Voyage into Violence (25 page)

“Mrs. Ferris says: ‘They say I talk in my sleep, sometimes. It must have been that way.' Hilda says, ‘I've no idea what you're talking about, captain.' Anyway, she found out. She told her husband.”

“Who,” Pam said, “had come along for the ride?”

“And to be handy,” Bill said. “Yes, apparently. He says, ‘Why shouldn't I, copper?' He's a little cruder than his wife. He says, ‘Show me the law against it, copper.' I can't, of course.”

The Barrons decided they were really on to something. They decided that what they were on to was Mrs. Ferris's jewelry, to be handed over, but ostensibly sold in her behalf, in exchange for silence. Mrs. Ferris said that. (“The poor old thing,” Hilda said, and said with confidence. “She really
ought
to be locked up.”)

Confronted by this, Mrs. Ferris decided on the logical move—to kill Hilda. “Actually,” Bill said, “she didn't know about Barron. Didn't know then there were two of them.” She had tried to kill once, and pushed Dorian into what she thought was an empty pool. She'd forgotten the net, if she'd ever noticed it. She had tried again on the tower—had dropped some hints about suicide if pressed too far; had been careful to make sure that Hilda saw her go into the tower; had known that Hilda would have to follow her.”

“Why?” Jerry said, and was looked at. Pam was gentle in explanation.

“Because,” Pam said, “they couldn't sell Mrs. Ferris's jewelry if Mrs. Ferris was dead. If she was dead, it couldn't show up missing.”

“They hadn't sold it?” Dorian said. “At one of the places on the street Pam followed her through?”

“No,” Bill said. “Because Pam was following. Because they couldn't be sure how much she'd seen. Because honest people don't sell to fences, and they had to keep on seeming honest.”

“Then,” Pam said, “I did do something?”

“Right,” Bill said, and seemed to have finished. He looked at his empty glass, at other empty glasses. He looked at the bar steward, who beamed and went off briskly.

“Cholly's slugging?” Pam said. “And my—being pushed around?”

“Barron,” Bill said. “He denies it. I can't prove it. As a matter of fact, I can't prove anything on either Barron—not with Mrs. Ferris the only witness against them. But, Barron. Trying to find Marsh's effects, and go through them. Find out whether there was anything in them that would tie the murder to Mrs. Ferris—and to make off with whatever there was. Because, of course, Mrs. Ferris was no good to them—they lost their hold—if we could pin the murder on her without their help.”

There was a long pause. Drinks came. Pam broke it.

“Our first time official, or almost,” Pam said. “And all we
really
did, that I can see, was to buy an alligator bag I didn't want and—
oh, for heaven's sake!
” They waited; Jerry waited with some trepidation. “I just realized,” Pam said. “I left it at that night club. What with all the excitement, and everything, and not really being used to it. I always leave things I'm not used to.”

There was a long pause.

“Of course,” Pam said. “There'll probably be nicer things in Nassau. And cheaper, really. There's something about the duties.” She looked at Jerry. “Isn't there?” she said.

Jerry started to speak, and ran a hand through his hair. He decided that he had, after all, nothing relevant to say.

Turn the page to continue reading from the Mr. and Mrs. North Mysteries

I

The sweep hand of the electric wall clock trotted downstairs to “30” and began to trot up again. An assistant director held his right hand beyond his right ear, the index finger pointed stiffly upward. Amanda Towne looked at the tiny watch on her wrist with an expression of aggrieved surprise and shook her head at it, a lady betrayed by time. She turned—but not too far, with chin up—to the Grandmother of the Year, who sat beside her on the sofa, and shared with her, for two seconds by the count, the realization that the best of things must end.

The assistant director brought his finger down, as if it were a pistol and he a duelist. Amanda Towne turned to face front again, the camera shifted slightly, eliminating the Grandmother of the Year from further consideration.

“Isn't she just lovely?” Amanda Towne enquired, with a lilt—and just a touch of Arkansas—in her voice. “I know all of you out there wish she could just go on and on—and
on
. But—” She did not finish that; she moved graceful hands a little in resignation. She leaned forward slightly; her eyes were bright and her even teeth were brighter still on television screens from coast to coast. “Take care of yourselves, dear people,” she said. “
Do
take care of yourselves. And now Jimmy has a word for you about our next guests and—” Again she did not finish, not in words. Her smile, for two seconds, lingered like a benediction.

Her face, and the smile with it, vanished from the monitor. It was replaced by the fatherly face of James Fergus, who said, “Thank
you
, Amanda Towne. And now, before I tell you about Friday's People Next Door, a word about Fluff, the deep penetrating—”

The camera was off Amanda Towne, the microphone which had dangled above her head—and the head of the Grandmother of the Year—climbed up its cable. “I—” the Grandmother of the Year began, and Amanda put a finger to her lips, “—until Friday at the same time,” the monitor said, in a soft deep voice, “when once more we will get together with the People Next Door in this great land of ours, goodbye and good luck from Amanda Towne and all of us. This is James Fergus speaking.”

Amanda Towne took the finger from her lips; the smile came away with it.

“You were fine, Mrs. Burney,” she said. “Just fine.”

“I thought—” the Grandmother of the Year said.

“Just fine,” Miss Amanda Towne said firmly. “I'm sure they all loved you.” She stood up. “My God, Jimmy,” she said. “Do you have to make it sound so damn much like a funeral? Can't you get just a little—” She did not finish this, either. She shrugged. “I suppose not,” she said. “I suppose you just can't, can you?”

She turned away from James Fergus, who flushed a little, flushed slowly, and whose round face sagged a little.

“I—” the Grandmother of the Year said, “just want to—”

“You were fine,” Amanda told her, and for an instant a smile came back—a trickle of a smile. “We all so much appreciated—oh, there you are.”

She spoke over Mrs. Burney, whose sixteen grandchildren were doing so well, in so many places. She spoke to a short, heavy woman with sharp black eyes, with hair blacker than her eyes.

“Well?” Amanda Towne said.

The black-haired woman nodded briefly. She made, with thumb and middle finger of her right hand, an approving circle. She advanced on Mrs. Burney, who was slight and gray. She said, “Wonderful, my dear. Let me help you find your things,” and seemed to engulf the Grandmother of the Year as she led her off.

“Whew!” Amanda Towne said and looked around the studio, now with no smile at all. She said, “Tony! Tony Gray!”

“Yes
ma'am
,” Tony Gray said, and appeared from behind a camera. He was wiry; he had red hair. He wore an expression of somewhat intense innocence.

“Well?” Amanda said, without sympathy. He started to speak, but was not permitted. “Don't try it,” Amanda told him. “You talked to her. Well?”

“All right,” Tony Gray said. “She froze a little, maybe.”

“‘Yes, Miss Towne,'” Amanda said. “‘No, Miss Towne.' ‘I guess that's right, Miss Towne.' ‘I really couldn't say about that, Miss Towne.'”

“Now Mandy,” Tony Gray said. “She froze. Every now and then it's bound to happen. Some of 'em do. Some don't. Chipper's a sparrow when I talked to her.”

“She should have been a sparrow,” Amanda Towne told him. “I'd rather interview a sparrow. With a flock of sparrow grandchildren.”

“It wasn't that bad,” Gray said. “She's a sweet old thing. That came over. Relax, Mandy. Some of 'em will always freeze. Even on People Next Door. I—”

“All tucked away in a cab,” the black-haired woman said, from half across the studio. “Now don't get all worked up, Mandy.”

“You heard it,” Amanda Towne said. “Watched me prying words out with a crowbar. Smiling until my damned teeth ached. And Tony says some of them will always freeze. And you say don't get worked up. And—”

“There,” Alice Fleming said. “There ducky.”

She and Tony Gray looked at each other, briefly.

“Humor her,” Amanda Towne said. “Smooth her down. Butter her up.”

“Mandy,” Alice Fleming said, “so maybe the last ten minutes was a little sticky. The rest was like silk. You tell her, Tony.”

“Like silk,” Tony Gray said. “In the groove, precisely.” He grinned at Amanda. “Trouble is,” he said, “you want to turn up an Honorable Parkman every day. Editorial in the
Times
today.”

“With credit?”

“Well,” Tony said, “‘a popular afternoon TV program.' And, ‘a leading woman interviewer.' This was the
Times
, Mandy. We can't have everything.”

Amanda Towne laughed, briefly, but her brief laugh tinkled. Alice Fleming sighed, with the beginning of relaxation. Mandy was coming out of it; Mandy always came out of it, just as she always went into it. Well, if she didn't get keyed up, she wouldn't be Mandy—wouldn't be Amanda Towne, coast to coast and two stations in Canada; Amanda Towne, with more sponsors than you could shake a stick at (if sticks were ever shaken at sponsors) or work into an hour's show; Amanda Towne with a waiting list of ready-mixes, and things that cured and other things which penetrated deeply.

“He called me up,” Amanda said. “Said, wasn't there anything I could do? I said, such as what Mr. Parkman? Innocent-like.”

Arkansas returned, a little, to her voice, as it did when she was coming out of it, and remembering she was Amanda Towne, coast to coast, with a waiting list, neighbor to all next doors and folksy as they came.

“He seemed,” Amanda Towne said, “to think I'd led him on. Imagine that.”

They imagined it. Alice Fleming, business manager of Amanda Towne imagined it; Tony Gray, pre-broadcast interviewer for Amanda Towne, legman for Amanda Towne, imagined it. The three of them laughed happily.

“What a notion!” Tony said. “As if you'd do a thing like that!”

“That,” Amanda said, “is what I told him. Innocent little me.”

This was even funnier; they laughed contentedly at this.

“All the same,” Tony Gray said, “he's out of business.”

Amanda looked reflectively at a sign which said, “Positively No Smoking,” and lighted a cigarette. She dragged at it deeply. Mrs. Alice Fleming sighed again, in further relief. Amanda was continuing to unwind.

“To be perfectly honest,” Amanda said, and at that Tony Gray did not quite raise his reddish eyebrows, “I was innocent, in a mild way. I wanted to let a little stuffing out, but—” She moved her shoulders slightly under the beautifully fitting jacket of her suit. “And after all, all he said was—”

“The connotation, ducky,” Mrs. Fleming said. “You and he together against a vulgar world. And don't tell me you didn't give him that idea. Don't tell
me!
”

“The little finger,” Tony said, quickly, and was smiled at for his trouble. “The famous little finger of Amanda Towne, celebrated—”

“All right,” Amanda said. “You've done your bits. Both of you. But just the same, Tony, one more—”

She did not finish that, or need to. Tony waited briefly, although he did not expect her to finish—or want her to finish.

“About the other thing?” he said. “The one you clam up about?”

“We'll see,” Amanda said. “That is, I'll see.”

She nodded, agreeing with herself.

“And,” she said, “no innocence this time. Well?”

“Yes, ducky,” Mrs. Alice Fleming said. “You want to sit in with Bart and me?”

And wished she hadn't, because Amanda Towne's blue eyes narrowed a little, and iced a little.

“That,” she said, “is something you ought to be able to handle, darling.” She paused. “That—anyway,” she said. “Considering—” She paused longer. “Everything,” she said, and put a fur stole around her shoulders. And went.

Tony Gray and Alice Fleming watched her go.

“Chip on her shoulder today,” Tony said. “Nice mink chip.” He lighted a cigarette of his own. “Of course,” he said, “it takes all kinds to make a meal-ticket, I always say.”

“I wouldn't,” Alice Fleming told him, “always say it out loud, sonny.”

“
Do
take care of yourselves,” the clear and friendly voice pleaded from the television set and Pamela North, thus admonished, took the most immediate step, which seemed to be to turn a knob. As the knob turned the whitest of smiles diminished until it was only the brightness of perfect teeth. Like the Cheshire Cat, Pam North thought, and then there was only a white dot in the center of the screen—a dot so hotly white that one would have thought it could burn through glass. It never had, Pam told herself, and thought, So that's Amanda Towne, and all you have to do, really, to have grandchildren is to make a start and wait to see what happens, although that doesn't, certainly, ensure that one grandchild will be a judge and another president of a college. (Even a small college.) The poor thing was scared stiff, Pam North thought, and I hope Mr. Prentori isn't going to be late.