by Helen McCloy
Amos uttered an unprintable word and everyone pretended to be deaf. This time it was Sidney who tried to save the situation.
“Really, Mother, how can you bother a serious artist like Amos Cottle with this sort of bobby-socks hero worship?”
“Sidney, darling, don’t be so rude!” Mrs. Pusey looked helplessly at Basil. “Sometimes I wonder if I should have sent him to that progressive school.”
Sidney was addressing Amos on a lofty plane, as man to man. “I must apologize for my mother, Mr. Cottle,” he said with desperate honesty. “She is not poor and she is scarcely a country woman. She was born in Nashville and my father was a stockbroker who commuted to Wall Street all his life.”
“But, Sidney, dear, I only meant…”
“Mr. Cottle,” went on Sidney solemnly. “I should like to say that I regard you as the most fearless and original novelist this country has produced in this generation. You have left Faulkner far behind you, sir, far behind. Where his style is confused, yours is lapidary and your thinking has an ethos peculiarly its own. But the thing I admire most about your art is your feeling for the shape of the narrative form. We all know Galsworthy was completely bogus as a creative writer—the sort of fellow who does in writing what Sargent did in painting. But Galsworthy as a critic did say one fairly intelligent thing. He said: ‘Form is Life.’ I may add that Form is Literature. Your organic feeling for contour reminds me of a principle in biology…”
Amos looked at Tony owlishly, and enunciated distinctly, “When am I going to get a drink?”
Sidney was stopped in midstream, mouth open. He looked as if Amos had slapped his face.
Tony answered Amos soothingly, “Right away, old man, right away.”
He took Basil’s arm and drew him away from the group. “I could use one myself. How about you?”
“After seeing such an awful example…”
Tony groaned. “This is the most fabulous situation. Amos has been a reformed alcoholic for years, ever since he began to write. This afternoon he slipped a cog and—God knows what will happen now. Hey! You’re a psychiatrist. Could you do anything to get him back on the wagon?”
“Not until he’s slept this off. What made him relapse?”
“That’s the worst of it—I don’t know exactly. But it has something to do with that woman, Vera, his wife. You know my father’s story about the old apple woman who said, ‘I don’t wish her no harm—oh, no!—I just wish to God she’d fall down and break her damned neck!’“
Basil had heard this story of Tony’s several times before. He smiled dutifully as his gaze followed Tony’s to a small, flat, blonde head on a long, slender neck. There was something unpleasantly serpentine about its supple, forward pose.
“That’s Meg Vesey with her. I wonder what she’s saying to Meg now? Meg doesn’t look a bit happy.”
Basil’s glance shifted to a brown-haired woman, pleasantly plump and alert as a little hen pheasant. Tony was right: she did not look happy at all, yet her face was made for smiles.
The bar was at the other end of the room. Lincoln had just brought in a tray of glasses. Everyone was moving in that direction now.
“What are you going to give Cottle?” asked Basil.
“He’ll get what he always gets here: iced tea. It saves face because it looks just like Scotch and soda. I’d better take over. Lincoln might give me the iced tea and hand the Scotch to Amos.” Tony went behind the bar. “Will you serve canapés now, Lincoln?”
Lincoln had already filled the tall glasses with ice cubes. Tony added Scotch from a decanter, Gus added soda, then Lepton, Avery and Basil served the women. Tony filled the next glass with dark fluid from a cut glass pitcher. “Here you are, Amos.” It was done so smoothly that no one could notice the difference in Amos’s drink—not even Amos himself who took his glass eagerly.
Tony was already filling six more glasses from the decanter. Gus added soda. Basil handed one to Lepton and one to Avery. The others helped themselves.
Amos took one sip of his drink and made a hideous grimace. For a moment he looked as if he were going to dash the glass in Tony’s face. But he didn’t. Without a word he quietly emptied his glass on the floor, walked over to the bar and filled it again with neat whiskey from the decanter.
Gus took a step toward Amos, but Tony said softly: “Hold it, Gus. There’s nothing we can do now.”
Avery laughed aloud. “How about the Bookbinders’ Award Dinner? Amos going to that Wednesday night?”
Maurice Lepton’s usually pale face reddened and he looked at Avery with unmistakable hatred in his eyes. “Why don’t you ask Amos? If it’s any business of yours. While you’re about it, you might ask him what he thought of your review in the Tribune this morning.
“He’s in a condition to give you a really honest answer.”
“He’s in a condition to give me a punch on the jaw,” answered Avery. “You’d rather enjoy that, wouldn’t you, Leppy? Something you’ve always wanted to do, but you’re not quite big enough.”
Philippa was standing beside Basil. “Oh, Basil, how are we going to get through this dreadful evening?” she whispered. “Why did that stupid woman have to bring Emmett Avery of all people? I don’t think Amos knows who he is yet. We’ve got to do something to keep Amos from finding out before he passes out. Some parlor game would do it.”
“Charades?”
“No, something we can play sitting down until Amos goes to sleep in his chair. I have it! Two-Thirds of a Ghost.”
Philippa started briskly down the room. The others were regrouped around the goldfish pool where Lincoln was passing a tray of his famous hot canapés.
Philippa’s voice commanded attention. “Do you all know how to play Two-Thirds of a Ghost?”
“What a marvelous idea!” cried Peggy Pusey. “Mrs. Kane, I haven’t heard of that game since I was a little girl in Tennessee.”
“You never told me about it,” remarked Sidney.
“It’s awfully simple, really.” Tony was quick to pick up Philippa’s cue. “The one who’s It asks trick questions of each player in turn. If you can’t answer a question the first time, you’re a third of a ghost. If you miss a second time, you’re two-thirds of a ghost. If you miss the third time, you’re three-thirds of a ghost—that is, a whole ghost. In other words, you’re dead—out of the game. Whoever stays alive the longest wins the game and gets to be It next time.”
“It sounds dreadfully juvenile,” drawled Sidney Pusey. “I should much rather discuss the significance of aesthetic experience in an industrial society with Mr. Cottle.”
“But Amos would rather play this game with us.” Tony sounded a little desperate. “It’s not a juvenile game if you ask the right sort of questions, and Amos is especially good at this sort of thing with his quick wits and enormous fund of information.”
“Okay, I’ll give you all a treat,” mumbled Amos. He was obviously bored with young Mr. Pusey. Tony had intervened just in time to prevent another alcoholic explosion.
“All right, here goes.” Tony assumed the suavely dictatorial tone of an M.C. on television. “I’ll be It first to get the ball rolling. Who wrote English Bards and Scotch Reviewers?”
Amos peered at Tony over his glass. “Damned if I know!”
Emmett Avery stared at Amos as if he couldn’t believe his ears.
“Wrong,” said Tony. “You’re a third of a ghost, Amos.”
The fractional ghost comforted himself with whiskey. Maurice Lepton got the ice bucket from the bar and began replenishing glasses. Meg Vesey got the last question in the first round.
“Where are the Islets of Langerhans, Meg?” demanded Tony.
Her eyelids fluttered. “Er—Dutch Indonesia?”
“Wrong. You’re a third of a ghost now, darling. Miss the next two and you’ll be dead. Amos, we’re back to you again. Where are the Islets of Langerhans?”
“In the human body, of course. Langerhans was a physician.”
But Amos
was not so fortunate on the third round. He missed an absurdly easy question: “Who wrote Of Human Bondage?”
Basil could see that Tony was troubled. He didn’t want Amos out of the game altogether. Amos might use his leisure to find himself another drink. When the question came to Amos once more at the start of the fourth round, Tony was obviously trying to find something simple enough for the most befuddled wits. “What are galley proofs?”
Amos blinked. “Slaves rowed in them. Sat chained to benches. Publishers and agents stood over them with great, long whips until they died. So they were called galley slaves.”
“Amusing but I can’t pass it as correct,” said Tony as gently as possible. “You’re three-thirds of ghost now, Amos. You’re dead.”
Amos spared him a glance of sluggish defiance. “I r’sent that.” His empty glass slid out of his fingers to the floor and he slumped in his deep chair, his chin on his breast.
Basil won the first game and so became the inquisitor. He was not enjoying himself. Privately he agreed with poor Sidney Pusey that the game was juvenile and the sight of a celebrated author stupefying his brain with neat whiskey was depressing to anyone with so much knowledge of the brain’s precariously delicate balance of sanity. He couldn’t help wondering if this incident would affect Maurice Lepton’s appreciation of Amos’s next book. He suspected that Tony was wondering the same thing.
“Well, Basil?”
It was Tony, prompting him.
Amos was first in the circle. Now a second game was starting the first question should be addressed to him. But Amos had closed his eyes.
“Mr. Cottle,” said Basil quietly.
Amos did not stir.
Basil made his voice more incisive. “What war is considered a defeat for this country in most foreign textbooks oh history?”
Still Amos did not stir.
Tony was on his feet. “Passed out, I guess. I’ll get him up to bed.”
Before Tony could reach Amos, Vera had darted to his side. Her long, thin, grasping fingers held his shoulder and shook him roughly. “Amos, don’t be a clown! Tony was only joking …”
Amos’s head rolled to one side, eyes shut, mouth open.
Vera gasped and swung around toward Tony.
“You said he was a ghost.” Her soft voice cracked. “You said he was dead. And—he is.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
A diamond day, thought Meg as she stood by the window in the Kanes’ breakfast room, dry and cold and bright. The della Robbia blue of the sky and the lemon cast of the sunshine were incidental in the general whiteness of snow and ice, like the prismatic flashes of blue and yellow when a diamond catches the light. White paint made the houses in the valley below an integral part of the winter landscape. Dark shutters gave each house accent and style, like the black tip of the ermine’s tail.
The telephone rang and Meg hurried into the hall. “Your New York call is through.”
“Maddelena? I’m calling from the Kanes. There was—an accident last night. Mr. Cottle is dead and the police want us to stay here another day. I didn’t call last night because I didn’t want to wake you or Polly. How is she?”
“Just fine,” said Maddelena. “She had a good breakfast. Her temperature is just a little above normal, less than one degree.”
Did Maddelena really know how to read a thermometer? Was she minimizing Polly’s symptoms to keep her mother from worrying? Meg kept these doubts to herself. “Call the doctor and have him see her again today. Just to make sure she’s all right. I think they’ll let us come back this evening.”
“She’d like to talk to you.”
“Oh, I don’t want her to get out of bed.”
“She’s in your bed right beside the telephone.”
“Mommy!” Even when Polly was well, the telephone distorted her voice, making it sound small and forlorn. “Did you get me a present?”
Polly always tried to extract a present as conscience money when both parents left her overnight. Meg knew she should be firm and correct this growing talent for extortion, but—discipline could wait until Polly was entirely well. “Not yet, darling.”
“But you will?”
“I probably shall, Capone.”
“What do you mean by ‘Capone’?”
Hugh came on the wire. “Mommy, I’ve just seen the morning paper and it says…”
“Hugh! Not in front of Maddelena and Polly, please! You’re big enough to understand that I don’t want either of them to worry about us. I told Maddelena that Amos Cottle was dead, but that’s all.”
“Oh, I see. But what shall I do if she sees the paper?”
“Try to keep her from telling Polly anything about it.”
Hugh sighed, then went on gleefully, “The other fellows at school are going to ask me a lot of questions this morning!”
“Maybe you’d better not go.” Meg frowned, thinking how bad all this was going to be for Hugh, with his delight in melodrama.
“Oh, Mommy, not go this morning of all mornings! That would be running away.”
“I suppose it would.” Meg’s frown deepened in greater perplexity. “Very well, Hugh. You may go. But remember—you knew Amos very slightly. I don’t want you to gossip about him at school or to give anyone an impression that you knew him better than you really did. Indeed, the less you say the better for all of us.”
“Okay, I’ll clam up. I’ll just say: ‘No comment!’ Like a senator. Then they’ll be more curious than ever. Boy, what a day I’m going to have! Even the teachers will be bursting with questions. Only I suppose they won’t ask me anything.”
Meg returned to the breakfast room and poured herself a cup of coffee. Breakfast at the Kanes’ house parties was always a l’Anglais—chafing dishes and hot coffee on the sideboard, each guest at liberty to wake when he pleased and help himself, any time up to noon.
She was turning away from the sideboard when Philippa came into the room, trim and fresh in navy blue slacks and sweater. Meg was suddenly conscious of the silk pyjamas and robe that Philippa had lent her, all a little too large for her figure and too bland a shade of green for her coloring.
“Meg, you must eat!”
“I can’t.” Meg stirred her coffee. “Is—Vera still asleep?”
“I hope so, I told Nora to take a tray up if she heard any sounds from that room. I’m hungry.” Philippa helped herself to scrambled eggs with chives and toast. ‘“Shock always affects me that way. But I’d lose my appetite if I had to have breakfast with Vera.”
Tony and Gus were talking as they came downstairs together, but their voices were indistinct at that distance and they fell silent as they came into the room. Both men looked exhausted, but while Gus was merely haggard, Tony seemed grim.
“Good morning!” Philippa was resolutely brisk and cheerful.
“Why don’t you ask us if we slept well?” said Gus.
“Did you?”
“Like a top, of course! This country air…”
Everyone grinned but Tony.
“I’ve been wondering about the Bookbinders’ Award,” said Philippa. “What happens now that…?”
Tony looked at her with level eyes. “We have two other guests who may appear at any moment—Vera and Leppy. We have to put on a show for them—shock and grief. No thought of anything practical.”
“Show?” Meg looked at him, bewildered. “It was a shock and I do grieve for Amos. Don’t you?”
“Of course. But someone has to pick up the pieces. And there are an awful lot of them.”
“Poor Amos!” Philippa produced a sigh. “Even in death, he’s just a pawn in the game to you two, isn’t he?”
Gus looked startled and Tony said, “I don’t know what you mean. I…” He stopped as he heard a footfall.
Maurice Lepton came in carrying the morning news paper. He ignored the sideboard and spread the paper on the breakfast table. “Nice photo of Amos. I wonder what will happen to that poor dog now?”
“Dog?” Gus cr
aned his neck for a side view of the paper. “Oh, I see,” he muttered as he recognized the publicity still. “Is it a good obituary?”
“As good as it could be with Fred Newell writing it. He does all their literary obits from stuff in the morgue. The news story is short and sweet.”
Leppy began to read aloud, weighing each word with professional interest.
Weston, Conn. Dec. 16th. Amos Cottle, best-selling author, was the victim of a fatal poisoning last night when he was attending a supper party at the Weston home of his publisher, Anthony Kane, President of Sutton, Kane and Company. Captain James Drew of the Connecticut State Police, who made a preliminary investigation of the circumstances, was still considering the probability of accident at a late hour tonight though he admitted to reporters that he had not altogether ruled out the possibility of foul play.
Mrs. Cottle, better known as Vera Vane, the actress, who had attended the supper party with Mr. Cottle, could not be reached for comment. It was understood that she was prostrated with grief. Others who attended the party included Maurice Lepton and Emmett Avery, both well-known critics, and Augustus Vesey, Mr. Cottle’s agent.
Amos Cottle was best known for his war book, Never Call Retreat. His fourth novel, Passionate Pilgrim, was published a few weeks ago by Sutton, Kane and Company. The New York Times Sunday book review section hailed it at ‘the time as a landmark in American letters.’ Mr. Cottle also conducted a weekly TV program known as the ‘Amos Cottle Show.’ Obituary on page 12.
Newsprint rustled as loudly as taffeta in the silence while Leppy turned to page 12 and continued to read aloud:
“Amos Cottle’s sudden death under mysterious circumstances came as a great shock to the literary world. Born in China on March 1, 1918, the only child of Martin and Amanda Cottle, Methodist missionaries originally from Akron, Ohio, he was educated at the University of Peking. After graduation, he returned to the United States where he experimented with various vocations and temporary jobs for a period of several years. Old residents of Miami still recall the time when he was a bartender at the Blue Grotto Night Club there and it was known to regular customers that he had ambitions as a writer.