The Early Stories of Truman Capote by Truman Capote Page B

sunsets and starlight and enchanting walks by the sea.”
    For a long time their eyes exchanged a curious, searching gaze; and the mysterious understanding between them flowered into a mutual smile, which, in Mrs. Green’s case, developed to a giggle. “That’s silly,” she said. “I could never do a thing like that. I would be afraid of getting caught.”
    “From Paris I went to London,” said Mrs. Rittenhouse, withdrawing her hand and tilting her head at a severe angle; yet her disappointment could not be disguised. “A depressing place: dreadfully hot in the summer. A friend of mine introduced me to the Prime Minister. He was—”
    “Poison?”
    “—a charming person.”
    The bells tinkled as the cat stretched and bathed his paws. Shadow-like, he paraded across the room, his tail arched in the air like a feathered wand; to and fro he stroked his sides against his mistress’s stupendous leg. She lifted him, held him to her bosom, and planted a noisy kiss on his nose; “Mummy’s angel.”
    “Germs,” declared Mrs. Rittenhouse.
    The cat arranged himself languidly and fixed an impertinent stare upon Mrs. Rittenhouse. “I’ve heard of untraceable poisons, but it’s all vague and story-bookish,” said Mrs. Green.
    “Never poison. Too dangerous, too easily detected.”
    “But let us
suppose
that we were going to—to rid ourselves of someone. How would you begin?”
    Mrs. Rittenhouse closed her eyes and traced her finger round the rim of the tea-cup. Several words stuttered on her lips, but she said nothing.
    “Pistol?”
    “No. Definitely no. Firearms involve all sorts of whatnot. At any rate, I don’t believe insurance companies recognize suicide—that is what it would have to appear to be. No, accidents are best.”
    “But the Good Lord would have to take credit for that.”
    “Not necessarily.”
    Mrs. Green, plucking at a stray wisp of hair, said, “Oh, stop teasing and talking riddles: what’s the answer?”
    “I’m afraid there is no consistently true one,” said Mrs. Rittenhouse. “It depends as much upon the setting as the situation. Now, if this were a foreign country it would be simpler. The Marseille police, for instance, took very casual interest in Martin’s accident: their investigation was most unthorough.”
    A look of mild surprise illumined Mrs. Green’s face. “I see,” she said slowly. “But then, this is
not
Marseille.” And presently volunteered, “Harry swims like a fish: he won a cup at Yale.”
    “However,” continued Mrs. Rittenhouse, “it is by no means impossible. Let me tell you of a statement I read recently in the
Tribune
: ‘Each year a larger percentage of deaths are caused by people falling in their bathtub than by all other accidents combined.’ ” She paused and eyed Mrs. Green intently. “I find that quite provocative, don’t you?”
    “I’m not sure whether I follow—”
    A brittle smile toyed with the corners of Mrs. Rittenhouse’s mouth; her hands moved together, the tips of her fingers delicately meeting and forming a crisp, blue-veined steeple. “Well,” she began, “let us suppose that upon the evening the—tragedy—is scheduled, something apparently goes wrong with, say, a bathroom faucet. What does one do?”
    “What
does
one do?” echoed Mrs. Green, frowning.
    “This: call to him and ask if he would mind stepping in there a moment. You point to the faucet and then, as he bends to investigate, strike the base of his head—
right back here,
see?
—with something good and heavy. Simplicity itself.”
    But Mrs. Green’s frown persisted. “Honestly, I don’t see where that is any accident.”
    “If you’re determined to be so literal!”
    “But I don’t see—”
    “Hush,” said Mrs. Rittenhouse, “and listen. Now, this is what one would do next: undress him, fill the tub brim full, drop in a cake of soap and submerge—the corpse.” Her smile returned and curved to a wider crescent. “What is the obvious