The Dishonest Murderer (3 page)

Half smiling, Freddie Haven turned from the group she was hostessing and began to move toward the couple which was waiting to be adopted. Then she realized her father, who was tall enough to see over most people, had seen over a good many, noticed the couple at the door, and was moving toward them. He moved with purpose, as he always moved; he caught his daughter's eyes and, with a movement of his head, asked her to join him. They converged on the couple at the door and the man of the couple began a smile of greeting.

“'Evening, North,” Admiral Satterbee said, in what was inevitably a voice of command, while he was still a stride or two away. He held out his hand. “Glad y'could make it.”

The man with the slightly ruffled hair took the admiral's hand, and Freddie, approaching, hoped he would have no cause to wince. The admiral's hand-shake was frequently firm; it was apt to be particularly so with people he did not know well. It was one of the small things which Freddie Haven knew, tenderly, about her father. He was firm with people he knew only a little. Because, Freddie thought, he had once—oh, long ago—been shy. You would never know it now.

Mr. North did not wince. He released his hand, made polite sounds, and said, just as Freddie reached them, “Pam, this is Admiral Satterbee. My wife, Admiral.”

“How do you do?” Pam North said, in a clear, light voice, and almost as if she were really asking. “Sideboys.”

The tallish man beside her grasped at his hair. He said, “Pam.”

“All I could think of at first was sideboards,” Pam North said. “But that didn't sound right. To pipe you aboard.”

“Oh,” Admiral Satterbee said. “Oh—yes. Yes, of course.”

It did not seem entirely clear to her father, Freddie thought. She had joined them, by then.

“Mrs. North,” the admiral said. “Present my daughter. Freddie, Mrs. North. Mr. North. Told you about them. North's going to bring out this book of mine.”

“Miss Satterbee,” Mr. North said and Mrs. North smiled and Freddie had an odd, vagrant sense of pleasure which was disproportionate to anything in the expression of this slight young woman with the attractively mobile face. But Freddie felt, without being able to explain why she felt so, that she had been approved of, frankly and with pleasure. Freddie felt that she must be looking even better than she had hoped. She also felt that, intangibly, she had been outdistanced.

She shook her head and said that Dad always forgot, never made little things clear. “Mrs. Haven,” she said. She also said she was so glad the Norths could come, and asked if the Norths knew everybody. Mrs. North's eyes widened a little momentarily.

“Oh no,” Mrs. North said. “Nobody, really.” She paused, as if she had just heard herself. “Here, I mean,” she said. “But it's all right, because we do have to go on almost at once.”

Freddie said she hoped not; Admiral Satterbee said, “Nonsense, come and have a drink, North.”

Mr. North went, obediently. Mrs. North looked up at the taller, somewhat younger woman.

“You mustn't bother with us, you know,” Pam North said. “We do have to go on. We're meeting some people. But Jerry said—”

Pam North stopped, then. Freddie Haven waited, suddenly grinned.

“Go on,” she said, feeling that she had known this Mrs. North for much longer than minutes.

“Oh,” Pam said, “that I ought to see a real admiral. That it probably would be educational.” She spoke unhesitatingly, without any indication of embarrassment. “So few authors are admirals,” she added, paused, and said: “Or so few used to be, now it's hard to tell. Like all the people who knew Roosevelt.”

Again, for an instant, Freddie Haven felt outdistanced. It was, she thought, like trying to read a sentence in its entirety, not word by word. But even as she thought this, she realized she had caught up.

“Is it?” she said. “Educational?”

“Probably,” Pam North said. “Was his hair once like yours?”

“Yes,” Freddie said. “Satterbee hair.”

“Look,” Mrs. North said. “You must just park me somewhere, you know. It doesn't have to be another admiral or anything. Because you've got to hostess, of course.”

It was undeniable; Freddie Haven admitted it with a smile, without words. She decided that this Mrs. North probably would enjoy, would really enjoy, the Dowager Admiral. She thought, indeed, that Mrs. North probably would enjoy most things. She took Mrs. North to the Dowager Admiral's group, was pleased to see the slight widening of Mrs. North's eyes and, as she slipped out of the group after a polite moment, realized that she had not, for some minutes, worried about anything. She realized this when the shadow of disappointment returned, for a fraction of a second merely as that, then as more tangible anxiety.

It was well after eleven and Bruce Kirkhill had not come. Now her mind sought little explanations to cling to—he had taken a later train, and the train was late; he had come earlier for a meeting of some sort, and could not get out of it. Not good enough, her mind answered. Not nearly good enough. He would have telephoned. Tonight he would have telephoned, of all nights, because this was their party, because—

She heard a voice she recognized in the foyer, went from the group she was in almost without apology and crossed the room.

“Howdie!” she said. “Howdie! Has something happened?”

The man she spoke to was no taller than she. He was square faced; he had wide-spaced eyes and an expression of candor. Now he looked at Freddie Haven, smiled at her, shook his head and raised trim eyebrows.

“Happened?” he said. “What do you mean, Freddie?”

His voice was low and musical; it seemed, perhaps almost too large for the man. But Freddie Haven, used to it, and to him, did not remember she once had thought that.

“Bruce isn't here,” she said. “He isn't at the hotel.”

The open face opposite her own was momentarily shadowed, as if by perplexity. The shadow vanished quickly.

“A slip-up,” he told her. “Of course he's at the hotel. I—” He broke off.

“Did you see him there?” Freddie said.

The man shook his head, slowly.

“Actually,” he said, “I didn't see him. I got in this morning, you know. I checked on the reservations and checked in myself. I didn't get back to the Waldorf until after ten and just changed and came on, figuring he'd be here already.”

“I'm worried,” Freddie said. “It isn't like him. He hasn't called.”

“My dear,” the man said. “Nothing happens to the chief. He could have been tied up in Washington, so far as that goes.”

“And not have wired? Or telephoned?”

“Well—” he said. “Anyway, nothing's happened to him.” He smiled, widely. “The chief can take care of himself,” he said. “You ought to know that, Freddie.”

She said, “Of course,” but the worry was still in her voice. It was still in her mind.

“I'll check the hotel,” he said. He smiled again, making little of it. “Maybe he dozed off,” he said.

Freddie Haven took him to the telephone in the library; stood beside him as he dialed the hotel, asked to speak to Senator Bruce Kirkhill.

He listened and said, “Nonsense.”

“Of course he's registered,” he said. “Let me talk to the manager. This is the senator's secretary, Howard Phipps. It's important.”

Phipps turned to smile at Freddie Haven. “Pull rank on 'em,” he said. “If—yes? Oh—”

He talked quickly, with authority, then with an increasing puzzlement in his voice. Finally he said: “Ask him to call me at” and looked at the number on the telephone and repeated it. “Vice Admiral Satterbee's apartment,” he added. He hung up. For a moment his face was shadowed again; then he became, in an instant, very cheerful.

“Not there,” he said. “Hasn't checked in. But don't worry. Nothing happens to the chief. Hell—probably he's out there now, looking for you.” Howard Phipps jerked his head toward the living room. “Come on,” he said. “Probably he thinks you've stood
him
up.”

But Bruce Kirkhill was not in the living room. It was almost eleven-thirty, the year was running out; for Freddie, the party was running out. But the party was still there; it was still her party. She went on about the party, smiling, being a hostess. Her lips tired, forming the smile. Her voice tired, saying nothing gaily; her mind tired, straining for a familiar voice from the foyer. Not many were coming, now.

“I
am
sorry,” Mrs. North was saying. “It's a lovely party, but we do have to—” Mrs. North's voice stopped. It started again. “You're worried, Mrs. Haven,” Pam North said. “Aren't you? Something's happened?”

“I—” Freddie began, and almost went on, because there was so much reality, so much friendliness, in Mrs. North's question. But then she only smiled and shook her head.

“I'm sorry,” Pam North said. “Of course it isn't. Jerry says I—” Then, in turn, she stopped, and smiled and shook her head.

“It's a lovely party,” Mrs. North said after that. “We hate to leave, but I'm afraid—” She left the sentence unfinished and smiled again. Mr. North was beside them, and the admiral. The admiral looked at Freddie, quickly, worry on his face. She shook her head at him. She said, to Mr. and Mrs. North, the things a hostess says, and found, suddenly, that she meant them. She did not want this friendly slim woman, who so outdistanced you if you went from word to word, whose interest was so oddly bright and undisguised, to leave the party. But she walked with the Norths to the foyer and watched them go. The old year had less than half an hour left for its running out.

II

Friday, 11:35 P.M. to Saturday, 2:10 A.M.

Freddie turned back toward the living room, and Celia was waiting for her. Freddie changed her expression when she saw Celia's face, wiping the look of worry from her own. Celia was slender and very young, her blond hair hung rather long, almost to her shoulders. She had blue eyes which now sought reassurance.

“You're worried about Dad,” Celia said. “Where is he, Freddie?”

“Held up somewhere,” Freddie said, making her voice light, casual. “Seeing a politician about another politician.”

“Somewhere,” Celia repeated. “You don't know, then? You haven't heard anything?”

“He's all right, Ce,” Freddie said. “Nothing happens to the chief.”

“Howdie said that to you,” Celia told her. “But I know Dad planned to be here. Early if anything. I'm worried, Freddie. But Curt says—”

“It's nothing,” Freddie said, too quickly. “Of course it's nothing, dear. Whatever Curt said is right. Howdie's right.”

“He'd telephone,” Celia Kirkhill said. “Dad always—always remembers. Doesn't he?”

“Not—” Freddie began, and realized that would be wrong. “Usually,” she said. “But he's all right, Ce.” She made herself laugh. “After all,” she said, “we've got to let him be late now and then, Ce. We can't—” She raised her square white shoulders, let them fall, let them finish the sentence.

“Curt,” Freddie said then, glad of the chance, to a tall young man who came to stand beside Celia Kirkhill, to whom, as Freddie spoke, Celia turned instinctively, her face lighting. “You haven't got a drink! I'll get Watkins.”

She looked for Watkins, saw a maid with a tray of champagne glasses. It was almost time, then. Her head summoned the maid. “What time is it, Curt?” she said.

“Tu-twenty minutes of,” Curtis Grainger said. He was tall and thin, his hair, blond as Celia's, was short, upstanding on his long head. “Almost t-t-time.”

It was not exactly a stutter; it was a kind of hesitating, uneasily, on the brink of a word. Once, she supposed, Curtis Grainger must have stammered rather badly. He had grown stern with himself. The sternness was evident on his young face when the face was quiet. It vanished when he looked at Celia.

“Y-your father's going to miss the year,” he said, and his smile was the youngest thing about him as he looked down at Celia Kirkhill, reached out to put an arm around her shoulders. He looked over her head at Freddie Haven. “The baby's worried,” he told her. (He said, “The bu-baby's wh-worried.” After he had hesitated on the brink of a word he said it rapidly, clipping it.)

Freddie said she knew. She said it wasn't anything.

“Of course not,” Curtis Grainger said. “I've been telling Ce. As my father says, the senator's indestructible.” He grinned, disarmingly. “My father ornaments it,” he said.

“I'll bet,” Freddie said.

The buzzer had sounded in the foyer. She was conscious she was listening; that she had frozen in listening. She heard one of the maids move to the door, heard the door open, her ears straining.

“Good evening, miss,” Freddie heard Marta say, and heard a voice she knew, speaking quickly, accenting the words. “
So
late,” the voice said. “Has
every
body—?”

Breese Burnley came into the living room quickly. She wore a white dress, her shoulders bare, a thin, flat circle of diamonds about her lovely throat. As always, now in spite of her disappointment, Freddie Haven was conscious of surprise when she looked at Breese. It was difficult to grow accustomed to such perfection—such perfect perfection. Surely, coming out of a snowstorm, one strand of all the black, artfully arranged hair, would be at odds with art; surely one of the long eyelashes over deep blue eyes would have lost its curl.

“Darlings!” Breese said. “I'm
so
late.
So
sorry.”

Breese Burnley looked at Freddie with a perfect smile, at Celia, at Curtis Grainger. Then, almost without hesitating, only slowing a little as for a grade crossing, she looked on beyond them, her smile still perfect, still ready. It was sometimes difficult to speak to Breese Burnley, so rapidly did she pass you, go on to the person beyond.