I'll Sing at Your Funeral

by Hugh Pentecost

  “How dreadful,” Carol said. But it was completely mechanical and without emotion.

  “That letter was touching,” Bradley said, “Lydia Egan was in love. She had found the man of her dreams, she wrote Joe. She didn’t, however, mention his name. There were reasons, she wrote, why it must all be a big secret for a few weeks. She hated to keep anything from Joe, but he wasn’t to worry. Everything was perfect. Then,” and Bradley’s eyes clouded over, “she stepped out a sixteenth-story window at the Park Central, as Mr. Brackett put it.”

  “So the man turned her down,” said Brackett. “Is there anything homicidal in that, Inspector?”

  “It could just be a very tough break,” Bradley conceded. “But suicides generally leave some message behind. Lydia didn’t.” He waited for someone to say something. Nobody did. He sighed. “So I’m trying to find out who the man was. Just for a little chat, you understand. Just to tie up the loose ends so that the folks in Osamaloosa can be assured Lydia did take her own life.”

  After another silence Edgar Stoddard spoke up. “I met the girl once,” he said. “She came here for a musical evening. I’m afraid I make it a point to slip away from those things as quickly as politeness allows. I hardly spoke to her. Besides, Inspector, I guess I’m safe. I’m a little on the ancient side to be anyone’s dream man.”

  “Edgar!”

  “Just helping to clear away some of the underbrush, my dear.”

  “I think I should make it plain,” Emily said, “that Lydia was not a protégé of mine. I didn’t discover her. Arthur Summers came to me and said he had a girl student with considerable talent and no money to continue her studies. I provided the money. I had no personal interest in the girl. I know nothing about her private life or friends.”

  “And you, Miss Stoddard?” Bradley asked.

  Carol had stepped back to a place at Brackett’s side, her hand once more through his arm. “I only saw her the evening she came here. I don’t suppose we spoke a dozen words.”

  “And you, Mr. Brackett?”

  “It just happens,” said Carol, interrupting, “that Bill and I are going to be married.”

  “Mercy,” said Bradley, “my congratulations. Well, Brackett?”

  “I knew the girl … saw her quite often,” Brackett said. His belligerence had evaporated. “I study with Summers myself and her lesson time and mine overlapped. We only talked about work … singing.”

  “I didn’t suppose an established performer like you went on taking lessons,” Bradley said.

  “It’s as much a kind of vocal calisthenics to keep my voice in shape as anything else,” Brackett said. “I work from eleven till three every night. During the day there are rehearsals, broadcasts, recordings, sometimes four or five shows at one of the Broadway movie houses. You’ve got to keep in trim or fold.”

  “And Lydia Egan never mentioned any man she was keen about?”

  “Never.”

  “And you never saw her with anyone that you thought … ”

  “I never saw her anywhere except at Summers’ studio.”

  “The point is,” said Bradley patiently, “that she told her brother this man was someone she had met at Summers’.”

  “It could be any one of fifty men who are in and out of the place,” Brackett said. “If there was some reason for secrecy, as you said, they wouldn’t give it away if they bumped into each other at the studio.”

  The detective’s gray eyes were on Cain. Cain lifted his free arm.

  “Don’t shoot, chum. I just landed in this country today. I never heard of Lydia Egan till this afternoon.”

  “This afternoon?” Bradley was interested.

  “You mentioned her name as I was leaving the studio,” Cain said.

  Bradley turned his ancient felt hat round and round in his fingers. “Well, that seems to be that,” he said. “I’m sorry to have kept you from your dinner. I hope I won’t have to trouble you again.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Edgar Stoddard. “I got kind of a kick out of it. Used to read Nick Carter as a boy. Will you have a drink before you go, Inspector?”

  “Ask me sometime when I’m not on duty,” said Bradley. “Thanks just the same.”

  “I’ll go to the door with you,” Edgar said. “By the way, it was called Hoover’s Hoof Aid for Tender Frogs, Corns and Contracted Heels.”

  Bradley looked blank.

  “The stuff I was selling in Osamaloosa,” said Edgar happily.

  2

  The Stoddards’ chef was an expert and Cain gave himself up to enjoying dinner, even though no one else appeared to share his good time. There was green turtle soup which Cain liked but had never before tasted; then a morsel of filet of sole which scared him to death till he realized it was only a teaser for the roast beef, rare and thick; a miniature salad with a dab of cream cheese; a soufflé, and coffee.

  Emily broke a silence as the fish course was being removed. “I think it would be just as well,” she said, “if we didn’t mention the inspector’s visit outside this house. It will only stir up unnecessary gossip.”

  “You’re an optimist, Mrs. Stoddard,” Brackett said. “Bradley was talking to Beany Cook this afternoon, What Beany knows the world knows. It was he who phoned me and told me about Bradley.”

  “That’s unfortunate,” Emily said. “I’ll speak to Arthur about it. He can keep Mr. Cook quiet.”

  “Too late now,” Brackett said. “He’s already spilled it!”

  Emily toyed with a small square of roast beef, cutting it into tiny segments without eating any of it. “I don’t suppose you have an idea who the man was,” she said.

  “My dear lady,” said Brackett, “if I did, I’d talk fast. Unsolved mysteries are dynamite in my business.”

  “There was a trout stream in Osamaloosa,” Edgar Stoddard said, unexpectedly. “It wound right through the village. A fellow named Peters … or maybe it was Peterson … ”

  “We’ll have to put the best face on it we can,” Emily broke in. “If anyone asks questions, we don’t know anything.” She gave her attention to Cain. “On Thursday, Mr. Cain, my Red Cross chapter is meeting here. I think it might be interesting and instructive if you would give us a little talk on your experiences in Spain.”

  “I never gave anyone a talk in my life,” Cain said.

  “Don’t you think the Spanish civil war is a little out of date, mother?” Carol said.

  “I could show them my biceps,” Cain said. “You’d be surprised what biceps do for a group of middle-aged sock knitters.”

  Brackett choked on his roast beef.

  “Especially with tattoo marks on them,” said Cain.

  “Have you been in the navy, too, Mr. Cain?” Carol asked sweetly.

  Cain shook his head. “I’m just a sucker for art,” he said.

  “There was a little historical museum in Osamaloosa, speaking of art,” said Edgar. “Full of old Indian relics. Seems the Senecas massacred all the women and children in the town at one time while the men were on a hunting expedition. This fellow Peters or Peterson … ”

  “Edgar, please!”

  There was a moment’s lull and then Carol spoke. “Are you using Mr. Cain tonight, mother? Because if you’re not I’d like to borrow him.”

  Cain checked the sudden surge of anger he felt. She was being purposely malicious and if he blew up it would be her round.

  “I’m tired of sitting alone at the Tinsel Club while Bill does his stuff. I’d like to have an escort for a change,” Carol said.

  “An excellent idea,” said Emily. “Perhaps you might get home at a respectable hour if you don’t have to wait for the place to close. Edgar, will you see to it that Mr. Cain has enough money to take care of Carol’s evening?”

  “Yes, my dear.” There was sympathy in the look the old man gave Cain.

  Cain grinned at him. “And can I have a nickel to spend all for my very own?”

  ***

  Carol sat between Brackett and Ca
in in the back of the Packard. Brackett was chuckling to himself as they took off.

  “I owe you an apology, Cain,” he said. “If I wasn’t very cordial when 1 first met you, it’s because I thought you were another of Mrs. Stoddard’s panty-waist art boys.”

  “You know,” said Cain, “I’m beginning to wonder about myself.”

  “Show them your biceps!” Brackett laughed. “God, you could have chipped a piece off Emily anywhere with an ice pick!”

  “I bet when Mr. Cain was a kid he used to say dirty words in class to shock the teacher,” Carol said.

  “My approach to all teachers was quite adult from the time I was four,” said Cain.

  ***

  There were not many people in the Tinsel Club when they arrived. It wasn’t time for the after-theater crowd and Brackett’s band didn’t begin playing till eleven. A colored trio … piano, saxophone, and drum … were supplying music for the early comers.

  A dignified headwaiter, who looked as if he might have been an army officer in some small European country before Hitler, greeted them with grave courtesy. Brackett was feeling expansive.

  “Armando, this is Mr. Cain. He’s a pal of mine … which means his money isn’t any good in the joint.”

  “I understand, Mr. Brackett.”

  “You two ought to get along fine. You fought on opposite sides in the Spanish civil war,” Brackett said.

  “And now we are both in America,” Arrnando said. He led them to a table not far from the bandstand, evidently reserved permanently for Brackett. A waiter stood with pencil poised to take their order.

  “The usual,” Carol said indifferently.

  Brackett nodded his head in agreement. Cain said he’d have rye with a bottle of beer on the side.

  The usual for Brackett turned out to be coca-cola. He saw Cain’s surprised rook.

  “Contrary to public superstition, I don’t take dope, smoke marijuana, or drink during working hours,” he said.

  The usual for Carol was scotch and soda, which she ignored when it was placed in front of her. The Tinsel Club, black and silver in its color scheme, with streamers of what looked like Christmas-tree decoration hanging from the ceiling, was old stuff to her. She was doing one of her lightning lobs on a cigarette, frowning over a design she was carving in the tablecloth with a fork.

  “You come here every night?” Cain asked her.

  “That’s the worst of tying up to a guy who works sixteen hours a day,” Brackett said. He glanced at the time. “Sorry, but I’ll have to leave you two. See you after the first break, darling.” He touched Carol’s shoulder, lightly. “The joint’s yours, Pat. Have anything you like.” Then he laughed again. “If you want to spend that personal nickel of yours, we have a slot machine in the dressing room.”

  Carol remained absorbed in the tablecloth. Cain was amused watching the customers who began drifting in. Here and there he recognized a face. There was a movie “sweater girl;” a tabloid columnist; the paper king who had had nine wives or thereabouts.

  Presently the lights dimmed. Cain saw that the colored trio had left the bandstand and that a group of smartly dinner-coated young men had taken their places. They began to play softly, and through a loudspeaker came a rich baritone voice.

  “A pretty girl is like a melody

  That haunts you night and day.

  Just like the strain

  Of a haunting refrain,

  That starts upon

  A marathon

  And runs around your brain … ”

  Bill Brackett’s theme song. From a side entrance Bill appeared, carrying a hand microphone. There was an enthusiastic applause as he came to the front of the platform. He was an attractive guy, Cain thought. He glanced at Carol. Her eyes had not left her art work.

  The theme came to an end and Brackett announced the next number. The place got into its usual swing. There was a hum of conversation until Bill did the vocals which were followed each time by applause. All at once the place was jammed. Cain could see people standing three deep at the horseshoe bar at the other end of the room. If it weren’t for a uniform here and there, Cain thought, you’d never know that such things as dive bombers or flame throwers existed in the world. Bill had the crowd in the hollow of his hand. The curious magic of his voice made them forget.

  A few minutes later a minor disturbance made Cain look around. Armando was arguing with a young man in a raincoat who had forced his way down through the rows of tables. He was a tall, thin young man with what Cain would have called a pretty face; chiseled, aquiline. He seemed very excited and there were bright spots of color on his high cheekbones. Suddenly he made a quick darting move around Armando and was at their table.

  “I thought I’d find you here, Miss Stoddard!” he said.

  Carol looked up. The young man’s eyes, dark and burning, turned on Cain. “Tell your friend to take a walk for himself,” he said to Carol.

  Cain reached out and poured a little more beer into his glass.

  “This is Joe Egan, Lydia’s brother,” Carol said in a flat voice. “Mr. Cain.”

  “I want to talk to you alone, Miss Stoddard,” Joe Egan said.

  “No dice, chum,” said Cain. “Hadn’t you heard? I’m Miss Stoddard’s bodyguard.”

  “What do you want, Joe?” Carol said.

  “And sit down,” said Cain. “I can’t see through you and I’m enjoying the show.”

  Armando was at Egan’s elbow, looking at Carol for instructions.

  “It’s all right, Armando,” Carol said.

  Cain tried to catch Bill’s eye on the bandstand. He was paying no attention to the situation … which seemed odd to Cain till he realized that the spotlight focused on him kept him from seeing out into the room.

  “Well, Joe?” Carol said.

  “You want me to talk in front of this man?” Egan asked.

  “Why not?” said Carol.

  “Sure,” said Cain, “why not? How are all the folks in dear old Osamaloosa?”

  Egan ignored him. He leaned across the table. “You know who murdered Lydia, don’t you, Miss Stoddard?”

  “The police don’t think she was murdered, Joe,” Carol said.

  “The police!” Cain had never heard such bitterness. “The police have to have a bullet wound or a knife cut or poison before they call a thing murder. There are other kinds of murder, Miss Stoddard. The kind that drives a person to take her own life.”

  “You think somebody deliberately drove Lydia to suicide?” Carol asked.

  “I know it!” Egan said, his voice rising. “And I know who it was!”

  “Who was it, Joe?”

  “Brackett!” Egan said. “Bill Brackett!”

  If he had expected to jar Carol out of her calm, he failed. “That’s a serious charge, Joe. Have you evidence to prove it?”

  “I don’t need evidence,” Egan said. “I know. Brackett was playing both ends against the middle. He had you and he wanted Lydia too. When he got fed up he cast her aside like … like …”

  “Like-a worn-out glove?” Cain suggested.

  “Shut up, you!” Egan said.

  “Maybe he threatened to foreclose the mortgage,” Cain said.

  Egan’s mouth twitched. “Keep out of this,” he said.

  “You can’t go around making cases in your own head against people,” said Cain. “What you need, chum, is a good cold shower and a walk in the park. Did your sister ever mention Brackett to you?”

  “She didn’t need to. I’ve sifted every possibility in … ”

  “Has anyone ever reported having seen Brackett with your sister outside Summers’ studio?”

  “I don’t need reports! I don’t need … ”

  “What you need is to pipe down,” said Cain.

  Egan’s laugh was high. “I’m going to face Brackett with this and see if he dares deny it! And then, if the law won’t take care of him, I will!”

  People at the next table shushed. Cain stood up.

&nb
sp; “Let’s take a walk,” he said. He put his hand on Egan’s shoulder. “We’ll talk about this outside.”

  “Keep your hands off me and keep out of this!” Egan said furiously, getting to his feet. There were louder shushings.

  “Will you come quietly, dear,” said Cain, “or shall we make an issue of this?” Armando was hurrying down through the maze of tables.

  “Why, damn you,” Egan said, “if you didn’t have a crippled arm … ”

  It was all very quick and neat. Cain’s left hand closed over Egan’s wrist; there was a sharp twist and Egan went down to his knees with a cry of pain.

  “Get up,” said Cain, “and walk.”

  Egan got up and walked toward the coatroom faster than he had come in. When they reached the open space by the bar Cain let him go.

  “If you’ve got a case, present it to the police,” he said. “But don’t bother Miss Stoddard again if you don’t want me to get serious.”

  Egan had turned to face him. He was white and shaking. Suddenly his right hand dove for the pocket of his raincoat. Cain swung. He put all of his two hundred pounds behind that left hook and Egan seemed to sail through the air. He landed in a heap at the feet of a startled hat-check girl. Cain bent over him, reached in the raincoat pocket, and brought out a small Browning pistol.

  “Souvenir for you,” said Cain to the hat-check girl. He was smiling, but his eyes had gone hard and bright.

  “If you don’t mind,” said a familiar voice at his elbow, “I’ll take that.”

  He turned to confront the mild-mannered Inspector Bradley, who had walked over from the bar.

  “Say,” said Cain, “you get around.”

  “My business,” said Bradley. He looked down at Egan crumpled on the floor. “I’d hate to see you in action with two good hands, Mr. Cain.”

  Cain gave him the pistol. “You’d better tell the D.A. to send his pal here back to Osamaloosa or there’ll be a real killing.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Bradley, his gaze lifting to Cain’s face. “Not that I blame him for being resentful. His sister took a kicking around.”