ALM02 The Death of a Celebrity

by Hulbert Footner

  “Thanks,” said Siebert, “but I’m sure you and Cynthia want a little time together.”

  Gavin was drawn to this young man. “It’s a long time since you have dropped in on me, Siebert. When are we going to have another game of chess?”

  “Chess is all very well for you,” said Siebert, “but I have my way to make. I can’t take the time for it.”

  “Well … I’m sorry,” said, Gavin. “You had the makings of a good player. Goodnight, Siebert.”

  Siebert went on to get his things.

  Gavin looked weary when he re-entered the studio. In the beginning he had exerted himself to make things go; now he didn’t care. Thus, when Mack growled: “Get your things, Bea,” he said nothing.

  Bea made no move. “It’s only ten o’clock,” she said. “Gavin will think we’re not enjoying ourselves. Sit here, Gavin.”

  Gavin sat beside her. Mack left the room. Bea looked after him indifferently, and rattled on: “You and Cynthia must dine with us very soon, and that handsome fellow, Siebert. . and, of course, you, Gail.”

  “Thanks.” said Gail.

  She was sitting opposite them with a ghastly fixed smile. She was squeezing a handkerchief in her hand, and she had bitten off all the lip-stick from her lower lip without knowing it. Bea, flaunting her beauty and freshness, said: “What night shall it be, Gavin? I want to make this a very special occasion.”

  “I’d rather not make any engagements until I get the play off my hands; four or five days; a week at the outside.”

  “Very well, let me know. I want to consult you about the other guests …”

  Bea’s flow was checked by the return of Mack. He had her coat over his arm. “Come on,” he said. Bea saw that she could not defy him without creating a scene and got up slowly. “Husbands are so peremptory!”

  All five of them passed out into the foyer, and stood there while Mack helped his wife into her coat. Gail made no move to get her things. “Can we put you down anywhere, Gail, dear?” said Bea.

  “Thanks, darling. I’m not quite ready.”

  Bea’s eyes glittered. She glanced across the sunroom. “How lovely the garden looks under the lights!” she said. “Show it to me, Gavin. It won’t take a minute.”

  “Very well,” said Gavin woodenly.

  They crossed the sunroom. The key to the garden door hung alongside the doorframe. Gavin opened the door and they went out, closing the door behind them. The three waiting in the foyer could see them dimly through the glass. Gavin was calling Bea’s attention to something off to the South. Bea slipped her hand cosily under his arm, and they passed out of sight.

  Gail and Mack continued to stare out through the glass. They had forgotten where they were. Cynthia hastened to make conversation: “Dad consulted a man up in the Bronx Botanical Gardens about planting the sunroom. Everything looks as if it was growing naturally, doesn’t it? Some of the plants are very rare …”

  Neither Gail nor Mack paid any attention and her voice trailed away. It was so quiet they could hear sounds from the pantry where the servants were washing up. Moment followed moment, increasing the strain. Finally Gail said in an unnaturally sharp voice: “I’d like to see the garden, too.”

  She crossed the sunroom and went out, leaving the door open. Outside she started to run. Mack watched her for a moment, glowering, then silently went after her. Cynthia, after hesitating painfully, followed Mack.

  They found Gavin and Bea standing beside the parapet at the east end of the roof. Behind them a wasted moon was rising over the river, and the pinpoint lights of Queensborough stretched away to infinity. When Cynthia came up to the group, Gail was saying shrilly: “You better look after your wife, Mack! She needs it!”

  “Don’t want your help,” growled Mack.

  “She’s loose! She’s common! She’s cheap!” shrilled Gail. “See her trying to brazen it out…”

  “Gail, for God’s sake, be quiet!” said Gavin. His voice was weary with disgust.

  “Come in!” growled Mack to Bea, with a jerk of his head towards the house door.

  “You have no right to speak to me like that!” retorted Bea. “Am I your servant?”

  Mack raised his voice slightly. “Come in!” he repeated. “Or you’ll get worse.”

  Bea turned to Gavin. “You hear, he threatens me! He’s mad! It is dangerous for me to go with him!”

  “He is your husband,” said Gavin coldly.

  That was all that was said, but the voices, that is, three of the voices, were so charged with venom as to make the youngest person present feel physically sick. Such a scene was new to Cynthia. Somehow or other they found themselves in the sunroom again. Gavin drew Cynthia’s arm under his. She felt better when she saw his face. It was weary and disgusted, but there was no loss of dignity there.

  Mack made straight for the door of the apartment. He held it open for Bea to pass through. She, having recovered herself partly, took her time about it. “I’m going,” she said to Gavin, “not because he orders me to, but because I want to end a painful situation. Goodnight, Gavin. Goodnight, Cynthia, dear. Goodnight, Gail.” She went out with a nonchalant air. Gail sneered.

  Mack, preparing to follow Bea, looked furiously at Gavin. “Give your play to whoever you like,” he said. “I’m through!”

  “That suits me,” said Gavin levelly. The door slammed.

  Gail, with a grotesque attempt to recover her usual sugary manner, said: “Cynthia, darling, I want a few words alone with Gavin. You will excuse us, I’m sure. Such old friends!”

  Cynthia looked at her father, then at Gail. She said coolly: “I’m sorry, but Dad just said he wanted to speak privately to me.”

  Gail caught her breath, and looked at Gavin. “Is this true?’”

  “You heard her,” said Gavin.

  Gail could scarcely articulate now. “So! So! You put this child ahead of me now! You’re using her as a shield! This chit! Don’t think that I can’t see through your pitiful evasions… .”

  Cynthia ran away down the corridor. Gail was still storming when she returned with the ermine coat over her arm. “Your coat, Miss Garrett.”

  “Am I being put out of the house now?” cried Gail. “Gavin, will you stand for that? Do you put me out of your house?”

  Her face was so distorted with rage neither Gavin nor Cynthia could bear to look at her. Since she refused to put her arms through the sleeves of her coat, Cynthia hung it over her shoulders. Gavin opened the door. “Are you going to let me go down into the street alone?” cried Gail. “Me? There is no doorman in this miserable house to find me a taxi!”

  Gavin hesitated. “Hillman is still here,” said Cynthia. She ran into the pantry and fetched the butler out. “Hillman,” said Gavin, “go down with Miss Garrett and get her a cab.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ll be sorry for this, Gavin!” cried Gail. “Remember, I warned you! … I warned you!”

  Gavin closed the door, and he and Cynthia looked at each other. “What a mess!” he said wearily. “My child, I’m so sorry you had to be let in for it!”

  “It won’t hurt me,” said Cynthia. “I’m not made of glass.” She laughed shakily. “You are too attractive to the ladies, Dad.”

  “It’s not my attractiveness,” said Gavin, “but something more sordid. These women are fighting to get a part in my play.”

  “Which one gets it?”

  “Neither.”

  They dropped on a sofa alongside the fire. After a while Cynthia said: “I’d better go, too. I feel done up, and so do you.”

  “Don’t go,” said Gavin. “Why don’t you stay all night?”

  “I haven’t my things.”

  “I wish you’d come here and live,” he said wistfully. “It would be so jolly to have you in the house.”

  She shook her head firmly. “I love my independence. And so do you. We can be friends without living together.”

  “I shall never give another party,” said Gavin. “Why d
o people give parties?”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Even Hillman. What the devil do you suppose is the matter with Hillman?”

  “He confided in me a little yesterday,” ‘said Cynthia. “He is married to an ambitious wife. She twits him all the time because he’s only a servant. She tells him that their children are old enough now to be ashamed of him. She wants him to give up his job and do something for himself. Hillman tells her he has no money. She says if he would use his wits he wouldn’t be without money.”

  “Poor devil!”

  Cynthia stood up. “I must go, Dad.”

  “Wait! What’s the trouble between you and Siebert?”

  Cynthia turned away her head. “Ah, don’t ask me! He’s impossible! Always pestering me to marry him!”

  “Aren’t you a little in love with him?”

  She looked at the floor. “Yes,” she murmured. “That’s just the trouble. He’s so good to look at . . and such a boy! But I can’t respect him, Dad.”

  “Siebert’s a good lad; sound at heart; able, too.”

  “I know. I know. But he has no imagination, none of the finer qualities.”

  “What of it? These sensitive, imaginative creatures are not easy to live with, Cyn. Siebert is very much of a man.”

  “You can say that about him!” she said in surprise. “You ought to hear the way he abuses you!”

  Gavin laughed. “Jealous, eh? I seem to be in everybody’s way!”

  “Don’t say that!” cried Cynthia, putting her arms around him. “You are my ideal!”

  “Ideals are all very well,” said Gavin, smoothing her hair. “But I advise you to think twice before sending Siebert away. I suppose he flies into a rage and uses bad language. That’s a manly weakness, my dear. If you married him his ridiculous jealousy would disappear.”

  “No! No! Not said Cynthia. “He is impossible!”

  “Well … I’m sorry.”

  He kissed her goodnight at the door. “We’ll feel better in the morning, Cyn.”

  “Will you go to bed now?” she asked.

  “I’ll read a little while to compose my mind. I’ll call you when I wake.”

  “Do, dear.”

  Hillman said: “Shall I get you a cab, Miss?”

  “No, indeed. I am accustomed to going about by myself.”

  “Goodnight, Miss.”

  “Goodnight, Hillman.”

  In the elevator the boy Joe asked her with a sharp look: “Is the party over, Miss?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, everybody’s in the house now except the real late birds. If I’m not wanted for a couple of hours I could get a sleep.”

  As Cynthia waited on the corner for a taxi, an odd-looking figure passed by, a tall man with heavy, stooping shoulders, a foreigner by the look of him. An old, yellowish overcoat as shapeless as a bag hung from his shoulders without touching him anywhere and he wore a leather aviator’s helmet that fastened under his chin. He kept his head down as he walked; he had on thick glasses and had an uncanny way of looking around them. At the moment Cynthia scarcely noticed him, but the strangeness of his appearance was impressed on her subconsciousness.

  CYNTHIA lived in a small walk-up apartment, parlour, bedroom and bath, in a converted dwelling in West Fifty-fifth Street, not half a mile from Gavin’s place. She let herself in and threw her coat on a sofa. Her little living-room no longer seemed the same haven of peace and freedom. One of the first things that caught her eye was a framed photograph of Siebert on her desk. She thrust it face down in a drawer. After a while she drifted back to the desk, and taking out the photograph, looked at it a long time. She glanced at the clock; 10.50. After painful hesitation, she picked up the telephone and dialled a number. Her expression suggested that she had no intention of humbling herself, but was willing to give Siebert a chance to say he was sorry.

  He did not answer. She hung up and going slowly into the bedroom started to undress. For a long time she lay open-eyed in her bed waiting for the telephone. It did not ring. When she finally slept with wet lashes on her cheeks, her sleep was broken by bad dreams. Distorted faces formed and dissolved in front of her; Gail Garrett; Mack Townley; the envious Emmett Gundy; the sharp-featured elevator boy; even Hillman, weak, desperate and furtive.

  She was awakened by a roaring that seemed to be inside her head. It resolved itself into the ringing of the telephone bell. She glanced at the bedside clock; 7.50. Her face cleared as if by magic, and she ran into the next room with shining eyes.

  But it was not the deep voice that she longed to hear, and her face fell. This was a man’s voice so distracted and broken she did not recognise it. “Miss Dordress?”

  “Yes. Who is it?”

  “Hillman, Miss … O, Miss! … There has been an accident … I don’t know how to tell you …!”

  An icy hand was laid on Cynthia’s breast. “My father?”

  “Yes, Miss … Come quickly!”

  “What has happened?” cried Cynthia. The frantic Hillman had already hung up. She threw on her clothes anyhow and got a cab at the door. In five minutes she was at the door of the Madison Avenue apartment. Short as the time was, a thousand horrors had suggested themselves. She fought them off by saying to herself: Hillman is a fool! He exaggerates the trouble.

  There was a different boy on the elevator. This was Harry, whom Cynthia liked. “What has happened?” she asked him breathlessly.

  He turned away his head. “I don’t know, Miss. They’ll tell you.”

  He is afraid to tell me! she thought; it is the worst! Hillman opened the door of the apartment. His eyes were red-rimmed, his hands shaking. At the sight of her his eyes filled with weak tears. “O, Miss …!”

  “What has happened?” cried Cynthia.

  “Your father …” He was unable to go on. Cynthia turned to run to her father’s bedroom. “Not there. He’s in the studio.” When she turned in that direction, he caught hold of her. “You mustn’t go in there.”

  Cynthia, frozen, dropped weakly in a chair, staring at the man. “Is he? .. is he? . . am I too late?”

  Hillman nodded. “Mr. Dordress has passed away.”

  “No! It can’t be so!”

  “Yes, Miss. Many hours ago.”

  Cynthia covered her face with her hands. She did not weep. “Send for Mr. Mappin,” she whispered.

  “He’s on his way, Miss.”

  When the bell rang Cynthia turned her haggard face to see who it was. Two or three-important-looking men pushed in as if they had a right to enter. One was in uniform with a lot of gold braid. Police! Several underlings followed, carrying paraphernalia of different sorts. “This way, please, gentlemen,” stammered Hillman, leading them towards the studio.

  “What are the police doing here?” whispered Cynthia.

  When the bell rang again she went to the door herself. It was Lee Mappin. He took her in his arms. “My dear, dear child!”

  She drew herself away. “Never mind me. Go in there. Lee. In there! And for God’s sake come and tell me what has happened.”

  She dropped back in the chair and waited like a woman of stone.

  When Lee entered the studio he saw the body of his friend lying huddled on the floor near the fireplace. He drew a long breath to steady himself. Gavin’s right arm was outstretched and near it lay a black automatic as if it had been knocked from his hand as he fell. Under his head a pool of blood had spread out on the parquet floor and coagulated. The wound itself was hidden. Gavin’s eyes were fixed and staring. Near him a police photographer was kneeling on the floor, preparing to take a picture of the body. Lee looked around the room. The set-up was familiar to him; Captain of the precinct; Lieutenant of detectives, another detective, medical examiner, fingerprint expert and so on.

  Captain Kelleran knew him. “Good God! Mr. Mappin, what are you doing here!” he exclaimed. “Gavin Dordress was my oldest friend,” said Lee.

  “I didn’t know that. You
have my sympathy.”

  “When did this happen?” asked Lee.

  “About nine hours ago. Say ten-thirty or eleven last night. There is nothing here to interest us professionally. Clearly a suicide.”

  “He had everything to live for,” murmured Lee.

  “He left a letter,” said the Captain, handing Lee a manilla sheet that appeared to have been torn off a pad on Gavin’s desk. “I take it that’s his handwriting?”

  Gavin as a young man had taken the trouble to form a highly decorative hand. The quaintly-formed characters were inimitable. “Undoubtedly,” said Lee. He read the letter with a masklike face. “Do you recognise the gun?” asked the Captain.

  Instead of answering directly, Lee went to the desk at the other end of the room and pulled out the middle drawer. He said: “Gavin kept his gun here. It’s gone. It was of the same style and calibre as that on the floor. We may assume that that is his gun.”

  “So you see …” said the Captain, spreading out his hands. “We’ll check fingerprints on the gun to make sure. There are powder burns around the wound.”

  There was something else about the drawer that made Lee look thoughtful. He returned to the fireplace. The fire had been out for many hours. On top of the dead embers lay the charred remnants of many burned papers. One sheet had partly fallen out, and the top of it was unburned. Lee could read a typed title: The Changeling. So Gavin had burned the new play before killing himself. This was no business of the policeman’s and Lee said nothing about it.

  Taking the letter, Lee returned to Cynthia in the foyer. She raised her questioning eyes to his, and he said simply: “Gavin has left us.”

  “What was it?” she whispered. “Heart? … Why the police?”

  “He took his own life.”

  Cynthia, wildly staring, stammered: “No, Lee, no!”

  He put a hand on her shoulder. “You must face it, my dear. He had the right to leave us if he wished to.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “But he couldn’t have done it! … Last night when I left him there was no such thought in his mind. He was looking ahead to our future …”