Trouble With the Truth (9781476793498) (15 page)

“No, no, dear Sled-boy,” my father reasoned. “I don't believe Frank is stupid. He merely wants to win the bet, for which I can't blame him. I love to win bets. But being an intelligent young man, I know he wants to understand whatever he does, thoroughly. Frank, did you come here with any previous knowledge of Mrs. Tippet's presence, or the presence of any of her possessions in this house?”

“No,” said Frank uneasily.

“Only the Briards occupied this house, to your knowledge?”

“Yeah.”

“You meant then to gather what you could from the Briards?”

“Yeah.”

“Then certainly money belonging to Mrs. Tippet cannot be considered in this situation, as it was never understood to be considered, though that may not have been fully discussed—any more than money in the Third National Bank was discussed. It seems to me it was a fair bet. Had you found a hundred thousand dollars belonging to me or to Ben or to Lucresse, aside from her four dollars and sixty-five cents, it would have been yours to take.”

“But—” Frank began.

“He's right.” Sled-boy stood, gun in hand and facing Frank. He held out his other hand commandingly, and Frank gave him Aunt Catherine's pocketbook.

“But, Sled-boy,” Frank groaned, “I couldn't
find
her four sixty-five! I think she was lying. And if she
was
, then what kind of a fair ethics bet was it anyways?”

“Where is it, Lucresse?” Ben asked.

“In my socks' drawer,” I answered. “Rolled up in the red pair.”

“Jeez,” Frank said with disgust.

“That's typical of Lucresse,” Ben said. “It's there all right. I'll show you.”

He and Frank left the room together. Sled-boy gave a long-suffering sigh. “That guy really
is
stupid, Mr. Briard. Never can find anything. Never can imagine anything different from just exactly what you tell him to expect. This job tonight, it turned out a lot different from what I planned. If he was smart, you'd think he'd
know
that by now and knock off.”

“ ‘Gang aft a-gley,' ”
my father said.

“What?” said Sled-boy.

But Frank and Ben returned, Frank holding my sock. “It's in here, okay,” he said miserably.

“So that ends the bet,” Ben said. “You pay us four sixty-five.”

“ ‘The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
gang aft a-gley'
—‘often go astray,' ” said my father. “Robert Burns. A superior romantic poet.”

“Jeez,” Frank said again, and dropped my sock on the lamp table.

Sled-boy laughed in a confident, patronizing way and put Aunt Catherine's pocketbook next to my sock. He took a bright tan, tooled leather wallet from his back pocket and extracted a bill. “Here's a five,” he said, giving it to Ben. “Keep the change.”

“Oh, that's not necessary,” said Ben, risking hurting Sled-boy's pride in order to preserve his own.

“Ben!” said my father sharply. “You say thank you.”

“Thanks, Sled-boy.”

“That's okay. I guess it's getting late.”

My father stood up and I did the same.

“It sure was nice meeting you, Mr. Briard,” Sled-boy said. “I appreciate the talk we had.”

My father guided him toward the front door, shaking his hand. Ben and Frank followed. Sled-boy's awkwardness in the protocol of departure was no more or less than many people's, only of shorter duration. And, considering the turn of the evening's events, this spoke well indeed for his taste and control.

“Funny how things happen,” he said, waving Frank ahead of him through the door. “Who would have thought? What you said about success and all, Mr. Briard? And accident? Well, it sure was nice meeting you.” He smiled to me and Aunt Catherine across the room. “Sorry if we disturbed you.”

“Not at all,” my father assured him.

Sled-boy about-turned and was gone into the dark.

My father closed the door after him, but almost before it clicked, Aunt Catherine sprang to her feet, flat palms against the sides of her head, her neck muscles rope-like in contraction. “I was afraid you were going to say, ‘Come again!' ” she whispered hysterically.

My father reached toward her with placating arms, but before he could touch her, she whirled into the den, and a moment later we heard her frantic cry into the telephone, “Operator! The police! Send the police! The Briard house, Maple Drive! Robbers! Send the police! Hurry!”

Then she sped back into the living room, straight to the lamp table, and grabbed her pocketbook. She examined its contents with knowing hands and passionate eyes.

“I suppose there was no point in asking you not to make that call, Catherine,” my father said.

She looked up in surprise. “Walter! They were robbers!”

“But they didn't rob.”

Ben laughed incredulously. “They lost five dollars.”

“Ben, move the tapestry nearer the wall,” my father instructed. “I don't want the
gens d'armes
trampling on it.”

“Walter, they had a gun!” exclaimed Aunt Catherine.

“But they didn't shoot. No harm was done. And I'd just as soon not have any publicity about this.” He took out his handkerchief from his shirt pocket, unfolded it carefully, and balanced the Peddicord diamond at its center in the palm of his hand.

“No, Walter!” gasped Aunt Catherine. “You didn't have that on you the whole time!”

“Yes, I did.”

“Just think! They could have stolen
that!
And you say no harm was done.”

“But in fact, it wasn't.”

“It was attempted robbery, that's what it was,” she cried, “and I never
will
understand
you!
Poor Jen!”

“Whether you understand me or not, I discount any attempt at robbery they made. It may have been an
intended
robbery, but not attempted, really. And I shall not press charges to the police. Do you understand that?”

“No, I don't. For the sake of these children, if you won't press charges against men who come here with a gun, I
will
.”

My father looked suddenly tired. “Have you never had an evil thought, Catherine? Is it possible that you alone, among human animals, never entertained a malicious idea?” He let a purposeful glance fall on the pocketbook in her lap. “If every bad
intention
were to be reported to the police, they wouldn't have to investigate bad
acts
. Anyway, there is no such thing as justice against wicked intentions, and those who demand it are fools.”

Aunt Catherine worked her hands inside her pocketbook. “Walter, there just wasn't time to tell you. It was only this morning that I…” She shuffled through the bills and counted off most of them.

“Forget that, Catherine.”

“There just wasn't time. I
meant
to tell you,” she pleaded, extending the money to him.

He waved her aside. “I have no idea what you're talking about now,” he lied, concentrating on refolding his handkerchief around the jewel. “
I
was talking about the idiocy of trying to punish a man for evil intent. And how I won't do it. If it makes you feel better, one of the reasons I won't is that I don't want to invite any further visits from someone who may be more capable than Mr. Frank and Mr. Sled-boy.”

“Do you think the police will bring reporters?” Ben asked.

“And photographers?” I added.

Aunt Catherine smoothed her hair.

“Maybe,” my father said. “If the night man thinks the name Briard juicy enough.”

“Listen, Dad,” Ben said seriously. “I don't want my picture taken. Suppose, well, suppose when I'm playing Richard III or something like that, and it's a hit, you know, and the papers have this old picture of me in a story about something as silly as this? Well, I'd hate to have them dig it up
then
.”

“Don't worry, Ben,” my father said.

Aunt Catherine was smoothing the collar of her dress when the flashlights shone in the front windows.

There were four men: two in police uniform, armed; one in a gray suit, apparently unarmed—he was Detective Macci; and one young one, called Roley, lazily chewing gum. He carried a big camera with a flash attachment.

After matter-of-fact introductions, not nearly as cordial as our ones with the robbers—all of which Detective Macci seemed to be recording verbatim in a small notebook—my father expressed his regret that they had been summoned, that it was an unfortunate misunderstanding on Mrs. Tippet's part, that no crime had been committed, and that he had no charges to bring.

“But they
did
have a gun.
That's
why I called,” Aunt Catherine interjected.

We all had to sit down with Detective Macci while the two uniforms wandered off, presumably to inspect the house. Roley rested himself and his equipment on the couch.

Detective Macci monotoned questions, which my father answered, providing more details of what had happened. He stressed the facts that the young men had rung the doorbell and that he himself had admitted them, and that while he couldn't be sure of what action they had originally intended—for, after all, how can one be sure of any other person's intentions?—what actually occurred was that he and they, separately and together, had a most pacific conversation, and that the young men left in the friendliest of moods—with nothing other than what they had brought with them.

I thought of saying “less five dollars,” but I feared that would initiate a long explanation that my father would consider unnecessary. Also, I figured Detective Macci's writing hand must be getting tired. I know I sure was.

“So, you see,” my father concluded, “this
was
a mistake. And I
am
sorry.”

The two uniformed men weren't as light and swift as Frank, but they were more thorough searchers. They came back, each holding an arm of a still drugged, pajamaed, utterly confused Fred.

“Mr. Briard, Mr. Briard,” he bleated, blinking manfully.

“It's all right, officers,” my father said. “Fred is our houseman. Obviously there wasn't much excitement, or he couldn't have slept through it.”

With his new pills and compulsion for sleep, Fred could have slept through a brass band's concert, but I kept my mouth shut.

“Mr. Briard,” Fred whimpered, as the police unhanded him, “what
is
it?”

“Just a mistake, Fred,” my father responded, signaling no more questions.

“It's just a job, with us,” Detective Macci spoke in defense of the force.

“Of course,” my father said with deep understanding.

Roley, on the couch, came to life. He stretched and adjusted his camera. “Might as well get a shot for the story though, huh? How 'bout everybody in front of the fireplace?”

Ben quickly retreated to the other end of the room, and I watched my father. Fred, still befuddled and appalled, watched him too. Aunt Catherine pressed the sides of her hair again, and said, “I look awful, but if you must have a picture…”

My father deterred her on the way to the mantel. “No, Catherine. There
is
no story.”

“I was only trying to be cooperative.”

He took her arm and led her into the den, talking to her in a low voice. At the same time, Roley took my arm and guided me to the hearth. “Just look natural,” he said.

Surprised at being singled out and vaguely thrilled, I stood there as he crouched a few feet in front of me, his camera hiding his face.

A blinding flash blotted out everything, and in the coming-and-going
pink, red, and purple that succeeded it, I distinguished Fred, staring dumbly at the rolled-up tapestry and carton, and Ben, intractable against the far wall, protecting his future notoriety. And as my sight returned, there was my father, emerging from the den with Aunt Catherine. He seemed refreshed, as though a taxing job had been completed. She followed a half step behind him, mute and submissive.

The next day's local newspaper printed my picture in the lower-left corner of the second page, with the caption,
“Daughter of Walter Briard, well-known art dealer, whose home on Maple Drive was the scene of an intended robbery last night.”
My father remarked they should have said “house.”

I studied my photograph: my face had the same crazed smile preserved in our hundreds of snapshots of all my felonious birthday parties.

The tapestry didn't get unrolled and rehung until after we moved away from Palm Beach. For once, our move was almost part of a general exodus. Although we left three weeks before the official close of school—completing our grade requirements by some artful means I can no longer remember—our departure was almost in sync with several of my school chums, who had come there for the winter months and left as we did for their “real” homes in points north. We moved to a sizeable guesthouse on a large estate, twenty miles north of Chicago.

My father found entertainment to his liking there, mostly in the company of the elderly couple who owned the estate—people he had known forty years before in Europe. Ben found Toby Reiman and an amateur stock company there. And I found nothing but loneliness and discontent.

Even in late May, the wind off of Lake Michigan froze my bones. My father had dinner at the main house more often than at home. I wished Felicity was with us, but knew there wasn't a chance; freed from Mead, she had taken up residence in Mexico and was doing one “last” movie, which she had somehow managed to happily turn into a drawn-out affair. I felt I was too old to be seen anywhere with Fred, and there wasn't anyone else to accompany me to the activities available in “the loop.” Ben was always busy with little, blonde, sixteen-
year-old Toby, and she made me uncomfortable. Her energy and lack of inhibition made me feel dull and out of things. Every time she came into our house, she had to make a hurried, highly important phone call, which she accomplished in whispers. Or she needed a tissue, or a glass of water, or a safety pin—immediately. But she could sing with abandon—which she did at the slightest provocation—anywhere, and she let Ben and everyone else know that she judged him to have the greatest “talent” she had ever come across in her sophisticated, young life.