Payoff for the Banker (17 page)

“Sorry,” Goode said. “Everybody looks so damn comfortable. Don't they, Jamie?”

“Why not?” Jameson said.

“Sit down, Stan,” Ann said. “Have a drink. Don't be a fool.”

“Stan is young,” Mr. Potts said from the next table. “Very young. He believes in forms. How are you, Stan?”

“Fine,” Stanley Goode said. “Fine as silk.”

He sat down on the grass by Ann's chair. When Meggs came around again he took a scotch. Ann bent and said something to him.

“I know,” he said. “I'm sorry. It's the whole damn thing—all the damned things.”

“Not again?” she said.

“Why not?” he said. “Why the hell not? They've said it; they stick to it.”

Ann said she was sorry.

“It doesn't matter,” Stanley Goode said. “You've got enough to—I'm sorry as hell about your dad, Ann.”

“I know,” Ann said. “You're sweet.”

The maids began to pass plates and, after the plates, great trays of salad, cold meat, jellied consommes. It was time for food, Bill Weigand thought—after three martinis it was time for food. He ate, listening to conversation around him. Ann pushed her food back and forth on her plate and lifted her eyebrows to Meggs.

“Bring me a rum collins, Meggs,” she said when he came over. He brought the rum collins, the glass frosted.

Jameson drank thirstily and ate a little. Sullivan drank not at all and ate a good deal. Stanley Goode refused food, saying he had already eaten. He sipped his drink slowly but persistently.

At the other table, Mrs. Burnwood and Mr. A. Wickersham Potts were drinking sherry out of small glasses, and Mullins, already reddening slightly, was drinking old-fashioneds. By the color, Joshua Merle was drinking a cuba libre. But nobody was showing anything, if you discounted the reddening of Mullins, which Weigand was willing to do.

Or were they showing something? Later in the afternoon, Bill Weigand wondered if they had not been. He wondered if even then, before the fireworks started, there had not been a tension in the group on the terrace, with the shadow from the house gradually reaching out over them, synchronizing its coolness with the sun's increasing warmth as if the Merles had planned it so. As, of course, in a sense they had when they built the big white house and put a flagged terrace on the side which would be shady in the afternoon, and left the pool beyond the farthest reach of shade, so that it would be warm there as long as the sun held.

If there was tension, Bill Weigand was only half conscious of it at the time. Relaxed by the cocktails, even his never too disturbing sense of urgency had left him—there on the terrace, with the city a long way off, he tentatively accepted the present as a pause in the day's occupation. “Which,” he quoted to himself, “is known as the children's hour.” They had finished their food and were drinking iced coffee—he, at any rate, was drinking iced coffee—when he returned to full awareness and began, casually at first and then more acutely, to wonder whether there was not something in the air among these pleasant people which needed his attention—which was, after all, somehow a part of his occupation.

After the tables had been cleared and only glasses remained—and only one or two of them, he gathered, containing anything so mild as his iced coffee and Mr. Potts's evident iced tea—people began to move around. Jameson got up, carrying his glass, and wandered away somewhere. And when he wandered back he limped over to the table at which Joshua Merle sat and stood there, looking down at Merle and Merle's aunt and the round, gentle organist. Stan Goode got up and pulled Ann by the hand from her chair and they went out into the sun and sat side by side in deck chairs. Captain Sullivan looked after them, but did not move.

After a little, Mr. Potts got up from the table and, although there seemed to be no purpose in his movements, they brought him to the table at which Bill Weigand sat, thinking it was time to break loose from this languid comfort and be about his business. Potts sat down.

“Conscience,” he said with no preliminaries, “is a strange thing, don't you think, Lieutenant?”

“How strange?” Weigand asked him.

“I was thinking of conscience as a compulsion,” Potts said. “A compulsion to repay—to discharge an obligation. An obligation we may so easily overestimate.”

“Not,” Bill Weigand said, “the conscience of a murderer. That isn't what you're thinking of.”

“Not entirely,” Mr. Potts said. “That would be interesting too, I should suppose. How must a man feel when he has taken human life?” He paused, reflectively. “Personally,” he said, “I have never committed a murder.”

He said it simply, as one might confer information—as one might say that, personally, he never drank beer. He did not at all say it as anything which was obvious on the face of things; he spoke as if Bill Weigand might have been wondering.

“No,” Weigand said, not quite smiling. “A great many people haven't, Mr. Potts. A surprising number of people haven't.”

“Well,” Mr. Potts said, “a surprising number of people have. It depends on what surprises you.”

“Yes,” Bill Weigand said. “What surprises you, Mr. Potts?”

“Very little,” Mr. Potts said. “Very little indeed, Lieutenant. I am sometimes surprised at how many things do not surprise me.” He considered this. “I presume,” he said, “that there is a deficiency somewhere which would account for that. But it could hardly be a vitamin deficiency, would you think, Lieutenant? Because I get a very adequate supply of vitamins, I'm sure.”

“It could,” Bill Weigand told him, “be a deficiency in illusions.”

Mr. Potts looked at Bill and thought it over and nodded.

“That is very true, Lieutenant,” he said. “I am not surprised to find that you have hit on that. It could very well be a deficiency in illusions.” He paused again. “And, of course, I find people very interesting,” he said. “I take a quite real interest in people. But I do not suppose that surprises you, Lieutenant?”

“No,” Bill said. “I can't say that surprises me.”

Mr. Potts stood up.

“People are very interesting,” he repeated. “Often even small things about them are very revealing. At the moment, I am particularly interested in conscience—not necessarily the conscience of a murderer, because I have seen nothing which reveals that. Not here, at any rate.”

Weigand stood up.

“Do you want to tell me something, Mr. Potts?” he said.

A. Wickersham Potts did not seem surprised at that, either. He smiled faintly and did not answer directly.

“I merely wondered whether you shared my interest in the effect of conscience on an individual,” he said. “Conscience which amounts to a sense of obligation—probably to an excessive sense of obligation.”

He looked across at Ann and Stanley Goode.

“Ann is a very sweet child, Lieutenant,” he said. “She is much more broken up over her father's death than you might think. She is not at all callous.”

“I hadn't thought she was,” Weigand assured him.

“No,” Mr. Potts said. “I didn't think you thought that, Lieutenant. She is under something of a strain at the moment, in addition to that, of course. She is—how shall I say it—being offered an obligation. A share of an obligation. She has other plans, but she is a very sensitive child in many ways.”

He paused again and continued to regard Ann Merle and Goode.

“It's too bad about Goode,” he said. “Very bad heart, you know. At least, the doctors say so. I must say he doesn't look it. I—”

He left whatever he had planned to add to dissipate and went off, not as if he had any particular destination. He went, generally, toward the house. And what, Bill wondered, was that about?

He stood up with his glass, intending to thank Ann and be about his business. But he decided that, instead—and since Ann and Stanley Goode were evidently engrossed—he might talk to Mrs. Burnwood. He crossed to the table where she still sat.

“—and it's time somebody told you straight out, Joshua,” she was saying. “Your whole attitude is—is unwholesome. That's the only word for it.”

“You don't understand, Aunt Mae,” Josh Merle said. His face was darkly intent. “You simply don't understand Jamie—oh, hello, Weigand.”

Weigand's eyes sought Mullins, but Mullins had disappeared.

“It was very good of you—” he began. But Mrs. Burnwood was not listening. She was looking beyond him, and young Merle half turned in his chair and looked in the same direction. Suddenly Merle swore, and his voice was angry.

Bill Weigand turned and, no doubt because he was not so deficient in illusions as Mr. Potts, he was surprised. Laurel Burke was coming across the lawn from the car circle. Behind her a car turned on the circle, spitting gravel, and went down toward the county road. Miss Burke apparently had come by taxi and did not plan an immediate return.

Weigand did not watch her. He turned quickly and watched the faces of those who were watching her. Mrs. Burnwood's face showed surprise and uncertainty. It did not, Weigand thought, show recognition. But Josh Merle knew Laurel Burke and did not want her there. Weigand looked for Mr. Potts to see whether this surprised him, but Mr. Potts was not present to be unsurprised. Nor, for that matter, was Weldon Jameson. Then Weldon Jameson came out from the living room through one of the French doors. He had not seen Laurel Burke yet. When, seeing so many eyes on a single point, he turned and did see Laurel Burke, his back was to Weigand and there was nothing to go on but the set of shoulders and the movement of body. These, Weigand discovered, were nothing at all to go on.

Ann and Stanley Goode had their backs to the house and were still engrossed. They did not turn until Laurel Burke spoke.

Miss Burke was entirely conscious of the entrance she was making. That was evident in each considered step she took, each movement of her body. Her body had many movements. She wore a print dress which let the movements of her body be seen; she had white artificial flowers in her hair to serve as hat. Even from fifty feet her bright fingernails caught the sun and sparkled redly.

“Hello, everybody,” Laurel Burke said in her lowest and most controlled tones—the tones which were almost good enough. “Hello, everybody. I'm Laurel Burke.”

Nobody said anything. Miss Burke did not seem to expect that anybody would say anything. She came toward them, smiling pleasantly, ignoring what she might have interpreted as a lack of welcoming enthusiasm.

It was not clear whether she recognized any of the people looking at her. She did not directly, specially, look at anyone. Possibly her glance lingered a moment as it passed Weldon Jameson, but that was guesswork. Perhaps it lingered again as it encountered the dark, now definitely angry, face of Joshua Merle. But neither Merle nor Jameson said anything in reply to her greeting, and she seemed not at all surprised that they did not.

“I thought,” Laurel Burke said when she was close enough to speak without raising her carefully controlled voice, “I thought I'd better come and introduce myself. I'm Laurel Burke.”

Ann Merle was coming across the lawn toward them now, with Stanley Goode behind her. She did not say anything.

“Don't,” Miss Burke said, “tell me I'm not welcome. Really I feel as if I were coming home. I've heard so
much
about this beautiful place.”

“How do you do, Miss Burke,” Ann Merle said. Her young voice was level, without expression. “I'm afraid I don't—”

“You,” Laurel Burke said, “must be Ann.”

“I'm Ann Merle,” Ann told her. “This is the Merle place.”

“Of course, dear,” Laurel said. “The taxi man knew instantly. I had him go on, of course. I knew I would be here—some time.”

Joshua Merle limped forward suddenly until he was quite close to her.

“I don't know what you want,” he said. “You—”

“Don't you, Mr. Merle?” Laurel said. “It
is
Mr. Merle, isn't it?”

“You know damn well,” Merle told her.

“And, as you put it, you know damn well what I want,” Laurel said, but she still kept her voice down. “What—
we
want.” Her accent was heavy on the “we.”

“Who,” Mrs. Burnwood said, with a good deal of distaste “is this—this Miss Burke, Joshua?”

Laurel Burke did not give Joshua time to answer.

“Mrs. Burnwood?” she said. “Of course. Why, my dear, your brother's girl friend, of course. His very
dear
girl friend.”

There was no mistaking what she meant. She had not intended there should be. There was a complete hush over the terrace. It was so complete that the sound of ice falling into a glass from Meggs's silver tongs was like a crash.

“Oh,” Laurel said, and her voice was sweet—was very sweet. “I don't believe you
knew
. I really don't believe Georgey told you. He was
so
secretive, wasn't he. Poor, dear Georgey.”

“You—!” Joshua Merle said, and moved very close to her. She did not draw back, but her voice was harder when she spoke.

“I wouldn't, Josh Merle,” she said. “I sure as hell wouldn't. You might hurt your little brother.” She paused. “Or, of course, your little sister,” she said. “Your father's youngest child, whatever the brat turns out to be.”

Everybody looked at her with a different look.

“Oh,” Laurel said, “you can't see anything yet. But you will, my dears.” She looked at them, and now there was no longer an attempt at suavity. “You sure as hell will. About December, the doctor says.”

Mrs. Burnwood detached herself from a world which contained Laurel Burke and spoke across the unlimited space she had opened between them.

“I do not believe you,” she said, giving each word its own distinct finality.

“No?” Laurel Burke said. “Well, my lawyer does.”