Wild thyme and violets a.., p.32
Wild Thyme and Violets and Other Unpublished Works, page 32
Maile grins his saturnine grin. “She’s a swinging chick.”
Eleanor says coolly, “You know how I dislike that beatnik jargon, Maile.”
“What for? It’s just words.”
“Yes, but your choice of language places you unmistakably in one or another social class.”
“It’s not ‘beatnik jargon’ anyway.”
BK says, “The misfits are always with us, no matter what they’re called. People with a distorted sense of values.”
“They live though,” retorts Maile. “They’re alive. Not a bunch of phonies and cooky-pushers.”
“Are you suggesting that your mother and I, and Nancy and Barbara, are ‘phonies’ as you put it?”
Maile refuses to make a strategic retreat. “You’re all sitting in the middle-class trap, looking out, like young birds in a nest.”
“Well, I like that!” snorts BK.
Eleanor smiles a spiteful smile. Barbara stares at Maile with dispassionate curiosity. “It’s a matter of viewpoint,” she says.
Nancy says sharply, “Maile, when you talk like this, I think you’re simply awful. You sound like a — a Bolshevik.”
Amy says softly, “Maile thinks anything that isn’t weird is square.”
“I just don’t give a damn,” says Maile sibilantly.
“That attitude won’t get you anywhere,” says Eleanor. “I hope this is just a phase you’re going through — because sooner or later you’ll have to fit yourself into society. All of us have to compromise.”
“Don’t I know?” says Maile bitterly.
BK peers through his tortoise-shell Sunday-morning spectacles. His bluff manner only barely conceals a basic rancor. “You just don’t appreciate how lucky you are. In India or China you’d be out in the fields on your hands and knees, or carrying dirt in a basket.”
“We’re all pretty lucky around here,” retorts Maile.
BK bites his lip, refuses to answer the insolence.
“Maile!” says Eleanor sharply. “Please mind your manners!”
“My manners are all right.”
Craig comes in, gives everyone a breezy salute, sits down. “What’s everyone looking so glum about? The stock-market take a dive?”
Nancy says, “We’re having a meeting of the Mowbray Court Sunday Morning Debating Society.”
“Well, well, cut me in. I love a good argument. What’s it about?”
“Middle-class mores,” says Barbara.
“The mores and forays of the middle-class!” Craig declaims. “I wrote a theme with that title once, for some English class. Got a B on it too, which makes me an authority.”
Maile sneers sidelong at him. “How can a fish know anything about water?”
Everyone blinks at this mordant cut. Craig laughs uneasily. “Come now, old man, relax. The Democrats can’t win every election.”
Another young man arrives, group goes out to tennis court. BK and Eleanor go out to watch. Craig looks up, waves his hand toward house, to where Amy’s pale face shows, rather blurred, behind window of her room.
Craig is jovial, now that he’s got a lead on how to acquire Cazzaro’s property. BK is quietly watchful. He has no definite plans, but he’ll make the most of the circumstances, if somehow he can operate anonymously.
Eleanor is marmoreal. BK asks, “Ah, incidentally, what’s wrong with Amy?”
“She’s pregnant.”
“Pregnant! Good Lord! How? Who?”
“She seems confused. She’s two months along. It seems to have happened the night of Craig’s party.”
BK red in the face. He calls Craig over, breaks the news. Craig gets red in face too. He says, “Nothing like that happened at my party. She got gassed, yes.”
“How did she get home?” asks Eleanor silkily.
“I telephoned Boko. He picked her up, took her home. She was plastered when she left, but she wasn’t pregnant.” He looks at BK. “I don’t know what happened to her after she left my house.”
BK furious. “Look here, are you implying that I’m responsible?”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Look here, you swine —”
“Don’t call me a swine or I’ll push your bloody face in.”
BK laughs jeeringly. “I took the girl home. Whatever happened to her happened before I saw her. Either by you or one of your buddies.”
“Don’t go making accusations you can’t back up!”
“The same goes for you!”
A terrible scream from the house. Clara the maid comes running out. Amy has hanged herself in her bedroom, with a pair of silk stockings.
Eleanor stands quite still, then turns slowly toward BK, slaps him across the face as hard as she can.
Ambulances, doctors, police.
In the evening Eleanor, in a metallic voice, says to BK, “Bernard, I think you’d better leave.”
BK nods heavily. “Sure I’ll leave. You two will be glad to have me out of here.”
“What do you mean?” asks Eleanor glacially.
“It makes no difference. In so far as Amy is concerned, I had nothing to do with her, and if necessary I can prove it.”
“How?”
“I was in the company of someone else.”
“Indeed. Committing adultery, naturally.”
Grins. “It’s less of a rap than the same thing with Amy.”
“You’re an utterly nauseating man.”
BK turns on his heel, departs.
Barbara appears. Apparently she’s overheard conversation, and is uncomfortable. She tells Eleanor she thinks it would be easier if she left too.
Eleanor says, “Just as you like.”
Barbara telephones Marsh. He takes her to Claremont Hotel in Berkeley hills. She is melancholy, depressed, unsure. She leans against Marsh’s shoulder, starts to cry.
Marsh has a sense of events piling up, one on the other. A pressure … He returns to his apartment, turns on his tape recorder, listens with feeling of queasiness and distaste. Now that he has achieved his primary aim, i.e.: identification of Craig Maitland, listening to the phone calls, while fascinating in a morbid sort of way, now seems merely eavesdropping. He resolves to dismantle apparatus on the morrow.
He listens to various conversations bearing on Amy’s suicide, condolences, etc.
Craig talks briefly to Eleanor. They speculate regarding parent. Craig says, “I know that suspicion is bound to fall on any red-blooded man in the neighborhood — and I absolutely deny complicity. That night I didn’t leave the house. Boko came for Amy, and she was sound as a drum when she left.”
Eleanor talks to one of her friends, who commiserates with no great conviction. Eleanor is business-like. “Naturally, it’s a disgraceful business. Still, we’ve been lucky. The police have cooperated beautifully, and we’ve kept it out of the papers.”
“That’s a relief!”
“Nancy is utterly broken, of course. Barbara is planning to take an apartment somewhere.”
“What about Maile?”
“Oh — he’s just brooding.”
Eleanor calls a lawyer, makes an appointment.
Felice calls Maile. She talks in a subdued voice. “It gives me the shivers. Why did she have to be so — so embarrassed?”
Maile laughs sourly. “They think ol’ Boko pulled the trigger.”
“And did he?”
“Damfino. All I know for sure it wasn’t me.”
Felice makes a cynical sound between her teeth. “Were you there when your step-father brought her in?”
“Yep. Sitting in the living-room. It was dark and he didn’t see us.”
“‘Us’?”
“Me and Lundy, drinking gin.”
“Did you — see anything?”
“No.”
Chapter XI
In the morning Craig calls Eleanor. He’s stuttering with fury, over the letter from Marsh. “The son of a bitch — somehow he got word of the deal!”
Eleanor says in fatigue, “Craig, please don’t bother me with this anymore.”
“But you’re my partner!”
“I’ve got thirty thousand in this scheme. Regard it as a loan to you. I simply don’t want to bother with this affair.”
“But we —”
“Not we, Craig. You. I’m not putting any more money into it.”
“I can’t swing it! Not unless I sell everything I own — even the oil shares.”
“Please Craig, don’t bother me with the affair.” She considers and says in a slightly altered voice: “However I will buy your oil shares, if you decide to sell.”
Craig mutters, “I’ll kill the son of a bitch — except I can’t. Not until I get that property.”
“Surely he’s joking.”
“He’s not joking.”
“Just who is this man?”
“I’m going to find out.” Craig gives a lame and incomplete version of his relationship with Marsh. “So you see, he hates my guts … I still can’t imagine how he learned of Project X. Only you and I knew anything about it.”
“I certainly didn’t tell him,” says Eleanor stiffly.
“I know you didn’t. I didn’t either.”
“Then how did he find out?”
“I don’t know … Unless —”
“Bernard.”
“That’s what I’ve been thinking. Boko. Good old Boko. Where is he staying?”
“At his mother’s house.”
Craig drives out to Boko’s mother’s house, an ancient Victorian castle in a decaying neighborhood. He finds Boko. They quarrel. Craig accuses him of conniving with his enemy.
BK denies all. “— not that it’s not a good idea!”
Something occurs — a slip of BK’s tongue, or possibly Craig sees a can of red paint — which turns on a light. BK also responsible for sabotaging his car. Craig speechless in the sudden revelation of so much malignance. Then he says in a choked voice, “You think you’re the only guy that can play rough? I’ll show you something, you God damn skunk! I’ve got you where the hair is short, only you don’t know it.”
“How so?” asks BK mildly.
“Never mind, how so,” raves Craig. “I’ll do my best to put you in San Quentin. I’m talking about Amy, in case you don’t know.”
BK laughs. “Go right ahead, my boy. I wish you luck.”
Craig leaves. Boko thinks. He checks telephone number CL 4-2658 — which belongs to man with whom Craig has accused him of being in cahoots. He telephones. No answer. He sits drumming his fingers; now a call comes in which his mother answers. “A lady, for you, Bernard.”
BK answers, with his mother standing nearby; his responses are terse. “Yes … Of course … I’ll give you a call shortly.”
He hangs up, looks in phone book for the Marsh associated with CL 4-2658, observes the address to be 280 Henry Street.
He finds that Apartment 3, formerly occupied by Marsh is vacant, and for rent. Apartment 2, however, is rented to William Stillwater! — Marsh’s off the cuff and too hasty choice of pseudonym.
BK gets in touch with Mr. Cody, rents Apartment 3. Then he calls Barbara at the Claremont. Breezy.
“Hello, young lady. How are you?”
“Very well, thank you.”
BK tries to jolly her. “Come now. Just because of, well, circumstances, there’s no reason for us to be unfriendly.”
“‘Circumstances’ certainly do exist.” — drily.
“You mean — Amy?”
“More or less.”
“Why not give me the benefit of the doubt?”
“I’ll try to hold an open mind.”
“How about having lunch with me?”
“No thanks. I’m with Nancy, as a matter of fact.”
“Oh. I see. Well, actually I want some information. This Bill Stillwater — where did you meet him?”
“The first I can remember is at the airport.”
“You never met him before?”
“I don’t remember. Isn’t he a friend of Eleanor’s?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think Eleanor remembers either.”
A murmur of conversation. “Nancy wants to know where you’ve moved to?”
Reluctantly BK says, “280 Henry Street, Apartment 3.”
Barbara relays the information.
“About Stillwater,” says BK, “I’m puzzled. Has he ever mentioned a man named Marsh?”
“No.”
“Very odd. Very odd indeed. Stillwater has Apartment 2 right across the hall.”
“Quite a coincidence.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” BK hangs up. He gets in his car, drives to Peralta, finds Cazzaro, learns details of transaction. Cazzaro mentions that Craig has already seen him. Cazzaro is increasingly bitter; he figures he’s been tricked, given a raw deal. “I’m goin’ to see this fella; I’m goin’ to tell him I want what’s comin’ to me.”
“Well,” says BK, “maybe I can tell you where to locate him.”
“That other guy, Mr. Maitland, he told me. I know where to find him.”
BK Binkins drives back to Oakland. He goes to his new apartment, makes a phone call, “Iola, my little sugar lump. I’m loose as a goose. Wicked old stepmother kicked me out … I’ll pick you up in an hour … Sure, why not? … Nope. I’m my own man now. Free, white, twenty-one …”
In the morning, Cody, the apartment house manager brings new bed linen to Apartment 3. (BK has rented the apartment completely furnished, and certain of the appurtenances are lacking.) He knocks, opens door with his pass-key. BK dead, shot through neck — floor covered with blood.
Chapter XII
Police come. Detective Inspector Evans in charge of investigation.
There are no indications in the apartment as to identity of murderer. Time of death is approximately midnight.
Police interview members of family. Detective Inspector Evans asks about Amy, wondering as to possible connection.
Eleanor is close-mouthed.
Nancy is tearful, verbose. “It’s all my fault. I took her to the party. She drank three French 75’s. She got really drunk, and someone took advantage of her.”
“Who? Maitland? Or one of his friends?”
“I don’t really know. But I don’t think so. I don’t see how they could.”
“Who took her home?”
“BK — my stepfather.”
“Did he do it?”
“I don’t think he would.”
Maile is sulky, reticent. Evans gets nowhere. Afterwards Felice turns on Maile. “You know, I hate you! And your whole stinking family! Your own sister is dead, and you don’t turn a hair. Why don’t you act decently for once in your life?”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“You do too.”
“I’m not a damn stool-pigeon. What do I care for the police?”
“What about Amy?”
“She’s dead.”
But Maile seeks Evans out. “I’ll tell you all I know. I was in the living room with a friend of mine, Leon Lundy, when my step-father brought Amy home. She was so drunk she couldn’t walk. A woman was helping my stepfather. A young woman with blonde hair.”
“What happened then?”
“I don’t know. Then I — fell asleep. Lundy and I were drinking gin.”
“You mean, you passed out.”
“Call it that.”
“What about Lundy?”
“I think — he went upstairs, and into Amy’s room.”
Police talk to Lundy. He curses Maile, admits guilt and is taken off to jail.
Evans interviews Craig, who maliciously directs their attention to Marsh.
Eleanor discusses case with Craig over phone. “I’ve got to see you, I’m so distracted I don’t know which way to turn.”
“A terrible thing, a terrible thing.”
“I just can’t believe it. Coming so soon after Amy’s death. I’m just stunned. And have you seen the papers! It’s unbelievable the way they attack you.”
“Yes, they’re a pack of jackals, no question about it … I’ll be over to see you then.”
“Have the police talked to you? That man Evans —”
“He’s seen me. He seems fair enough.”
“Did he ask about Amy?”
“I told him the truth, so far as I knew it.”
Pause. Hollow voice. “Yes, I suppose there’s no point in trying to hide anything.”
Evans returns to Marsh, whom he has already interviewed. “Mr. Marsh, you’re more deeply involved in this matter than I had supposed.”
Marsh sees that evidently they want a quick solution to the murder, that his role must inevitably be brought out into the open. He reveals the entire story of how he became involved in the affairs of the Binkins family. He does not mention his telephone tap, but explains his information as derived from observation, and from an informant whom he refused to identify.
Evans polite but skeptical. He drives to Peralta, interviews Cazzaro, who is spiteful, and distorts certain of BK’s remarks to him, to the effect that Marsh is made to seem an enemy of BK’s.
Evans returns to Marsh. “It’s clear, Mr. Marsh, that you haven’t told us the truth.”
“I’ve told you everything I know. If I’ve got my own suspicions, they’re my own affair.”
“Don’t leave the city, Mr. Marsh.”
Chapter XIII
Marsh has dinner with Barbara. She’s wan and tired, but evidently making an effort to be friendly — even affectionate. Marsh takes her back to the hotel. They have a drink in the bar. Barbara seems distant. Presently she says in her calmest voice, “You can take me up to my room.”
Marsh is uncertain what she means, but he takes her up to her room and comes in with her. She is acquiescent and matter-of-fact. They go to bed. Marsh is surprised that Barbara is so easy. She is not particularly emotional, in fact rather prim. The relationship is almost formal. Marsh wants to get dressed and go, but Barbara wants him to stay. He relaxes back into bed. Barbara seems to be weeping. Marsh tries to comfort her. She laughs, in a shaky nervous fashion. Why does she weep? Why does she laugh? What fantastic set of circumstances brings him here in the first place? Barbara goes to sleep, he is left with his puzzle. Either Barbara is a nympho — her lackluster performance makes him dubious of this — or she has fallen in love with him. Possible. Or is it possible that she’s simply bored?
