Death Takes a Bow (25 page)

That covered the ground, Weigand decided. It also opened the view. It gave Burden the simplest and most obvious of motives, assuming he wanted $50,000 badly enough; assuming he needed $50,000. Weigand looked at the other report and sighed. There was no evidence that Burden did need $50,000.

But the evidence that he did not need $50,000 was, when you came down to it, hearsay evidence. Everybody thought that the Y. Charles Burden Lecture Bureau was in fine shape, hitting vigorously on a multitude of cylinders. But that was merely what everybody thought; they might be thinking what they were supposed to think. The Y. Charles Burden Bureau might be going fast on the rocks. And the Sproul tour, which promised to pay off, might be running into trouble.

After all, Weigand thought, Paris in the old days was getting a little old days itself. And Mr. Sproul was not, after all, quite an Elliot Paul. Perhaps since the tour was planned, and contracts for appearances signed, clubwomen had found a new interest in newer and more immediate things. Perhaps they were all listening to returned war correspondents, and being urged to shake off a lethargy which they, and not the correspondents, were assumed to feel. In that case, they might be canceling Mr. Sproul—assuming that they could, legally. That would have to be looked into.

By assuming enough, it appeared, you could assume a motive for Mr. Burden; a motive with a dollar sign in front of it, which was after all the most conventional juxtaposition. Weigand found himself brightening somewhat. He filed this new information in his mind and continued. He read that Herbert Akron had knocked down a man at a party because the man was, in the opinion of Herbert Akron, paying insulting attention to Jean Akron; he read that Jean was generally reported to have been much in Sproul's company some months earlier, but less in recent weeks, and that people had wondered what was between them; he learned that, four nights before he died, Loretta Shaw had suddenly slapped Sproul's face when they were dining together at a rather prominent table in a rather prominent restaurant, and then had burst into tears and gone out of the place almost at a run.

“Well, well,” Weigand said. “Well, well, well!”

The telephone bell rang and Weigand said, “Yes?” into the transmitter. He said, “Who?” and jotted down a name. “Emmanuel Burkholdt.” He said, “Yes?” again, listened, said “Thanks, Mr. Burkholdt” and cradled the telephone. He turned back to Sproul's dossier and made a notation:

“Sproul's lawyer, Em. Burkholdt, reports Sproul recently inquiring about steps to be taken to get divorce. Indicated would go on with later.”

That would remind Weigand, when he looked at it again, that Mr. Burkholdt, anxious to help the police as a sworn officer of the court, and noting that nothing had been said about Sproul's having been married, had thought the police might be interested in knowing that Sproul was talking about getting a divorce. Sproul had inquired how long it was likely to take, what specific evidence was necessary in New York State and whether Burkholdt would want to handle the action for him, if he decided to bring it. Burkholdt had said he would want to. Sproul had said he would let him know in a few days. But instead of letting his lawyer know, Mr. Sproul had died of an overdose of morphine.

13

Saturday, 12:50
P
.
M
. to 2:10
P
.
M
.

Mrs. North had ordered Spanish lobster for lunch because she liked it and it agreed with her perfectly, and Jerry liked it and would be home. But it showed, she thought, how really very little I know about children, because probably it isn't good for them. Mrs. North sighed and thought how odd it was that so many things were not good for children, but were presumably all right for grownups, who were simply, when you came to think of it, children who had begun to wear out. After the children got to be a certain age, of course; not very young children, who were obviously intermediate.

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. North said, looking at Beth's plate. “You mustn't forget it is very rich.”

“Oh,” said Beth. “I like things rich. This isn't very rich, Aunt Pam. And we never have it at home.”

This did not do a great deal to assuage Mrs. North's doubts. Probably there was reason for that.

“We don't want you getting sick while you're here,” Mrs. North said, thinking as she said it that it was something rather special in the way of understatements. If they get sick, I'll die, Mrs. North thought.

“If you don't think things will, they won't,” Margie said, rather suddenly. Mrs. North, to whom the remark sounded curiously familiar, looked at her with doubt. Mr. North looked at Mrs. North, who shook her head slightly, and smiled.

“Experience, darling,” he told her. “You don't live with yourself, so naturally it's beyond you. She means that if you don't think things are going to make you ill, they won't make you ill. Very succinct she was too, I thought. Weren't you, Margie?”

“Succinct?” Margie repeated.

Mr. North looked as if he wished he had not brought it up. He also looked puzzled.

“Oh, direct,” he said. “To the point. Condensed.”

“Was I?” Margie said. “Anyway, I don't know if it's true, but Miss Norton said so. In physiology. At school. Anyway, she said it was a little true. I think I'll have just a little more lobster, Aunt Pam.”

Pam gave her a little more lobster.

“Do you go to a nice school?” she said. It seemed somehow the proper thing to ask.

“Oh, we go to high school this year,” Beth said. “Because of Daddy being in the army, except this week. But we brought our books.”

“Did you, dear?” Pam said, looking a little helplessly at Jerry. “To study, you mean?”

“Oh, yes,” Beth said.

“But you haven't studied,” Pam pointed out.

“No,” Beth said. “Not yet. We'll study on the train going home. When there isn't a murder.”

“Oh, yes,” Margie said. “How is the murder? You know, New York is so big, and exciting, that I keep forgetting the murder.”

“That's a very good plan,” Jerry said. “I wouldn't think about it if I were you, Margie. Or if I were you, Beth. It's—well, you can leave murders until later in life.”

“Jerry!” Pam said. “That certainly sounded funny.” She looked at him. “Sometimes, dear,” she said, “I don't think you're as clear as you used to be. In saying things. You don't think, sometimes. I—”

“I'm sorry,” Jerry said. “It must be carelessness.” He looked at her. “Or something,” he added. “I meant they could leave interest in murders until later in life. Murders are for the mature.”

“Oh,” Beth said. “We both like murders. We always read about them in the papers. Out home a man killed his wife and another man with an axe and it was very interesting. That's one thing about going to high school.”

Both Mr. and Mrs. North looked blank, this time.

“Because we live at home,” Margie explained. “Sometimes Beth isn't very clear. In boarding school, we didn't have the papers. We just had current events.” Her expression became reminiscent. “It wasn't the same,” she said. “And only selected things on the radio, like forums and symphonies.”

“Except the little one like a camera Vee-dee had,” Beth said. “The one Miss Ryder thought
was
a camera. We used to get Cugat.” They also remembered. “Very small, of course,” she said. “As if they were whispering. Particularly when Vee-dee kept it under her pillow so Miss Frantz wouldn't find it.”

The conversation seemed a little private to Pam, but she remembered that she was hostess and should show an interest. If possible.

“Vee-dee,” Pam said. “That's an odd name. Was she one of the girls?”

“Oh, yes,” Beth said. “Vee-dee Thompson. Or
was
it Thompson?”

“I don't think so,” Margie said. “But it was something like Thompson.”

“Thomas?” Mrs. North suggested.

Both girls shook their heads.

“Tompkins?” Mr. North offered.

“No,” Beth said. “More like Thompson than either. Campbell, maybe.”

Mrs. North looked puzzled a moment and then her face cleared.

“Oh,” she said. “Like Thompson
that
way. Not sounding like Thompson, but being like Thompson. I thought you meant
sounding
like Thompson.”

“Really,” Mr. North said. “Really.” He looked at all of them. Evidently, he decided, it ran in families.

“Of course,” Beth said. “Like Thompson that way. Like Franklin or Turner or Williams or one of those names. Or Jones.”

“Not Jones,” Pam North said. She said it over. “Jones.” She shook her head.

“Jones isn't one of them,” she said. “I'll give you Turner and Williams.” She stopped suddenly. “Williams?” she said.

“It was Williams, Beth,” Margie said. “I remember, now. And she had a daffy sister.”

“Listen,” Mrs. North said. “Was Vee-dee really her name? Vee-dee Williams?”

“Everybody called her Vee-dee,” Margie said. “It must have been. Although it does sound like a nickname.”

“Oh, I think her name was just Vee,” Beth said. “Somebody added the rest. It was just Vee to start with.”

“Nobody's named just Vee,” Margie objected.

Beth said oh, she didn't see why. “You can be named anything,” Beth added. “Maybe her parents were crazy too. And it's better than—than—”

“Lizzie,” Margie said. She listened to it. “I don't see what's wrong with it,” she said. “I'd just as soon be Lizzie. Beth sounds like
Little Women
or something.”

“Oh, it does not,” Beth said. “It's ever so much better than Lizzie.” She looked at Margie without affection. “It's better than Margie, when you think of it,” she said. “Much better.”

“Girls,” Mrs. North said, with admonition. But her curiosity overcame her. “You mean one of the girls at the school—this Vee-dee's sister, was really—daffy?”

“Not at the school,” Margie said. “She wasn't at the school. She was at another school. For backward children, I guess. But Vee-dee talked about her. She always said, ‘My sister's daffy.'”

“Oh, always,” Beth said. “She didn't mind at all. I mean, Vee-dee didn't. I expect the daffy one did, really. Except maybe she didn't know.”

“Look,” Mr. North said, “could we please talk about something else. Maybe about somebody we all know?”

“Well,” Mrs. North said, “of course you got the coincidence. Williams. And Williams.
Mrs
. Williams.”

“Yes,” Mr. North said. “Coincidence with a very short arm, dear. Like finding two people named Smith.”

There was that, Mrs. North had to admit. She agreed that it wasn't a big coincidence. Then said, “Ouch! Toughy! My stocking!”

“He wants lobster,” Jerry told her. “Naturally.”

“Well,” Mrs. North said, “he can't—
Toughy
!”

The gray cat was in her lap. A gray paw licked out and circled a morsel of lobster and seemed to toss it into an open red mouth. And Toughy poured himself off Mrs. North's lap with a movement like milk pouring. Toughy crouched over his morsel of lobster, looked up at Mrs. North with a yellow eye, swallowed the lobster and gulped. He seemed surprised and sat for a moment, evidently considering the downward passage of the lobster. Then he looked pleased, saw Ruffy approaching, crouched and swished his tail, and leaped half across the room, landing where Ruffy's head had just been. Ruffy's head had removed itself. Ruffy looked bored and began to wash herself. Toughy sat down and looked at her, got the idea with a start, and began to wash himself.

“I wonder,” Mrs. North said, “if that Scat stuff would keep them off me?”

Mr. North nodded. He said he should think so. He said he imagined she wouldn't be troubled by the cats if she put the Scat stuff on her.

“Or by anything else,” he added.

“Jerry!” Mrs. North said. The doorbell rang and, clicked past the barrier, Bill Weigand came in. He said, when asked, that he had had lunch. He looked at the almost empty plate which had held Spanish lobster.

“Which is apparently just as well,” he added. “Is that that lobster stuff?”

“Yes,” Pam said. “I didn't for a long time and then I thought, what difference did it make? So now I do. After all, that was a long time ago, and it wasn't just the lobster. You'd have got him anyway, in the long run.”

“Probably,” Weigand admitted. “Anyway, as you say, it's over. Whereas this one—” Weigand sighed. “These two, now,” he told them.

“Bill
!” Pam said. “That's dreadful. I wish people wouldn't.”

“Right,” Bill Weigand said. “Job or no job. I wish they wouldn't. But they do. This one was with a pillow.”

He told them about Mr. Demming; pressed, he ran quickly over what he had learned since he saw them. It amounted, he said, to nothing that came clear. Where people used to live, who had insured whom, which two were about to marry and which were jealous of others—somewhere in all this there might be a solution. But, bluntly, he didn't see it.

“Usually,” Pam said, “you have a point when you can make a guess. Or get a hunch, or whatever it is. Haven't you yet?”

“No hunch,” Bill told her. “No major hunch, anyway. Some little, intermediate hunches, hardly worth the mind they're thought on. It doesn't jell.”

He looked at the Norths and they looked at him. He shrugged.

“Well,” he said, “probably it's all there somewhere. Waiting to come out in the wash. There's one point, Jerry—”

There was one point on which Jerry North might help him, and for that help he had stopped by on his way to an interview. “With the Akron girl,” he said. The matter of life insurance, written in favor of Burden, on Sproul. As a man who knew something of such matters—was Burden's agency in bad straits financially? Was it probable that interest in what Sproul might have had to say was subsiding to a point which would leave the tour unprofitable?