Death by Association

by Frances Lockridge

  “No,” he said. “I’m not casual at all, Miss Wister. I’m never casual about murder. Never at all casual.”

  “About a girl’s life,” Mary said. “You don’t deny she’s in danger? That you’re letting her stay in danger?”

  “She may be, naturally,” Heimrich said. “She’s been leading a rather risky life. If what she says is true.”

  “It is,” Mary said. “I’m certain it is.” She looked from Heimrich to MacDonald, and on him her eyes stayed longest. “You know it, Mac,” she said. She sought the knowledge in his face, and did not find it—did not find certainty, response to her feeling of urgency. She looked back to Heimrich. “Don’t you see?” she demanded. “What are you waiting for?”

  “You still feel guilt,” MacDonald said then. “Don’t you see that, Mary?”

  She shook her head.

  “No,” she said. “Not that. That doesn’t matter. I heard her. She was telling the truth. I’ve been thinking about it. I know she was telling the truth. About Oslen. And—that makes her dangerous to him.” Again she looked from one to the other of the men at the table. “What’s the matter with both of you?” she demanded, and her voice was strained. “Do you want her hurt? Killed? He’s already killed once.”

  “Now Miss Wister,” Heimrich said. “You’re—”

  But Mary stood up, suddenly. She had felt that she was hammering with both fists at something without resilience, without response. She felt she could not longer endure this. Antagonism which was almost rage surged in her.

  “I’m not going to sit here,” she was saying, heard herself saying, her voice not raised but tight with the intensity of her decision. “I’m going to find her. I’m going to—”

  But both of Barclay MacDonald’s slender, strong hands were on her shoulders, and the pressure of them—the sureness of them—stopped her words.

  “Sit down, my dear,” MacDonald said. “Sit down, Mary.”

  For an instant she felt herself twisting against the hands; felt her mind twisting, fighting, against the unhurried command of the tall doctor’s voice.

  “Good girl,” MacDonald said. He smiled suddenly. “Sit down, lady,” he said.

  She looked at him, and now there was in her mind, and mirrored in her eyes, a kind of incredulity. And now MacDonald, who seemed to know precisely what she was thinking, nodded again, still without removing his hands.

  “Yes,” he said, “that’s the way it is. You’ve had it, my dear. Didn’t you know?” He smiled then, easily, “And,” he said, “don’t try to change the subject.”

  For a moment she said nothing. Then, without any intent of saying what she said, Mary Wister said, “All right, Mac. All right.” She listened to her own words, and now was without surprise. “I’ll go quietly,” she said, and looked up at the thin, mobile face which was, all at once, almost unbelievably familiar.

  Then she sat down. His dear face, she thought.

  “A little something we had to get straightened out,” Barclay MacDonald said to Captain Heimrich, objectionably—but she did not really object—as one man to another.

  “Oh,” Heimrich said, “naturally, doctor.”

  “You two,” Mary said. But then the moment passed, since the business of the moment, which had nothing to do with a girl named Rachel Jones, or the death of a man named Bronson Wells, was completed. “All the same,” Mary Wister said, firmly, “I’m not going to sit still and—”

  “Now Miss Wister,” Heimrich said. “Nobody is going to sit still, naturally.”

  He finished his drink, then, and stood up. Both of them waited for him to speak again. He stood looking down at them.

  “If anyone asks about Miss Jones,” Heimrich said, slowly, “you might tell them where you saw her.” He nodded. “Or,” he said, “even if they don’t ask.”

  And then he turned, walked across the Penguin Bar, up a flight of stairs, into the still-deserted dining room. He left them to look at each other, and it was as if they were for the first time alone. After a moment, Mary spoke, and then started quickly. “He is going—” she began, but Barclay MacDonald leaned toward her across the small table and said, “Not yet. We don’t change the subject now. Don’t run from it.”

  And then he was, to the girl across from him, no longer a quiet force before which her own decision melted (although he would be that again) but merely a man who wanted things in words, as men did want them. Because he was that, she felt a tenderness toward him she had not felt before, and certainly not felt during the moment when his slender hands were so strong, and so reassuring, on her shoulders. She smiled at him, with gentleness.

  “Dear Mac,” she said. “I’m not running. We’re there. Didn’t you notice? No place else to run.”

  “So long as you know,” he said. He looked around the bar, which did not provide seclusion. “When I think of all the moonlight,” he said. “All the space we had.” He gestured at the surroundings. He indicated the table between them. And Mary Wister laughed softly. “To say nothing of—” MacDonald said, and stopped.

  “Dear Mac,” she said. And then, “I’ll have to find another name for you, won’t I? I don’t like to hear women call their husbands hy their last names, or even part of their last names.” She shook her head. “Barclay,” she said. She shook her head again. She reached out and touched, just touched, one of the long, strong hands; the one in which he held his drink. She withdrew her fingers instantly. “We’ll have to make up something,” she said. She looked into his face. “It doesn’t need talking about,” she said, in a different tone.

  “I know,” he said. “It’s hard to remember, just at first.” His long face lighted with a smile which involved all of it. “Will you marry me, Miss Wister?”

  “Now doctor,” she said, “I’ll be delighted.”

  Then they both laughed, or almost laughed, and he took one of her hands, which was very conveniently placed for taking, and looked at it carefully. “Nice muscle tone,” he said, and gave it back. For a moment she looked at the hand thus approved. Then, gravely, she nodded at it. But even as she did so, her face changed.

  “The girl,” she said. “We can’t just sit here and—and not change the subject. The girl and Captain Heimrich—and Oslen.”

  “And,” he said, “the others.”

  She shook her head at that. “Oslen,” she said. “What is he waiting for?”

  “I suppose to be sure,” MacDonald said. “Or, perhaps, merely for evidence.”

  “But how—” Mary began and then stopped and said. “Oh. But—he

  can’t!’’

  “I don’t think he’ll take any real risk,” MacDonald said.

  “But you do think he’s using the girl as—as bait,” she said. “Like a—what is it?—a sheep or something tethered under a tree. You know what I mean.”

  Slowly, he nodded.

  “But we can’t let him,” she said. “Surely you see that. Oslen will—he has to keep her from talking. I mean, talking to somebody in authority. Giving evidence. Don’t you see?”

  He agreed it could be. But he did not seem convinced.

  “I’m right,” she said.

  “It sounds all right,” he agreed. “But—if it were that simple I don’t think the captain would—well, experiment. Conduct a controlled experiment. Plan to make something happen.”

  He was told that he was very trustful; that he had great faith in Captain Heimrich. “Whom,” she said, “you don’t really know at all.”

  “Listen, Mary,” he said. “Think a minute. Haven’t you confidence in him? I’ll admit I have. I’ll admit I don’t know precisely why. And—haven’t you?”

  He looked at her intently. She started to speak; somehow his gaze made her hesitate, made her think again.

  “I suppose I have,” she said, finally. “But—do we just sit and watch?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I think we do.”

  “But it’s so simple,” she said, and the words were a protest. But she met his eyes again,
and then she said, “Isn’t it, Mac?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I think perhaps it isn’t. You know what Heimrich said about making the character fit the crime. I think that’s it. It—sticks in my craw. I think it does in the captain’s.”

  “Why doesn’t Oslen fit?” she said. “I think you’re both—well, being fooled. Or being too subtle. Look—assume the story she told, Rachel Jones I mean—is true. You do assume that? Heimrich does?”

  “I do,” MacDonald told her. “I think he does.”

  “Then,” she said, “Oslen’s a party member; a member of a conspiracy. He’s under orders. And—there’s nothing he’d stop at to serve his end. You have to give them that. It’s what makes them frightening, isn’t it? A kind of inhumanity.” She paused. “Or,” she said, “I suppose you could call it a kind of dedication. Anyway, why doesn’t the character fit? Wells was working against them. Perhaps he could stop what Oslen was doing. We don’t really know how important that was to the party, or how important Oslen thought it was.” She shook her head again. “It’s really all very clear,” she said. “I don’t see why you don’t see it.”

  But now there was a question in her voice.

  “I wonder,” he said, “if you don’t half see? Because—”

  But then they were interrupted. A boy in a red jacket stood at the head of the stairs leading down from the dining room to the cocktail lounge, and said, “Doctor MacDonald, please. Doctor MacDonald.” MacDonald beckoned; the boy came down the stairs. He reported a long distance call. MacDonald said, “Damn,” and “I won’t be a minute,” and followed the boy. Mary sat with what remained of her drink. She looked out into the patio, and now the scene there had changed.

  The western sky still was faintly light, and the palms were silhouetted against it with improbable clarity and now, at their best so, with astounding grace. By day, some of them looked, she had once or twice irreverently thought, like over-used shaving brushes, set on end. But now, moving only a little in the faint stirring of evening air, their heavy fronds made graceful and light in outline, they were enchanted things. There was nothing for it, Mary Wister thought, and smiled faintly at the peculiar trees. They look precisely as palm trees are supposed to look against lighter sky. Since they could not be improved upon, it would be a waste of time to sketch them. It was also an almost irresistible temptation to sketch them.

  From where she sat the palms seemed to circle the patio, although she remembered that that was not literally true—it was a trick of light, and of perspective. They seemed to lean down over the whole scene, which now was increasingly one of animation. There was always something charming about tables set up under the sky, at night, waiting people who would come to eat, presumably, food of quite exquisite variety. (It might turn out that the chairs were not particularly comfortable, that the tables did not stand firm on their legs, that food got dusty as you ate it—this last certainly was true of New York’s sidewalk cafés. But such facts were unimportant; the charm would not yield to them.) Colored lights reflected from the trunks of palms; colored lights were along the roof edge of the orchestra shell; hung elsewhere in strands. But there were not too many of them, as there might so easily have been. They did not dominate the night, but only accented it, softening the darkness.

  And near her, only a little way beyond the window at which she sat, the charcoal fires were leaping gayly, blue and red flames flickering above the strong, deep red of charcoal all alight. Two white-clad men, elaborately capped, presided, and were as yet inactive, although each held a long fork ready, and behind them, on tilted counter, steaks waited in a mosaic, each steak fitted in its proper place, for the approaching ceremony. As she watched, a third white-clad man approached, his cap even higher, more convoluted, than the other caps, and inspected fires and steaks and the acolytes of fire and beef. The three then appeared to stand at attention, and the flames—encouraged by the approbation of the chef in charge—to leap more frolicsomely.

  Behind Mary, the cocktail lounge filled. The cheerful clatter of shaken ice was more evident; voices were more numerous; the pretty girl who served the tables moved, in white blouse and bright skirt, at an increasing tempo. Mary turned in her chair and looked around the room. She looked toward the door through which Barclay MacDonald—what was she going to call him from now on?—would return. A strange couple was standing in the door, looking around, seeking a table, finding none. The man shook his head and the two went back into the dining room, off which the cocktail lounge opened. Then they went out another door from the dining room and passed outside by the window next which Mary sat, seeking—and this time finding—a table outside at which to sit with drinks.

  Mary sipped her own, a little defensively, occupying with diminishing right of tenure a table for two, when tables for two were in demand. Where was Mac, to call him by what came handiest? Where was the man? Mary’s sudden irritation was, and she realized it was, disproportionate. She was keyed up again, again uneasy. And the feeling of having outstayed her allotted time at a table for two was only the pretext for uneasiness. She turned and her hand encountered the glass and it swayed and almost spilled; she barely caught it, and the metal of a ring she wore tinkled sharply against crystal, the sound harshly loud in her ears.

  She looked away from the door, out again into the patio. It was filling, too. The white-jacketed bar waiters were busy—the short middle-aged one, the one who sang late in the evenings for the patio dancers, the singing waiter, was breathing hard and was resolute; as he passed near, Mary could see that liquid was sloshing from the glasses on his tray, that he had the tip of his tongue between his teeth. And now the first steaks were going on the fire, and blue-gray smoke was rising from them, rising on the fire’s heat in quiet air. Under the steaks the fire leaped, as fat melted from meat and fell to join fire. And Mary’s eyes sought among the waitresses, the people at the tables.

  “You’re very intent,” a voice said. “Where’s the doctor?”

  It had been that obvious all along, then, she thought, and turned sharply and looked up at Paul Shepard, who stood and looked down at her. He was very trim; the black bow of his tie was mathematically exact against the white of his collar. (Mac’s will always go up at one end, Mary thought; I know it always will. I’m glad it always will.)

  “Hello,” she said. “I—I wasn’t intent.” She remembered what Heimrich had asked; hesitated. But, the more who knew—except for one, and he would arrange to know—the better it would be; the safer it would be. “I thought I saw the Jones girl,” she said. “Rachel. But I guess I didn’t.” Why she added the last, which was untrue, she did not know.

  “Probably you did,” Shepard said, his articulation neat, exact. “The captain apparently saw her too—and then lost her again.” He shook his head, noting inefficiency on the part of Captain Heimrich. “Dressed as a waitress, he thought,” Shepard added. He shrugged. “None the worse for the tennis?” he asked then.

  She shook her head.

  “You look worried,” he said. “About the girl?”

  She hesitated.

  “Not really,” she said. Suddenly she was not—not really. Oslen wouldn’t be such—such a fool; wouldn’t walk into a trap so obviously baited. He was, he had to be, astute, whatever else one thought of him. He had to be careful; to know how to play a part skillfully. If he had been doing what Rachel said—and if he had not there was no reason for any fear—he was too adept in conspiracy to be so openly conspired against. Heimrich’s plan wasn’t going to work—not against William Oslen. “Not really,” she repeated. “Nobody could get away, with—with anything.”

  Shepard continued for a moment to look down at her. He smiled, then, faintly.

  “You think not?” he said. He looked out the window. “So much space,” he said. “So many people coming and going. A resolute man, who was under compulsion to act—who had to act, you know—” He did not finish the sentence, and that was uncharacteristic. Instead, he shrugged again. “However
,” he said, “you may be right, Miss Wister.” He continued to look down at her. “Let’s hope you are.” He paused for a moment. “Well,” he said, “I’m supposed to find my wife. She’s with the Sibleys somewhere.” He looked around the room. “Not here, obviously,” he said. “Probably outside.” Then he nodded, briefly, and went through the door leading to the patio. At the top of the short flight of stairs he paused and looked around, evidently seeking Penny Shepard and Judge and Mrs. Sibley. He went down the steps, then, and around the corner of the building, still obviously in quest.

  And Mac did not come. (Clay—that was what she would call him. Clay, for Barclay; also for clay-foot. For a man stuck somewhere in the mud, when he was wanted.) She turned again from the window, looked again, with hope, at the entrance from the dining room. This time nobody at all stood there, nobody looked around for tables. People were going directly to the patio, now; drinking there if they drank. Mary looked at the backs along the bar; there, she had found, the more resolute drinkers still congregated, lined on stools.

  Then, at the far end of the bar, a man swiveled on one of the stools; an anonymous back became a recognized man—became William Oslen, alone and through with drinking. He was off the bar stool, looking momentarily around the room. Instinctively, Mary Wister looked away, looked out again into the patio. There, on the walk just outside, Rachel Jones was standing. She was dressed as a waitress still, in white blouse and gay skirt. But she was motionless in the hurry around her; her hands were empty. She was looking into the Penguin Bar.

  But she did not seem to see Mary Wister, who sat so near. The eyes of the slight, vivid girl looked beyond Mary, into the room behind her. Rachel’s dark eyes were wide, fixed. As Mary watched, the other girl turned, as if a decision had been reached, and started moving away along the crowded path, past those coming along the walks for dinner in the patio. She moved quickly.

  Mary did not need to look to know why the girl’s momentary inaction had turned so abruptly into what was almost flight. She did not need to look to know that, behind her, Oslen was moving his big body with resolution among the tables, toward the door which opened on to the patio. But she did look, just as he passed her; watched him as he reached the door. He did not hesitate at the top of the steps. It was very evident that he did not need to search, as Paul Shepard had searched, for the person wanted. He did not appear much to hurry as he went down the stairs and along the walk which led around the corner of the building—which led away from the people and the lights, away from the animated scene, from the brightness of the friendly fire, playing under the broiling steaks.