Master’s degree in history,” said Allie as though that explained everything. “You better run in the house, dear, and tell Rose you’re here.”
“Oh, I’ll stay in the village,” said the young historian.
“Well, go in and say hello anyway. I’m sure she’ll ask you to dinner.”
Wiping sand off his trousers, the nephew disappeared into the house. Allie sighed, “I should’ve known Dick would show up. He loves disaster. I suppose it’s why he majored in history … all those awful wars and things.”
“Maybe he’ll cheer us up.”
“It’ll take more than Dick I’m afraid.”
“You’re not much older than he, are you?”
She smiled. “Now that’s what I call a nice thing to hear. Yes, I’m a good ten years older.” Which made her thirty one or two, I figured with one of those rapid mental computations which earned me the reputation of a mathematical failure in school.
Then we went in swimming, keeping close to shore.
IV
Miss Lung and I were the first to arrive for cocktails and I mixed us martinis. She was in an exotic Japanese kimono-type dress which made her look even more repellent than usual. She thought she was cute as a button though.
“Well, looks like we’re the first down. The vanguard.” I gave her a drink and agreed. I sat down opposite her though she’d done everything but pull me down beside her on the couch. I realize that, contrary to popular legend, old maids’ traditional lechery is largely an invention of the male but I can safely say that, in Miss Lung’s case, masculine irreverence was justified.
She sipped her martini; then, after spilling half of it on the rug, put it down and said, “I hope you’re recovered from your encounter with that unknown party.”
I said I was.
“I could hardly keep my mind on ‘Book-Chat.’ I was doing a piece on how strange it is that all the best penwomen with thepossible exception of Taylor Caldwell possess three names.”
I let the novelty of this pass. I was saved from any further observations by the appearance of Claypoole. He was pale and preoccupied. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in a week.
He made conversation mechanically. “The whole town’s buzzing,” he said. “I was down at the theater seeing the pictures there … some good things, too, by the way, though of course Paul would say they’re trash.”
“What’s trash? What would I call trash?” Brexton appeared in the doorway; he was even smiling, some of his old geniality returning. I wondered why. At the moment his neck was half inside a noose.
Claypoole looked at him bleakly. “I was talking about the pictures down at the John Drew Theater.”
“Oh, they’re trash all right,” said Brexton cheerfully, mixing himself a drink. “You’re absolutely right, Fletcher.”
“I liked them. I said you’d say they were.…”
“What they are. Well, here’s to art!”
“Art? I love it!” Mrs. Veering and Dick Randan came in together; the former was her usual cheery self, high as a kite. She introduced the Claypoole connection to Miss Lung and Brexton neither of whom knew him. The penwoman shifted her affections abruptly from me to the young historian. “So you’re at Harvard?” she began to purr and the youth was placed beside her on the couch. That was the end of him for that evening.
Allie was the last to join us. She sat by me. “Well, here we all are,” she said irrelevantly.
The company was hectically gay that night. We were all infected by this general mood. Everyone drank too much. I was careful, though, to watch and listen, to observe. I knew that someone in that room had clubbed me with possible intent to kill. But who? and why?
I watched their faces. Brexton was unexpectedly cheerful. I wondered if he’d arranged himself an alibi that afternoon while locked in his room. On the other hand, Claypooleseemed to be suffering. He had taken the death of Mildred harder than anyone. Something about him bothered me. I didn’t
“Oh, I’ll stay in the village,” said the young historian.
“Well, go in and say hello anyway. I’m sure she’ll ask you to dinner.”
Wiping sand off his trousers, the nephew disappeared into the house. Allie sighed, “I should’ve known Dick would show up. He loves disaster. I suppose it’s why he majored in history … all those awful wars and things.”
“Maybe he’ll cheer us up.”
“It’ll take more than Dick I’m afraid.”
“You’re not much older than he, are you?”
She smiled. “Now that’s what I call a nice thing to hear. Yes, I’m a good ten years older.” Which made her thirty one or two, I figured with one of those rapid mental computations which earned me the reputation of a mathematical failure in school.
Then we went in swimming, keeping close to shore.
IV
Miss Lung and I were the first to arrive for cocktails and I mixed us martinis. She was in an exotic Japanese kimono-type dress which made her look even more repellent than usual. She thought she was cute as a button though.
“Well, looks like we’re the first down. The vanguard.” I gave her a drink and agreed. I sat down opposite her though she’d done everything but pull me down beside her on the couch. I realize that, contrary to popular legend, old maids’ traditional lechery is largely an invention of the male but I can safely say that, in Miss Lung’s case, masculine irreverence was justified.
She sipped her martini; then, after spilling half of it on the rug, put it down and said, “I hope you’re recovered from your encounter with that unknown party.”
I said I was.
“I could hardly keep my mind on ‘Book-Chat.’ I was doing a piece on how strange it is that all the best penwomen with thepossible exception of Taylor Caldwell possess three names.”
I let the novelty of this pass. I was saved from any further observations by the appearance of Claypoole. He was pale and preoccupied. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in a week.
He made conversation mechanically. “The whole town’s buzzing,” he said. “I was down at the theater seeing the pictures there … some good things, too, by the way, though of course Paul would say they’re trash.”
“What’s trash? What would I call trash?” Brexton appeared in the doorway; he was even smiling, some of his old geniality returning. I wondered why. At the moment his neck was half inside a noose.
Claypoole looked at him bleakly. “I was talking about the pictures down at the John Drew Theater.”
“Oh, they’re trash all right,” said Brexton cheerfully, mixing himself a drink. “You’re absolutely right, Fletcher.”
“I liked them. I said you’d say they were.…”
“What they are. Well, here’s to art!”
“Art? I love it!” Mrs. Veering and Dick Randan came in together; the former was her usual cheery self, high as a kite. She introduced the Claypoole connection to Miss Lung and Brexton neither of whom knew him. The penwoman shifted her affections abruptly from me to the young historian. “So you’re at Harvard?” she began to purr and the youth was placed beside her on the couch. That was the end of him for that evening.
Allie was the last to join us. She sat by me. “Well, here we all are,” she said irrelevantly.
The company was hectically gay that night. We were all infected by this general mood. Everyone drank too much. I was careful, though, to watch and listen, to observe. I knew that someone in that room had clubbed me with possible intent to kill. But who? and why?
I watched their faces. Brexton was unexpectedly cheerful. I wondered if he’d arranged himself an alibi that afternoon while locked in his room. On the other hand, Claypooleseemed to be suffering. He had taken the death of Mildred harder than anyone. Something about him bothered me. I didn’t
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