth was the matter with the two of them? It couldn’t be that they really—

  About five minutes more of this, Dorian Weigand thought, and I’ll scream. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll stand up and scream. Wife of detective captain becomes hysterical in movie, creates disturbance, is ejected. That will serve him right. It will serve everybody right. Pam and Jerry sitting here simply glued to the screen—glued in syrup. When they might be anywhere else; might be talking. It was fun to talk to the Norths, or she had always thought so, Obviously, however, if they were the sort who could be stuck in this—this treacle—she must have been wrong in thinking—

  I suppose, Jerry thought, I can’t spoil their enjoyment. I’ll just sit here and—But perhaps if I fidget a little? Not really a great deal. Just toss and turn, slightly? Moan, perhaps? They’re nice girls and if they knew what this is doing—

  Like a schoolboy, Pam thought. Precisely like a schoolboy. Looks at that overblown so-and-so and simply can’t sit still. If I had any gumption I’d just get up and get out of—But I can’t do that, because both of them are having a wonderful—

  They’re my hosts, Dorian thought. That’s one way of looking at it. I’m a poor thing abandoned on Sunday afternoon and they’re doing what they can to keep me amused. Amused! And I’ve got to be a little lady and sit and sit and sit and—It changed into something else; into a girl singing on the radio. “I’ve got to cook and cook and cook—” A catchy tune. She found she was humming it, softly.

  “Got to cook and cook and cook,” Jerry said, in a whisper. “Love to cook and cook and—”

  “Jerry,” Dorian said. “I thought you were miles away. Deep in a drama of primitive emotions.”

  “God,” Jerry North said, simply.

  They both looked at Pam. And Pamela North said, not entirely in a whisper, “I’ve had all I can take. Absolutely all. If you two want—”

  The Norths and Dorian Weigand rose as one, having suffered as three. They went out into the noisy warmth of Eighth Street and stood in the doorway of the theater and looked at Eighth Street. They looked at a delicatessen, two grocery stores and a lunchroom.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” Pam said. “Isn’t it simply beautiful?”

  Jerry waved down a cab.

  “Come,” Jerry said, “I can still hear it.”

  Dorian said that she should really go home. But they went to the Algonquin, although it was only a little after six, and too early for dinner. They found Acting Captain William Weigand there, having drinks in the lobby with a very pretty blonde.

  It was Dorian who saw Bill first. They had found seats in a corner—the corner nearest the entrance to the Oak Room. Bill and the blonde were in the corner most distant; to see them, Dorian had to look entirely across the pleasant lobby, which is also a cocktail lounge. She had to look past people talking about plays, and people reading Variety and people merely waiting for other people. She achieved this.

  “Do you,” she said, in an especially steady voice, “see what I see? Over there?” She indicated with a movement of her head. The Norths looked. Pam North said, “Oh,” in the most indeterminate of tones.

  “Speaking,” Dorian Weigand said, in the same precisely level voice, “of primitive emotions.”

  Bill Weigand and the blonde were side by side on a sofa, which was the right size for two. They were turned slightly toward each other, and the blonde was talking. She talked with animation, with smiles. There was a cocktail on a small table in front of her, and Bill held a cocktail in his hand. He listened, and as he listened, he nodded.

  “Is that,” Dorian said, “supposed to be this cousin? That?”

  “Well—” Jerry said.

  “There’s no use pretending,” Pam said. “No. I’ve seen her somewhere—”

  “A Miss Barnscott,” Jerry said. “An—er—an actress. In the play, that is.”


  “Thank you,” Dorian said. “You do make things so clear. She’s blond, isn’t she?”

  “Very,” Pam said. “Probably a suspect.”

  “For a suspect,” Dorian said, “she’s very pretty, isn’t she? In a flashy sort of way? A suspect to get drunk with.”

  “Listen,” Jerry said, “you know Bill doesn’t get drunk. Or—or anything.”

  “Doesn’t he?” Dorian said. “That’s decent of him, isn’t it? Goes off to see a cousin. Turns up with—that—that floozy.”

  “As a matter of fact—” Jerry began.

  “That’s right,” Dorian said. “Defend her. Dyes her hair, have you noticed?”

  “Look,” Jerry said, and there was anxiety in his tone. “You know she’s a suspect. Or—somebody Bill had to ask something of.”

  “Don’t I,” Dorian said. “What I wonder is—ask what of?”

  They both looked at her. Then she smiled.

  “All right,” she said. “She’s a suspect. A pretty blond suspect. I trust Bill implicitly. All I don’t see is, why can’t he have Mullins or somebody talk to the blond ones? All I—”

  She broke off. The two across the lobby were rising from the snug sofa. It appeared that Bill was assisting the blonde to arise. It appeared that, having so assisted her, he patted her on one pretty shoulder. It appeared—

  “Maybe,” Dorian said, “I wasn’t kidding anybody. Maybe—”

  The blonde—the slim and graceful Miss Phyllis Barnscott—smiled up at Bill Weigand. She held out a hand, which Bill took.

  “He,” Dorian said, “is squeezing it.”

  Miss Barnscott’s hand was gradually released. She smiled up at Bill again; she flipped the freed hand in a parting gesture. She walked around the end of a head-high partition between lounge and hotel desk, and so toward the door. Bill stood gazing after her.

  “If he—” Dorian began, and then Bill turned. He was smiling broadly.

  “Swallowed the canary,” Dorian said. “If—oh!”

  It was evident now that Bill Weigand, threading an expert way among chairs and little tables, was headed toward his wife and Pam and Jerry. It was evident that the smile—which had become a grin—was directed toward them. It appeared that Bill Weigand, for a policeman in the middle of a murder investigation, was enjoying himself very much indeed. He stood in front of them, and looked down at them.

  “You!” Dorian said. “All the time, you knew we were here!”

  “It is,” Bill told her, “the duty of a policeman to be constantly observant.”

  “You patted her,” Dorian said. “If I were a different kind of wife.”

  “You,” Bill said, “would be somebody else’s. May I sit down?”

  He sat beside Dorian. He patted her shoulder. Jerry North patted the button of a small bell affixed to the table in front of them. A waiter came. Drinks came and they waited.

  Phyllis Barnscott, Bill told them, was in a sense an outgrowth of Mrs. Alicia Nelson. He paused while Pam said that that seemed a little—something. He told them of his interview with Mrs. Nelson. He said that she had, he thought, wanted information from him, which was a common desire of people in any degree involved. She had also wanted to give him information about Miss Barnscott. She had not wanted him to meet her husband. At a guess, she had turned her husband loose in a bar, where it seemed entirely probable he would feel at home. He told them that Mr. Nelson wore a stiff straw hat.

  “Clean?” Pam asked.

  Not, he told her, particularly. And, not a new hat.

  “Bleached?” she said.

  “Probably,” Bill said.

  Pam said, “Uh-huh” with emphasis.

  “The Barnscott—person,” Dorian said. “She dyes her hair, you know.”

  “So she told me,” Bill said.

  “Open and aboveboard,” Dorian said. “The worst type. But—she denied knowing anything. And you believed her.”

  Bill nodded.

  “Otherwise,” Dorian said, “you would have hardly have—made a spectacle of yourself. Even for our benefit.”

  “Right,” Bill said. “I hardly would have.”

  “I suppose,” Jerry said, “she can prove she didn’t kill Fitch?”

  That, Bill admitted, was further than he wanted to go. She had made it seem entirely unlikely. She had been, Bill said, very cheerful about the whole affair, in so far as she was herself concerned. She had said the expected things about the sudden ending of Mr. Fitch. She had said he was a nice boy, and that it was too bad—too damned bad.

  “Callous, probably,” Dorian said.

  Bill smiled at her. She accepted the smile. She patted his hand, in forgiveness, in promise to let it be.

  He did not think Phyllis Barnscott was callous. Or, in an accepted sense, hard. He thought she more or less took things as they came.

  “Including,” Pam said, “Mr. Fitch?”

  She had, Bill said, been frank about that—he thought frank. She and Fitch had had “a lot of good times together.” She had not specified. But she had said, “I haven’t been on a pedestal, captain. Not for years I haven’t,” leaving him to draw what conclusions he chose and, he thought, not caring greatly what conclusions he did draw. She had said, “He was a nice boy. We went places, and did things. Hurting nobody.”

  Long before Fitch and Naomi Shaw had “got that way about each other” she and Fitch had got over being any way. That was her story; anybody could tell him it was true. “There was never any secret about it,” she said. “No reason why there should have been. It was a fun game.” Nay was a friend of hers. If she wanted Fitch—fine. It was, she assumed, an entirely different thing with Nay and Fitch. Not a “fun thing”; a marriage thing. The idea that she was jealous was preposterous. That, moved by jealousy, she would do anything to hurt anybody—

  “You get funny ideas in your business, captain,” she said. “It must do things to your mind.”

  Bill had not told her the source of the theory. He had asked her if she knew the Nelsons.

  “The poor old guy ought to join the AA’s,” she had said. “That’s all I know. Oh yes—he used to borrow money from Brad. Had a lot himself when he married Brad’s cousin but it went phfft. Mrs. Nelson is interested in clubs and things like that. Wanted to get poor Sammy to talk at one of them.”

  She had heard of a girl named Peggy Latham; but only, she said, as a girl Brad had once gone around with—oh, yes, and as the kind of girl who rode horses. From what she had heard—although “not from Brad. He wasn’t that kind”—she had assumed it was something he was well out of.

  “Anyway,” she said, and then she had seemed more serious than at any other time, “the way I see it, the way things are nowadays, it’s every girl for herself. Don’t hurt anybody if you can help it, don’t get hurt if you can help it.”

  “She doesn’t,” Pam said, “sound like the brooding type.”

  “Right,” Bill said. “That’s pretty much what I mean. Also—”

  Also, Phyllis Barnscott had told him, she had another iron in the fire. A man he might have heard of wanted her to marry him. For all she knew, she might. A man named Tootle—Jasper Tootle.

  “You can laugh,” she had said. “He’s got a funny name. But he’s a nice guy, and we get along fine.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Jerry said. “Jasper on a toot.”

  They listened to that in shocked silence. Jerry North proved himself man enough to apologize.

  Bill looked at his watch, then. He said it was early—but. They moved into the Oak Room, and to a table. Over vichyssoise (with just a touch of curry powder) Bill invited an account of their cocktail hour with Samuel Wyatt. They looked at him, and Pam nodded.

  “As Mullins says,” Bill told them, “I’m clairient.”

  “I like that,” Pam said. “It ought to exist. Also, he’s being followed, isn’t he?”

  He had been, Bill said. He would be again. So far as Bill knew, Wyatt was not being at the moment, having proved elusive, having v
anished in Grand Central, which is adapted to disappearances.

  “He thinks,” Pam said, “that you put in a thumb and pull out a plum. Him. Just like that. Because he found poor Mr. Fitch, chiefly. And because now his royalties don’t stop. And because he had a premature allergy.” She paused. “Added up,” she said, “maybe he’s right to be scared.”

  They waited for Bill.

  “And,” Bill said, “he wanted to know how he stood? Picking your brains.”

  “Partly,” Jerry said.

  “And,” Dorian said, “spreading the seeds of suspicion where they might take root. Mrs. Nelson. Mr. Carr. Even Mr. Strothers. He plays the field.”

  “Right,” Bill said. “I’m glad to hear it.” He lighted a cigarette between courses and his wife regarded him. He was getting keyed up. He always did. “Movement helps,” he said.

  “He has got a right to be frightened?” Jerry asked, but was answered only by a shrug. A waiter brought food. At a little after eight they finished, except for coffee. But then, Bill Weigand looked again at his watch, and then at Dorian.

  “We don’t go home, then?” she said, in a tone of resignation.

  She did, if she liked. He went back to work. Or, if she preferred—

  “Home,” she said. “You can at least drop me?”

  He could. They left the Norths, who sipped coffee and looked at people, of whom there were not many, since it was a Sunday evening in the month of June. Jerry emptied his cup and said, “Well?”

  “If you just sit here long enough,” Pam said, “everybody goes by.” She nodded her head slightly, and Jerry looked in the direction of the nod. A tall, slightly stooped man—a dark man with dark eyes deeply recessed under jutting brows—was just subsiding into place behind one of the tables for two which Raul of the Algonquin reserves for appropriate guests. Naomi Shaw was already behind the table. She was hatless and in a dark dress. With Wesley Strothers seated beside her, the table was pushed toward them affectionately. Almost simultaneously, drinks arrived.