I'll Sing at Your Funeral

by Hugh Pentecost

  “I didn’t expect it to,” said Cain.

  “But that isn’t all,” Summers went on. “You’ll have to take Emily Stoddard. Don’t misunderstand me. Emily is an old and valued friend of mine. I’m extremely fond of her. But fortunately I don’t have to put up with what you’re facing. She’s possessive, demanding; runs her household and her friends with a bull whip. You will represent to her what a new and rare stamp would represent to a collector. She’ll want to show you off. She’ll expect you to do things in a social way that have nothing to do with your vocal career, and you’ll have to do them.”

  “What I hear from all sides builds a pretty terrifying picture of the lady,” Cain said.

  “She’s fundamentally kind and generous,” Summers said, “but she has to be kind and generous in a way that pleases her and may not please you at all.”

  “I think I know what you mean. I’ve just had a dinner coat bought for me.”

  Summers nodded. “I tell you all this, Cain, because if I undertake to teach you I don’t want you barging in here two weeks from now telling me that you can’t take that bitch another day. Frankly, I’d like to work with you. But I’d prefer to call it quits right now if you’re not going to be able to go through with the whole rigmarole.”

  “Thanks for giving it to me straight,” said Cain.

  “Not at all. I’ve found in this business that besides teaching voice you have to be a psychoanalyst, a physician, and a priest for confessional. If you decide to go ahead, feel free to tell me what’s eating you. I may be able to help.”

  Cain said: “I’ve decided. If you think it’s worth the try, I’m for it.”

  “Good man,” said Summers. “Are you a heavy smoker?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cut down on it. Liquor, too.”

  “Right.”

  “Get plenty of sleep. I understand there’s a gymnasium on the top floor of the Stoddard house. You’re not soft now, but don’t let yourself get that way.”

  “It’s no problem for me to stay in shape.”

  “You may think I’m kidding about this condition business,” Summers said, getting up from the bench, “but you’ll find out differently after you’ve had a few lessons. We’ll begin tomorrow and work every day from then on.” He glanced at a schedule pad on the piano. “Say, at eleven in the mornings?”

  “Suits me.”

  Summers held out his hand. “I’ve got a hunch we’re going to hit it off,” he said. “Have you seen Emily since you got to town?”

  “Not yet,” said Cain.

  “Well, give her my love when you do. You can tell her about our arrangements.”

  “I will.”

  “And if you find yourself being pushed around too hard, drop in here and see us. I live in the upstairs part of this place, you know. Margo and I may be able to cheer you up.”

  Chapter Three

  1

  It was a few minutes before four o’clock when Cain left Summers. In the reception room Beany Cook was still holding the fort at Margo Reed’s desk. Rosokov, Mrs. Wilder, and the other people Cain had met before had all departed. There was a newcomer sitting in a rocking chair by the door. Beany Cook did not introduce him, but for an instant Cain found himself arrested by a pair of mild gray eyes. They gave Cain the feeling that their owner could, after one glance, have given his Bertillon measurements with minute accuracy.

  The eyes belonged to a man of about thirty-five, with close-cropped, bright-red hair. He was as tall as Cain and as broad-shouldered. He wore a battered trench coat, belted at the waist. A felt hat of ancient vintage rested on his knees. He had been in the process of filling a stubby pipe from a red tin of tobacco when Cain came into the room. He continued the process, undisturbed.

  “How, did you make out?” Beany asked Cain.

  “I start in tomorrow at eleven,” said Cain.

  “Well, we’ll be seeing you then,” said Beany. It was dismissal.

  Cain picked up his own hat and started for the door.

  “Goodbye,” said the red-headed man pleasantly.

  “So long,” Cain said.

  As he reached the door Beany Cook took up an interrupted conversation. “As I was saying, Mr. Bradley, I only met Lydia Egan twice, both times here in this reception room. I found her a touch naive, if you know what I mean.”

  “Mercy,” said the red-headed man. “I know what you mean, but it’s not a quality I should have thought of in connection with the young lady. Distinctly a realist in my book.”

  “Of course Mr. Summers can, tell you a great deal more than I can,” said Beany. “I’ll see if he has a few minutes for you now.”

  Cain went down in the elevator to the street and, seeing the sign of the Wellington Hotel bar on Fifty-sixth Street, decided to put off going on the wagon till tomorrow. After his first attempt at singing for the professional ear he needed a drink. In the bar he ordered a rye with a beer chaser and was just about to toss it down when he saw Margo Reed and Robert Royce at a corner table. Royce was talking earnestly, his head close to Margo. Margo saw Cain at the same moment that he saw her. She reached out and touched Royce’s sleeve. Royce looked up quickly, scowling.

  Cain raised his glass in a gesture of salute and turned away. Royce might not be Margo’s dish, as she had put it, but he wasn’t above trying.

  Cain pushed his glass across the bar for a second drink. In the mirror behind the bar he saw Margo leaving through the exit which led into the hotel lobby.

  “Hello, old man.” It was Royce at Cain’s elbow.

  “Hi,” said Cain. “Join me?”

  “I’d like to,” said Royce, “but I have an appointment.” He fingered his polka-dot tie. “You know, Cain, I feel slightly embarrassed.”

  “What for?”

  “You did see Summers?”

  “I saw him.” Cain reached for his fresh drink. “The die is cast. The jury is in. It seems I’m to become a singer.”

  “That’s fine,” said Royce. “None better than Summers. He’s the very best teacher in the business and a lifelong friend of mine.”

  “I thought he was a good egg,” Cain said.

  “He is,” said Royce. “First-rate. Only one failing as far as I know.”

  “That’s practically par for any course,” Cain said.

  “He’s inclined to be a little jealous,” said Royce. “Now take me, for example. He knows me through and through; knows I wouldn’t interfere in his life, for anything in the world. But if he happened to hear that I had met Margo here for a drink … quite by accident … it would upset him. Start him wondering. And there’s no point in that, is there, old man?”

  Cain raised his glass to the light. “I’d have no reason to mention it … unless he asked me,” he said.

  “Glad you see the point,” said Royce. “It would make Arthur needlessly unhappy. You can see for yourself that if Margo and I were carrying on any sort of intrigue we wouldn’t meet in a bar right next to Carnegie Hall. That makes it clear it’s all open and aboveboard.”

  “Mr. Royce,” said Cain, “I’m not running a gossip column and I don’t give a hoot in hell what you do with your private life.”

  “Thanks,” said Royce. “I just wanted to explain it to you. Well, I must be running. Goodbye, old man.”

  “So long, old man,” said Cain, deadpan.

  2

  Edgar Stoddard knocked on the door of Cain’s room and went in. Cain, wearing his new dinner jacket, was standing before his dressing room mirror.

  “Not bad,” said Edgar Stoddard. He, too, had on a dinner coat, but with a soft silk shirt and string tie.

  “Your man Claude is a magician,” Cain said. “I don’t know how he ever got me into this monkey suit. I was a little over-optimistic about pouring myself into a boiled shirt one-handed.”

  Stoddard sat down in the big chair by the fireplace. “I gather the verdict was favorable,” he said.

  “Summers advised me to risk it,” Cain said.

&n
bsp; The old man looked down at his short square fingers. “Summers knows his business,” he said. There was a faint reserve in the way he said it.

  “The camp followers seemed a little cockeyed,” Cain said. “Master Cook, a Russian basso, a lady numerologist … ”

  “You met Mrs. Wilder?”

  “I met her and I’m to be horoscoped or whatever you call it.”

  “Don’t be fooled by her exterior,” Stoddard said. “She’s a very shrewd woman. She has to be to have most of the leading actors, singers, and some of the town’s best-known bankers and industrialists for customers. It may be a hoax, but if it is she’s fooling some pretty smart people.”

  “The Reed girl seems to know what the score is,” Cain said.

  “Watch your step there,” Stoddard said, “She’s Summers’ property.”

  “I caught on to that in a hurry,” said Cain, “with the assistance of Mr. Royce.”

  “That louse!” Stoddard made no bones of his dislike. “I’m not a moralist,” he said. “In this day and age, with the home and the family more or less defunct institutions, there seems to be no particular reason to legalize personal relationships. But sometimes it’s confusing when there aren’t any ‘No Trespassing’ signs around.”

  “Signs never stopped a guy who was really interested in a dame,” Cain said. “If you can’t hold on to your own woman, it’s just too bad.”

  Stoddard sighed. “I suppose you’re right, although we had a different code in my day.” He got up from his chair and the serious expression that had come over his face dissolved. “Maybe if we slip downstairs we can get a couple of quick ones before Emily makes her entrance.”

  When Cain and Stoddard walked into the library they found that they had been beaten to the business of sneaking a quickie. Carol was there, and with her was a dark young man in a double-breasted dinner coat, a red carnation in his lapel. They stood together by the fireplace, in an attitude that seemed to Cain almost defiant. Carol had slipped her hand through the young man’s arm and her chin was held very high.

  “Oh, it’s you, father,” she said.

  “Yes, my dear, it’s me. As you were!” Stoddard chuckled. “How are things, Bill?”

  “Pretty good, sir, thank you,” said the young man.

  “This is Pat Cain,” Stoddard said. “Bill Brackett.”

  Brackett shook hands cordially enough. His grip was firm. “Been hearing about you,” he said.

  “And, of course, everyone has heard of Bill,” said Stoddard, pouring cocktails for himself and Cain from the shaker on the table.

  “I’ve asked Bill to stay for dinner,” Carol said.

  “That’s your headache,” said Stoddard. “He knows I’m always glad to see him.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Brackett. He looked tired, Cain thought. “I’ve told Carol there doesn’t seem to be any good reason to antagonize Mrs. Stoddard, but she sees it differently.”

  “I will not have mother dictate to me about my friends,” said Carol.

  “I once took a strong line myself,” said Stoddard. “Well, here’s luck!”

  They managed just one cocktail before Emily Stoddard joined them. The impression Cain had had of her on their first meeting was intensified. She was brisk, matter-of-fact, businesslike, and completely sheathed in frost.

  She was still a beautiful woman, although Cain was acutely aware of the hours of effort that went into her appearance. Premature whiteness gave her an air of distinction. Her figure was excellent. Her movements were quick and, Cain guessed, intended to impress you with a youthful vigor. For him they spelled only violin-string tension.

  Crossing the threshold, she paused an instant, a bleaker look in her eyes as she saw Brackett. Then she came directly to Cain. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to greet you when you arrived, Mr. Cain.”

  “I got along fine,” said Cain.

  “I talked to Arthur Summers on the phone a few minutes ago and was gratified to find that his opinion of your voice coincided with mine. Good evening, Edgar … Carol … Mr, Brackett.”

  “Bill’s staying to dinner,” Carol said.

  “I see,” said Emily. “Pour me a cocktail please, Edgar.”

  “Yes, my dear.”

  “Is your room comfortable, Mr. Cain?”

  “It’s fine,” Cain said.

  “If there’s anything you need, let Richards know.”

  “Thanks, I will.”

  “These cocktails are too dry. Will you speak to Richards, Edgar?” As far as Emily was concerned the subject was closed. “Did you find the atmosphere of Arthur’s studio amusing, Mr. Cain?” she asked.

  “There were a couple of screwballs around,” Cain said.

  “Screwballs?” Emily’s beautifully-shaped eyebrows rose.

  “Eccentrics, my dear,” said Edgar Stoddard.

  At that moment Richards came into the room.

  “Ah,” said Emily. “Dinner.”

  “I’m sorry, madam,” said Richards, “dinner is ready. But there is a gentleman here who insists on seeing you.”

  “Quite impossible,” said Emily. “Tell him to make an appointment for later in the week.”

  “He appears,” said Richards imperturbably, “to be from the police.”

  “I suppose you’ve been speeding again, Carol.” Emily’s voice sharpened. “Well, show him in, Richards.”

  Cain found himself moving over to join Brackett by the fireplace.

  “Never a dull moment,” he said.

  Brackett muttered feelingly under his breath.

  The man who followed Richards into the room jolted Cain out of a state of amused expectancy. He knew that this caller had nothing to do with traffic violations. It was the red-headed man he had seen earlier in the afternoon at Summers’.

  “Inspector Bradley, madam,” said Richards.

  The gray eyes moved from face to face, twinkled for a moment in recognition as they rested on Cain.

  Emily took executive charge of the situation. She made a quick series of introductions. “I suppose Carol has been breaking some of your speed laws again, Inspector.”

  A faint smile quirked the corners of Bradley’s mouth, “Perhaps I should have been more explicit with your butler, Mrs. Stoddard,” he said, “I am from the homicide division.”

  There was a moment of dead silence.

  “If this is some kind of joke,” Emily said, “it is in very bad taste.”

  “It’s not a joke, Mrs. Stoddard,” said Bradley. “I realize I’ve come at an inopportune time. If you’d care to wait till after you’ve had your dinner …”

  “I think we should be told at once what interest the homicide division has in us,” said Emily.

  Bradley’s gaze was direct as he answered her question. “I’m on the trail of information about Lydia Egan.”

  “Perhaps you’d better count me out of this, pal,” Cain said. “I don’t know who Lydia Egan is yet.”

  It was Bill Brackett who told him. “Lydia Egan was a protégé of Mrs. Stoddard’s and a pupil of Summers’ like you, Cain. She stepped out a sixteenth-story window at the Park Central the other day.” Brackett snapped his cigarette case shut. “It spoiled her make-up.”

  Chapter Four

  1

  The golden-voiced crooner of the Tinsel Club had landed one right on the button with his sketch of Lydia Egan. Cain had a feeling that everyone else in the room had been shocked by the callousness of it; at least everyone but the red-haired police inspector, who was regarding Brackett with the same interest a scientist might have for a new specimen under the microscope.

  “You ought to stick out your hand when you’re going to make a left turn like that, chum,” Cain said.

  Brackett shrugged his shoulders. “Let’s not pussyfoot around with it, Inspector,” he said. “You were at Summers’ studio this afternoon making inquiries.”

  “I didn’t go there in disguise, Mr. Brackett,” said Bradley cheerfully. “Nor did I ask anyone not to mention it.
I suppose Miss Reed phoned you?”

  “Never mind how I found out,” said Brackett.

  “Mercy,” said Bradley, “this thing seems to have given you the jitters. Why?”

  “My business,” said Brackett, “depends on the good will of the public. When you heavy-handed babies get through investigating something, everyone within ten miles of you gets smeared.”

  Emily Stoddard took command. “There is some justice in Mr. Brackett’s attitude, Inspector,” she said. “All of us, with the exception of Mr. Cain, did know Lydia Egan and were distressed by her suicide. But I don’t see why, after a week’s time, the case should be reopened.”

  “Did you ever hear of Osamaloosa, New York?” Bradley asked.

  “Of course I never heard of it,” Emily said.

  “Well, it exists!” said Bradley. “I didn’t believe it myself, Mrs. Stoddard, until I looked it up. It’s the birthplace of our district attorney.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” said Edgar Stoddard with sudden enthusiasm. “It was before the war, Inspector … Spanish-American. I was on the road in those days, selling a newfangled kind of hoof dressing. Really nothing but pine tar and lard with a fancy name, but I remember … ”

  “Edgar!”

  “Sorry, my dear.”

  “What in hell have the district attorney and Osamawhoosis got to do with the Egan?” Brackett said. He turned to the side table and filled his cocktail glass.

  “Coincidence,” said Bradley placidly. “The Egan family also springs from Osamaloosa. The Egan kid’s father and the D.A. went to dear old Siwash together.”

  “Siwash!” It came out of Cain before he could check himself.

  Bradley’s eyes twinkled. “I apologize. Just a figure of speech. I don’t know what college it was. It also seems that Lydia Egan has a brother … one Joe Egan. He’s a singer, too. Chorus boy in a show on the road. He didn’t know about his sister’s death until some days later. He got a letter from her that bothered him and he tried to call her long distance. That’s when he found out what had happened.”