Suspicious Circumstances (7 page)

Pam could never stay mad with me for long. With an exhausted little sigh, she said, ‘Oh, well, when you’re nineteen I suppose you’re still half an animal. You can’t help it. I don’t see why I really have to tell you, though. Isn’t it obvious? I’m sure she fell. I’m absolutely sure. But if she didn’t… Ronnie knew she would be disaster in the picture. There were six million dollars at stake. And not only that. What if there had been something wrong with his Income Tax and Norma had known it? If she really had divorced him and turned him in to the Internal Revenue … that is … I mean, how do we know someone did actually phone him and hold him up all that time in the studio?’

‘So,’ I said, ‘you think it was Ronnie.’

She shivered. ‘I don’t think. I refuse to think. But if … oh, Nickie, forget I said it. Forget everything. The Old Girl’s playing Ninon. We’re solvent again. Just look at it that way.’

We sat gazing at each other. Ronnie? Possibly. But what about Mother, who had actually been up in Norma’s room? Pam had done her best to straighten me out, but I still wasn’t very straightened. I had an awful vision of Norma lurching towards the head of the stairs and Mother creeping stealthily behind her. Overwhelming nostalgia for Paris and Monique came again.

‘You’re sure it’s okay with this Inspector Robinson?’

‘It must be. It’s four days now and we haven’t heard a word.’

‘And the press? All those telephone calls.’

‘That’s just routine. The Old Girl and Norma were such buddies. Everyone knows that. That’s all it is. We’ll be all right. We’ve got to believe that. So long as it never comes out that the Old Girl was there…’

Both of us remembered at the same time and at the same moment both of us said, ‘Delight Schmidt.’

‘Where did she come from?’ I said.

‘I don’t know. She’s an out-of-work dancer. Anny found her at MGM and developed a crush on her after she got bored with Bernice.’

‘I know. But who is she?’

‘I haven’t the foggiest notion. Did she really say she wasn’t going to tell?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then why did she tell you?’

Why had she? ‘I think, maybe, She’s trying to get chummy with me.’

Pam’s face lit up. ‘Oh, Nickie, how fortunate! Then you can handle her. Make up to her. Charm her.’

Terribly complicated thoughts were rushing through me, all of them more embarrassing than the next.

‘But, Pam…’

‘Why not? You and your red-heads. The Old Girl might have picked her especially for you.’

‘But — but, Pam, you don’t understand. It’s different now. In Paris…’

But Pam cut in very sternly, ‘Nonsense. This is a matter of life or death. You’ve simply got to keep Delight Schmidt quiet. From now on she’s your responsibility.’

At that very moment My Responsibility appeared from the house and came sashaying down the flagged path. For some reason I hadn’t noticed her body until then. To my dismay I saw it was as near perfect as made no odds.

She saw Uncle Hans first, then she saw us and smiled dazzlingly at me across the pool.

‘Anny’s back,’ she called, ‘and lunch is ready. So come and get it.’

I turned desperately to Pam. ‘Pam, please. I can’t. It isn’t ethical. It…’

‘Stuff and nonsense, dear,’ said Pam.

I dreaded going into the house because going into the house involved meeting Mother and I felt far too mixed up to face her. Part of me had the demoralizing notion that I would see the Mark of Cain scrawled across her brow; the other part had the equally demoralizing notion that she would pierce into my innermost thoughts with those terrible eagle eyes and thunder, ‘Harboring such suspicions about your mother? What have I given birth to? A monster?’

It was all right, though, for when we went in to lunch, she was exactly as I had seen her before she breezed off to Ronnie — gay, planny, noble, and flawlessly bone-structured. The funeral suit got the eagle-eye, but it passed.

‘Really, Nickie dear, how messy though — just to put it on over your other dirty clothes from the plane.’

The borrowed servants, like all the other borrowed servants, adored Mother and their adoration manifested itself in the most elaborate meals. Lunch that day was so gourmet that I thought I would choke on it — particularly when Mother announced that, since neither Ronnie nor Norma had any relatives, we were to be the family party and all go together to the church with Ronnie. To me this decision seemed to be the height of indiscretion and, to make it worse, Delight Schmidt winked at me through the hideous silver epergne which stood in the center of the table, while Mother went chattering on like that brook which babbles from haunts of coot and hern.

‘What time is it? Only two? Then we’ve still got hours and hours, but we can’t afford to waste a minute. Delight, dear, do you have your shorthand pad?’

‘Yes,’ said Delight Schmidt and unexpectedly produced a pad from under the table. She must have been sitting on it.

‘Good, good, what a thoughtful girl.’ Mother took little bird-pecks at her Poussin Marie Louise or whatever it was. ‘Now, let’s see. Where shall we begin?
Photoplay
, I think. We really ought to get into the July issue. Timing — so essential. Delight, dear, are you ready? Then take this down. Anny Rood and Norma Delanay dash A True Hollywood Friendship period paragraph I hate to think how long ago it was that lovely autumn morning in Paris when I first set eyes on little Norma Delanay period at the time comma Norma comma a lovely lissome blonde child comma … Lissome, darling. You can spell it?’

‘I can spell it,’ said Delight, ‘but it’s a cinch I can’t visualize a lissome Norma Delanay.’

‘Now, dear!’ murmured Mother reprovingly and dictated flowingly on. She had the whole article finished and had started on another one for Screen Secrets when the time came to go up and change.

I was the first down in my funeral suit. There was no one in the hall except Tray. When he saw me, he tried to stand on his head and failed, flopping over on to his back in a sort of unintentional somersault which then, his creaky brain being what it was, turned into a genuine somersault and then another and then another until he was lumbering dementedly around the hall. The one thing I wanted to see least in the world at that moment was Tray somersaulting. I yelled at him. It didn’t do any good. I was still yelling and he was still somersaulting when Uncle Hans came wandering down the stairs.

‘Ach, Nickie, training Tray, I see.’

Uncle Hans was wearing a black cutaway with a high starched collar which looked incredibly non-Southern California, as if he were about to attend the funeral of a Belgian alderman in 1902 Ostend.

‘Uncle Hans,’ I said, ‘don’t you know how to stop him?’

But Uncle Hans’ mind was obviously still on his chess problem. His board, which he’d brought in from the garden, was on a little table by one of the goldfish pools. He went over to it, neatly side-stepping Tray, and sat down. At that moment Gino came hurrying down the stairs in a dark grey suit, whistling cheerfully. Gino was much better than I with Tray, who adored him almost as much as he adored Pam and Mother. Just as I was going to plead with him to do something about the somersaults, the front door buzzer rang.

Gino slapped me on the back. ‘Hi, Nickie, kid, go and answer it. You know how Anny hates overworking the help.’

I went to the door and opened it. A tall grey-haired man with very blue eyes was standing there. He was wearing a black suit and a black tie. An undertaker? I wondered. Then he did a lot of jovial crinkling with his eyes, which wasn’t an undertaker-type expression.

‘Excuse me,’ he asked, ‘but is this where Miss Anny Rood is living?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

The merry crinkles grew to revolting proportions then. They were right out of
Daddy Long Legs
. The man felt in the pocket of his black jacket and brought out a snappy black wallet. From the wallet he produced a card and handed it to me.

I took it. I looked at it. It said:

INSPECTOR JOHN ROBINSON

DEPARTMENT OF POLICE

BEVERLY HILLS

CALIFORNIA

The appalling thing was that I dropped the card. The butterflies had started flapping in my stomach again and the card just slipped out of my hand. As I bent to pick it up, I could hear the soggy thumping of Tray still somersaulting around and around behind me.

The Inspector said, ‘I wonder if Miss Rood could spare me a moment.’

I got back into an erect position and put the card in my pocket because there’s nothing that shows up a shaky hand more than holding a small object.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘We’re going to a funeral and we’re late and Mother’s still changing and …’

‘So you’re Miss Rood’s son?’

‘Yes.’

‘And I imagine it’s Miss Delanay’s funeral you’re going to?’

‘Yes.’

‘So am I.’

Without being invited, the Inspector moved past me into the hall, looking around in an alarmingly professional manner. Tray saw him and stopped somersaulting and barked. Gino, all co-operative white-toothed grin, was coming towards us.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘What can we do for you?’

The Inspector produced another card. Gino looked at it, still grinning amiably. Gino could grin amiably at almost anything.

‘A cop, eh?’

The Inspector said, ‘Excuse me, sir, but are you a part of this household?’

‘Me?’ Gino flicked the card back to him. ‘Sure. Chauffeur, handyman, bodyguard. I’m just about everything around here, I guess. Morelli’s the name. Need some help, Inspector?’

‘Well,’ said the Inspector and paused for what seemed like eternity. Then he said, ‘Well, maybe, yes. Maybe it’d be kind of tactful to keep Miss Rood out of this for the time being. Mr Morelli, I wonder if you’d be good enough to tell me what Miss Rood was doing around ten o'clock last Thursday night.’

Hovering in the background, I counted wildly backwards in my mind. Thursday. Of course. Why had I bothered to count when I knew? The Night of the Plunge.

I should have realized that Gino could take care of things far more efficiently than I, but, in spite of myself; I heard myself blurting, ‘That was the night Norma Delanay died, wasn’t it, Inspector? I’ve just come back from Paris but Mother was telling me about it and I think she was at home that night.’

The Inspector’s back was towards me and he didn’t turn. He paid no attention to me at all. He merely went on looking at Gino, who went on looking back at him unconcernedly.

‘Thursday?’ he said. ‘Sure. The kid’s right. That night we all stayed home, ate supper and went to bed early.’

The Inspector went in for another pause. ‘I imagine there’s help in this house? I mean regular help? A couple or something?’

‘Sure,’ said Gino.

‘You wouldn’t object if I just checked up with them?’

‘Go ahead. They won’t know anything though. They were out. Thursday’s their night out.’

‘I see,’ said the Inspector. Then his eyes fell on Uncle Hans brooding over his chess-board. ‘Is that gentleman a part of the household too?’

‘That’s Mr Harben,’ said Gino. ‘Miss Rood’s uncle.’

And then, to my horror, Inspector Robinson started across the hall to Uncle Hans. Uncle Hans with a police inspector! Uncle Hans way, way off in his chess-game with his genius brain totally disconnected! I glanced desperately at Gino, who was looking rattled too. But there was nothing we could do. The Inspector was tapping Uncle Hans on the shoulder. Uncle Hans glanced up rather testily because he loathed being interrupted. Then, realizing it was a stranger, all his old-world Swiss courtesy came out and he jumped up, smiling. The smile made me pray that an earthquake would crack the imported marble floor and engulf us all, because it was his all-too-well-known sweet, elsewhere smile.

‘Mr Harben?’ said the Inspector.

‘Yes, sir, that is correct.’

‘I’m an Inspector of the Police. I’m checking up on what Miss Rood was doing last Thursday night.’

Inspector, Uncle Hans! A Police Inspector! I tried to hurl the information across the intervening space into his brain by an act of will. But the elsewhere smile was just as charmingly vague as ever.

‘Thursday night?’ he murmured. ‘How interesting you should ask this. Always I have claimed that if one had to swear to what one was doing even a few hours previously, one would be hard put to it. Yes. Very hard put to it. Thursday night.’ He put a finger to his lower lip and pushed it upward against his upper lip. ‘Today is Monday, isn’t it? Well, last night …’

He broke off then with a little delighted cry. ‘Ach, dumb-head! Why do I not think of it before? Years ago, I learned not to trust that most imperfect of faculties: the human memory. To protect myself, I always have my diary handy.’

He felt awkwardly around to the back pocket of his cutaway. As he fumbled and I died a thousand deaths, Tray came over, tugged at my trousers, whimpered and tried to stand on his head again. Finally Uncle Hans managed to pull out a crumpled little leather book. Then he had to find his glasses and put them on.

‘Thursday — Thursday.’ He started to leaf through the book. ‘Ach, here we are. Thursday night — dinner with Ronnie and Norma.’

‘With Miss Delanay?’ The Inspector’s voice swooped like a bird of prey and it was all I could do to strangle a hoarse cry.

Then, with the most apologetic of smiles, Uncle Hans said, ‘Ach, wait a minute. Excuse me, Inspector. How foolish I am. I have the wrong Thursday. That was the week before. Let me see. Ah, yes, Thursday. Morning: Worked on chapter twenty. Afternoon: chess and snooze. Evening: Servants night off. Anny made delicious fondue. Rather heavy on stomach. Played bezique with Anny. Bed eleven-thirty. Read Spinoza.’

He passed the book to the Inspector. I was quivering then, but it was partly with hope. The Inspector read. Then he returned the book to Uncle Hans.

‘Well, I guess that about settles that, doesn’t it?’

Simultaneously Gino and I ran over to them and, to my joy, I saw that the Inspector’s
Daddy Long Legs
smile was going full blast again. He turned it on us too. ‘To tell you frankly, gentlemen, we weren’t worrying too much about this. But I had to check up, of course. You always do with anonymous letters.’