“I thought she seemed a little, well, disturbed this evening. She.…”
Miss Lung’s hand descended with dramatic emphasis on my left thigh where it remained some seconds like a weight of lead. “I’m afraid for her!” Her high voice grew mysterious and feeble. “She’s heading for a breakdown. She now thinks someone is trying to kill her.”
It was out at last and I was relieved to find that Mrs. Veering was only a mild psychotic and not, as I’d first thought, really in danger of her life. I relaxed considerably, prematurely. “Yes, she told me something like that.”
“Poor Rose,” Miss Lung shook her head and withdrew her hand from its somewhat sensitive resting place. “It all started a few years ago when she was not included in the New York Social Register. I suppose you weathered that with her like all the rest of us … what a time it was! It was about then that her.…” Miss Lung looked about to make sure no one else could hear. “Her drinking began. I remember telling Allie Claypoole (who’s also from Boston by the way) that if Rose didn’t get a grip on herself she’d.…”
But grip or no grip, our hostess appeared in a magenta dinner dress, looking handsome and steady, no worse for the gallon of Dubonnet she’d drunk before dinner.
“Come along, children!” she said, waving us all toward the dining room. I admired her steadiness. She obviously had the capacity of a camel. “I’m sorry I’m late but I got held up. We have to go in now or the cook will make a scene.”
It was while I accompanied Mrs. Brexton in to dinner I noticed, when she turned to speak to her husband, that across her neck, ordinarily covered by a long bob, was an ugly purple welt extending from under the ear down the side of her neck and disappearing into the high-necked dress she was wearing. It was a bruise, too, not a birthmark nor a scar … it was a new bruise.
When she turned from her husband to speak to me, hair covered the discoloration. There was an odd look in her eyes, as though she could detect in my face what it was I’d seen, what I thought for, as she made some remark about the dance to be held the next night at the Yacht Club, her hand strayed unconsciously to her neck.
V
Dinner went well enough. Mrs. Veering was in fine form, no trace of the earlier fear which had marred our first meeting. I studied her during dinner (I sat on her left; Brexton was on her right; Allie Claypoole was on my left). She was animated and probably quite drunk though she didn’t show it except, perhaps, in the feverish brightness of her eyes and in her conversation which made no sense at all though it sounded perfectly rational.
It was a queer crew, I decided. A hostess on the make socially in spite of her alcoholism and a big snub from the Social Register; a highbrow painter; his wife whose blood could probably etch glass, with a bruise on her neck which looked as if somebody had tried to choke her to death and then decided what the hell and left the job half done. The somebody was probably her husband whose hands looked strong enough to twist off a human head like a chicken’s.
And the mysterious Claypooles, brother and sister and so in love, or something. He sat next to Mrs. Brexton at dinner and they talked together intently, ignoring the rest of the company which seemed to irritate his sister. Brexton was oblivious of everyone, a good-humored, self-centered type who saw to it that the conversation never got too far away from him or from painting.
And of course my penwoman, a massive giggling friend to man … at least so she seemed underneath all the “Book-Chat.” Since her score was probably quite low, all things considered, her predatory instincts doubtless expressed themselves only in pats and pinches at which she was pretty expert.
After dinner, a little high on white wine, we all went back to the drawing room where a card table had been set up.
“Of course we’re seven but that doesn’t mean four can’t play bridge while the others are doing something more constructive.” Mrs. Veering looked brightly around. At first everyone said they’d rather not play but she apparently knew what she was up to and, finally, the bridge enthusiasts (I’m not one; poker’s the only card game I ever learned) flocked to the table, leaving Mrs. Brexton, Allie Claypoole and myself in front of the fireplace.
It was obviously up to us to do something more constructive but I couldn’t think what. There’s nothing worse than being at a formal house on a week end with a group of people you don’t know and who don’t particularly appeal to you. There’s always the problem of what to talk about which, in this case, was complicated by the sour behavior of Mrs. Brexton and the vagueness of Alice Claypoole, neither of whom seemed happy with the arrangements either.
“I suppose you and Fletcher will be going back to Boston after this.” Mrs. Brexton snapped this out suddenly at Allie in a tone which, if it was meant to be pleasant, missed the mark wide. Fletcher, I gathered, was Claypoole’s first name.
“Oh, yes … I think so. We’re getting a smaller place in Cambridge, you know.”
“I don’t know why you won’t live in New York. It’s much more interesting. Boston is dead all year ’round.” Mrs. Brexton was animated on the subject of Boston at least. This was the first conversation I’d heard out of her all evening.
“We like it.”
“I suppose you would.” The insult in this was so clear that I could hardly believe I’d got it right.
But Allie didn’t seem particularly to mind. “People are different, Mildred,” she said quietly. “I don’t think either of us could take New York for very long.”
“Speak for yourself. Fletcher likes the city and you know it. You’re the one who keeps him in Boston.”
Allie flushed at this. “He’s always polite,” she said.
“That’s not what I mean.” They faced each other suddenly implacable, enemies. What was going on?
A first-rate row was beginning. “What do you mean, Mildred?”
Mrs. Brexton laughed unpleasantly. “Don’t play the fool with me, Allie, I’m one person who.…”
“Partner, I had no hearts!” squealed Miss Lung from the table, followed by a groan from Mr. Brexton.
“For God’s sake shut up, Mildred,” Allie said this under the squeal of Miss Lung but I heard her if the others didn’t.
“I’ve shut up too long.” Mrs. Brexton seemed to subside, though; her spasm of anger replaced by her usual unpleasant expression. I noticed her hands shook as she lighted a cigarette. Was she another alcoholic? One of course was par for any week end. Two looked like a frame-up.
Miss Claypoole turned to me as though nothing unpleasant had been said. “I’m sure you’ll have something good to say about Boston,” she said, smiling. “I seem to be a minority here.”
I told her I’d gone to Harvard and this forged a link between us so strong that, without another word, without even a good night to her hostess, Mrs. Brexton left the room.
“Did I say anything to upset her?” I asked innocently. I was curious to know what was going on.
Allie frowned slightly. “No, I don’t think so.” She glanced at the bridge tables; the others were engrossed, paying no attention to us. “Mildred isn’t well. She … well, she’s just had a nervous breakdown.”
So that was it. “What form did it take?”
She shrugged. “What form do they usually take? She went to bed for a month. Now she’s up and around. She’s really quite nice … don’t get a wrong impression of her. Unfortunately, she makes almost no sense and you can see she’s as nervous as a cat. We don’t quarrel with her if we can help it. She doesn’t mean to be as … as awful as she sounds.”
“And she sounds pretty awful?”
“She’s an old friend of mine,” Allie said sharply.
“I’m sure she is,” I said, not at all taken aback … if you’re among eight-balls you have to be one yourself to survive and I had two more days of this ahead of me and I didn’t intend to be buffaloed at the beginning. Besides, I liked Allie. In her subdued way she was very good-looking and she had the sort of figure I like: slender and well-proportioned, no serious
sags and a lovely clear skin. I imagined her without any clothes on; then I quickly dressed her again in my mind: that wouldn’t do at all, I decided. Besides, there was the luscious Liz Bessemer down the road waiting for me, or at least I hoped she was. One advantage of being an unmarried male in your early thirties is that most of your contemporaries are safely married and you have the field of single women to yourself, officially that is.
Allie, unaware that she’d been brutally undressed and dressed again all in the space of a second, was talking about Mildred Brexton. “She’s always been high-strung. That whole family is … even Rose.” She nodded toward our hostess. “I suppose you know Rose is her aunt.”
I said I did.
“We met them, Fletcher and I, about fifteen years ago when Rose came East and decided to do Newport where we always go in the summers … at least we used to. Mildred’s the same age as my brother and they were, are great friends. In fact, people always thought they’d get married but then she met Brexton and of course they’ve been very happy.” I knew she was lying: if only because it seemed unlikely any man could get along with that disagreeable woman.
“I suppose you’ve known Rose a long time.” The question was abrupt.
“No, not very.” I didn’t know what to say, not knowing what Mrs. Veering had said.
She helped me out. “Oh, I thought Rose said you were an old friend but then she’s so vague. I’ve seen her ask people here under the impression she’s known them for years and it’s turned out they’re absolute strangers. That’s one of the reasons her parties are so successful: everyone’s treated like a long-lost cousin.”
The butler slithered into the room at that moment and came, to my surprise, to me: “Mr. Sargeant, sir, you are wanted on the telephone.” An honest-to-god English butler who said “telly-phone.”
It was Liz. “Oh, hi, Peter. I wondered what you were doing.”
“I’ve been wondering that myself.”
“Dull?”
“Deadly. How’s your place?”
“Not much better. Will you be at the dance tomorrow night?”
“I don’t know. One of the guests mentioned it so I figured we’ll go; if not.…”
“Come anyway. Say you’re my guest. I’ll leave a note at the door for you.”
“I’ll like that. It’s a full moon, too.”
“A full what?”
“Moon.”
“Oh, I thought you said ‘room.’ Well, I’ll be looking for you.”
We hung up. I felt very much better. I had visions of the two of us rolling amorously in the deserted dunes while the moon turned the sea and the sand to silver. Maybe this job wasn’t going to be as grim as I thought.
Around midnight, the bridge game broke up and everybody had a nightcap except our hostess who had what could only be called an Indian war bonnet: a huge brandy glass half filled with enough cognac to float me straight out to sea.
“I hope we’re not too dull for you,” she said, just before we all parted for bed.
“I couldn’t be having a better time,” I lied.
“Tomorrow we’ll do a little business and then of course we’re going to the Yacht Club dance where you can see some young people.”
“And what’s wrong with us?” asked Miss Lung roguishly.
I was not honor-bound to answer that and after a round of good nights, we all went upstairs. I followed Mary Western Lung and the sight of those superb buttocks encased in red slacks would, I knew, haunt my dreams forever.
To my dismay, I found her room was next to mine. “What a coincidence!” was her observation.
I smiled enigmatically, ducked into my room, locked the connecting door and then, just to be safe, moved a heavy bureau against the door. Only a maddened hippopotamus could break through that barricade; as far as I knew, Miss Lung was not yet maddened.
I slept uneasily until three-thirty when, right in the middle of a mild, fairly standard nightmare (falling off a cliff), I was awakened by three sharp screams, a woman’s screams.
I sat bolt upright at the second scream; the third one got me out of bed; stumbling over a chair, I opened the door and looked out into the dimly lit hall. Other heads were appearing from doorways. I spotted both Claypooles, Miss Lung and, suddenly, Mrs. Veering who appeared on the landing, in white, like Lady Macbeth.
“Do go back to sleep,” she said in her usual voice. “It’s nothing … nothing at all. A misunderstanding.”
There was a bewildered murmur. The heads withdrew. I caught a glimpse of Miss Lung’s intricate nightdress: pink decorated with little bows befitting the authoress of Little Biddy Bit. Puzzled, uneasy, I dropped off to sleep. The last thing I remember thinking was how strange it was that Mrs. Veering had made no explanation of those screams.
At breakfast there was a good deal of talk about the screams … that is at first there was until it became quite clear that one of our company had been responsible for them; at which moment everybody shut up awkwardly and finished their beef and kidney pie, an English touch of Mrs. Veering’s which went over very big.
I guessed, I don’t know why, that Mrs. Brexton had been responsible; yet at breakfast she seemed much as ever, a little paler than I remembered but then I was seeing her for the first time in daylight.
We had coffee on the screened-in porch which overlooked the ocean: startlingly blue this morning with a fair amount of surf. The sky was vivid with white gulls circling overhead. I amused myself by thinking it must really be a scorcher in the city.
After breakfast everybody got into their bathing suits except, fortunately, Mary Western Lung who said the sun “simply poached her skin.” She got herself up in poisonous yellow slacks with harlequin dark glasses and a bandanna about her head.
Mrs. Veering was the only one who didn’t change. Like all people who have houses by the sea she wasn’t one for sun-bathing or swimming.
“Water’s too cold for me,” she said, beckoning me into the alcove off the drawing room.
She was all business. I thought longingly of the beach and the surf. I could hear the sound of the others splashing about.
“I hope you weren’t disturbed last night,” she said, sitting down at a handsome Queen Anne desk while I lounged in an armchair.
“It was unexpected,” I admitted. “What happened?”
“Poor Mildred.” She sighed. “I think she has persecution-mania. It’s been terrible this last year. I don’t understand any of it. There’s never been anything like it in our family, ever. Her mother, my sister, was the sanest woman that ever drew breath and her father was all right too. I suppose it’s the result of marrying an artist. They can be a trial. They’re different, you know, not like us.”
She developed that theme a little; it was a favorite one with her. Then: “Ever since her breakdown last winter she’s been positive her husband wants to kill her. A more devoted husband, by the way, you’ll never find.”
The memory of that ugly bruise crossed my mind uneasily. “Why doesn’t she leave him?”
Mrs. Veering shrugged. “Where would she go? Besides, she’s irrational now and I think she knows it. She apologized last night when … when it happened.”
“What happened?”
“They had a row … just a married persons’ quarrel, nothing serious. Then she started to scream and I went downstairs … their bedroom’s on the first floor. She apologized immediately and so did he but of course by then she’d managed to wake up the whole house.”
“I should think her place was in a rest home or something.”
Mrs. Veering sighed. “It may come to that. I pray not. But now here’s the guest list for the party. I’ll want you to make a press list for me and.…”
Our business took about an hour; she had the situation well in hand and, though I didn’t dare say so, she was quite capable of being her own press agent. She had a shrewd grip on all the problems of publicity. My job, I gathered, was to be her front. It was just as well. We decided then on my fee, w
hich was large, and she typed out an agreement between us with the speed and finesse of an old-time stenographer. “I studied typing,” she said simply, noticing my awe. “It was one of the ways I used to help my late husband. I did everything for him.”
We each signed our copy of the agreement and I was dismissed to frolic on the beach; the last I saw of Mrs. Veering was her moving resolutely toward the console which held, in ever-readiness, ice and whisky and glasses.
On the beach, the others were gathered.
The sun was fiercely white and the day was perfect with just enough breeze off the water to keep you cool.
I looked at my fellow house guests with interest: it’s always interesting to see people you know only dressed without any clothes on, or not much that is.
Both Allie and Mrs. Brexton had good figures. Allie’s especially; she looked just about the way she had the night before when I had mentally examined her … the only flaw perhaps was that she was a little short in the legs; otherwise, she was a good-looking woman, prettier in the sun wearing a two-piece bathing suit than in her usual dull clothes. She was stretched out on a blanket next to her brother who was a solid-looking buck with a chest which had only just begun to settle around the pelvis.
Mrs. Brexton was sitting on the edge of a bright Navajo blanket in the center of which, holding a ridiculous parasol, was Miss Lung, sweating under all her clothes while Brexton, burlier than I’d thought, did handstands clumsily to show he was just as young as he felt which apparently wasn’t very young.
Miss Lung hailed me. “You must sit here!” She pounded the blanket beside her.
“That’s O.K.” I said. “I don’t want to crowd you.” I sat down cross-legged on the sand between the blanket where she sat and the Claypooles. I was a good yard from her busy fingers.
“My, I’ve never seen such athletic men!” Behind her harlequin dark glasses, I could see I was being given the once-over.