The Lockwood Concern (40 page)

why, but it is. Probably for no better reason than because I'm a woman myself. Or do you suppose they're keeping them together?" "No, my impression is that they have them all in separate boxes, that open like bureau drawers. Don't dwell on it, Wilma, and don't drink any more coffee. I'm going to ask Dorothy to put you to bed." "I wish you were someone else. Anyone else." "Well, I'm not, am I?" "No, and I shouldn't have said that to you, should I? But I'll blame it on Nature. Life has to go on, and - oh, I don't have to explain such thoughts to you. Just hold me close for a minute, George." "That would be a great mistake, Wilma, with Dorothy in the next room." "Then go, please go. I'll be all right as soon as you've gone." "Goodnight," he said. All the large bills he had paid, all the good tips he had given through his years of patronage of the Carstairs now paid off: when he returned to the hotel from Wilma's house the night auditor, who also functioned as night room clerk, said merely, "The whole staff want to express our sympathy, Mr. Lockwood." The elevator man, an arthritic Irishman, said, "We're sorry for your trouble, sir." In his room, he had barely had time to hang up his topcoat when the telephone rang. It was DeBorio, the manager, who obviously had left word to be called immediately on George's return. "If the press should find out you're here, we can't keep them out of the lobby," said DeBorio. "But you can avoid them by using the service elevator and going in and out the employees' entrance. That's two doors away, and they won't notice you. Or, if you like, I can call a friend of mine at another hotel and guarantee you complete privacy." DeBorio was transformed from a fussy little man, permanently encased in a cutaway, with a dubious ribbon in his lapel, to a sentinel, and an alert one at that. "We also have certain political connections, Mr. Lockwood. Tammany Hall, if that could be useful. I know the mayor personally, and I even have his private phone number. The Biltmore isn't the only hotel they patronize." From this totally unexpected source George Lockwood got at least the promise of aid and comfort that he needed. It was not so much a matter of availing himself of DeBorio's assistance as the knowledge that at this hour of the morning, when most of the city was asleep, he too could lie down and rest, with his vigilance relaxed and no danger from intruders. Wilma and others might turn to him, but whom could he turn to? This, he now realized, had been worrying him since Geraldine's telephone call - and the answer was provided by an Italian Swiss who wished to show his appreciation for an annual box of Upmann cigars. In return for those Christmas presents, George Lockwood could now compose himself for the sleep that his mind and body were beginning to demand. He undressed and got into bed, confident that the moment he turned out the light his weariness would be a narcotic. But only his body retired. He lay in a position that had the formality of death, his arms straight down at his sides, his legs stretched full length, inescapably reminiscent of cadavers in a morgue. He had reached middle age with little first-hand knowledge of death. In the war he had gone from first lieutenant to captain at the same desk in the Embarkation Officer's headquarters in Manhattan. He had never witnessed violent death nor been present at a peaceful deathbed. Anson Chatsworth's suicide was a ghastly joke in the category of students' pranks; the Zehner kid, impaled on the spikes of George's wall, had never even been a face to remember. Agnes Lockwood had not invited him to her final farewell, and he had not wished to intrude. And yet he had some traffic with death. He had always fully sympathized with his grandfather in the killing of the two men who threatened him. In those times, with the same provocation, he would have killed. During the years with Agnes he had wished her dead and she came to know it, so that he had in effect trafficked with her death. He had never been able to fake pity for the weak, and he was not going to fake it now of all times, when his brother, through weakness, had unnecessarily murdered a woman because she was his weakness and his strength. That was it. Pen's act had been the extreme, the final, the inevitable act of a weakling, who had gone through life using good will as a disguise for his weakness, trading good will with the world in exchange for the world's bargain not to judge him too harshly - not to judge him at all. Nothing in Pen's life, nor Pen's life as a whole, could now bring on real sadness. In the next few days there would be people who would be touched by sadness, but they would be people who were fulfilling their share of Pen's bargain with the world. Who that knew Pen would feel his death deeply? A bleary-eyed butler who stole his wine? Wilma, Pen's wife? Had she not revealed herself with her remark that it was "somehow worse for a woman"? She could have pity for another woman; she had none for Pen. The surprise, the fuss, the excitement, the confusion, the threatening notoriety had produced an emotional disturbance to which she was ready to give sexual release, but in Wilma's case the same effect might easily be produced by a frustrating meeting with her young lover. The honest and sensible thing to do now was to get through the next few days with dignity and efficiency. Ironically, the scandalous circumstances of the night's bloody business demanded just such a performance and made it easy. The world would see as stiff an upper lip as ever betrayed controlled emotion. "I'll show them," he muttered, and so saying he was able to sleep. Four hours later he was awake and refreshed. It was too early for a proper breakfast, but he rang for coffee and it was brought to his room and it was fresh. "The first thing the day side do when they come on is make fresh coffee," the bellboy explained. "All the way down on the V every morning I keep thinking to myself, I'll be getting a good cuppa coffee once I get there. The next fresh coffee they don't make till ha' past eight or nine." "A good thing to remember," said George Lockwood. He also noticed that the bellboy refrained from offering sympathy or otherwise commenting on the morning scandal. DeBorio had obviously issued instructions to the staff. This became evident when the head bellboy unlocked the door of the adjoining room. "Your extra room, sir," he said, and left. George busied himself with a list and then a schedule of telephone calls to be made. It was the kind of thing he liked to do. He was thorough. He estimated the length of time he required for each call, and allowed for time in which to have conversations that he could not now anticipate. His first outside call, to his astonishment, was at one minute past eight, from Wilma. "I've just had a wonderful, long telegram from George, your son. Shall I read it to you?" she said. "Not if it's too long," he said. "I'd rather read it later." "It's a whole page," she said. "But I thought you ought to know that he's coming East." "When?" "I think he must be on his way. There's a difference in time there. What is it?" "They're three hours earlier. When it's eight o'clock here, it's five o'clock there. Is he coming to New York or where? He could take a train from Chicago to Philadelphia and go from there to Swedish Haven, by train or by motor." "He doesn't say. He just says, 'Taking first train East.' "Well, I suppose we'll hear more. Meanwhile, Wilma, I'll be here all morning, and remember James Sherwood. That's the phone in the next room." "I forgot this time, but I'll remember," she said. All day he followed and rearranged his schedule, talking to lawyers, undertakers, public officials, friends of DeBorio's, and Daisy Thorpe at the office. All the office staff showed up for work, and all but Daisy were sent home. Whenever it appeared that he might have an idle minute, George created a task for himself: he did not wish to be idle, for idleness would mean that he could not postpone the moment when he would have to think of his son. Throughout the entire business of the previous night, beginning with Geraldine's telephone call, he had not once given a thought to George. Not once had he considered notifying him, of communicating with him directly or indirectly. It was as though George did not exist. Now and then a name had come to mind, names of Pen's school friends and business acquaintances, men and women of varying degrees of intimacy and importance in Pen's life. But it had never occurred to George that he had a son of his own whose uncle had murdered a woman and committed suicide and who was entitled to some information. Presumably his son had read about the scandal in the California newspapers. The boy was fond of his uncle. They had seen little of each other, but their relationship was banteringly warm and affectionately easy. They were uncle and nephew, formally, but often they seemed more like younger brothers of older brother George Lockwood Senior. Pen's death and the manner of it, would be shocking to young George; and now his father had discovered someone whose sadness would be deep and genuine and all the things that the sadness of the others was not. George Lockwood could not blame himself for overlooking his son; it had not been a deliberate snub, an act of meanness or vindictiveness. It had been the negative act of forgetting, and yet it was not yet forty-eight hours since his son had been very much on his mind. The situation was embarrassing because it could never be explained away. Explain to whom? To his son? Explain to him that he had forgotten all about him? It was embarrassing because he was confused by the hidden, underlying reason for his forgetfulness, and any sort of confusion was embarrassing to a man who was so seldom confused. He began to dread the return to Swedish Haven and the meeting with his son. Now there would be no little game between him and the world, the masquerade of the stiff upper lip. He could begin to feel his son's eyes on him, for although he had not seen the boy since his expulsion from Princeton, he could imagine a great deal about him. Hibbard's snapshots had shown the physical growth. The boy was a husky man, a manly man, who had done hard work and earned his success and along the way had learned to give orders. Fortunes in oil were not made by the gutless; the competition was largely among men who had come up from their beginnings as roustabouts, with a background of hard labor, hard fighting, hard drinking, and the instinct to gamble. Oil men belonged in the same category of toughness as steel men, cattle ranchers, men who survived and prevailed through a combination of muscle and mind. And now George Lockwood was beginning to discover the cause of his forgetfulness. It was not forgetfulness at all. It was hatred, and it had been started with Preston Hibbard's visit, his report on Bing and Bing's wife and Bing's children and Bing's Rolls-Royce and Bing's standing in the Far West. The boy was self-sufficient and had made himself so with no help from the father; and he had made his mark in a kind of existence in which the father could not have survived. George Lockwood had not forgotten his son, but had banished him from his mind, and the son had made him lie to himself. He had not been overcome with desire for Marian Stademyer but by the urgent need to dominate a human being who, being a woman, could give him pleasure in the process. Yet even that was a form of postponement. He now knew that even without the violent consequences of his rendezvous with Marian Strademyer, a meeting with his son was unavoidable - because he would not have avoided it. The Hibbard snapshots had made the meeting necessary. George Lockwood had been compelled to have one more try at dominating his son even though the attempt would end in disastrous failure. The only thing left to save was his position. He had always been a sonofabitch in the eyes of his son. He would maintain that position. His son must be kept from knowing that his triumph in life was also a triumph over his father. George Lockwood wondered why he had not heard from Ernestine. Schissler was not going to make much money out of this one. The embalming had been performed in New York City and the casket purchased from the New York firm. The remains was coming by train, to be lifted off the baggage car and put in Schissler's hearse, and then on to the cemetery. When George Lockwood said strictly private he meant strictly private. The hearse and two automobiles formed the entire cortege, and both automobiles belonged to Lockwood, so there would be nothing on the bill for cars. No pallbearers. No flowers. The fellows at the Legion had offered to supply a guard of honor, because Penrose Lockwood was a veteran, but George Lockwood had turned them down. The whole thing wouldn't come to a thousand dollars; it was not going to be easy to get it up to five hundred. Shortly before ten-thirty the Lockwood Pierce-Arrow and the Lockwood Lincoln drew up to the Reading station. The occupants remained in the cars. George Lockwood and his wife and another woman in the Lincoln, and the other people in the Pierce-Arrow, which was a touring car but had the side curtains up, so you could not see who was inside. Andrew was at the wheel of the Lincoln; Schissler did not recognize the driver of the Pierce-Arrow. He looked something like Deegan, the fellow from the detective agency who had once worked for Lockwood as night watchman. Yes, that's who it was. He looked different in a chauffeur's cap. That's who it was; Deegan, from Gibbsville. Not even a Swedish Haven man. Schissler went over to the Lincoln, took off his high silk hat, and opened the rear door. "Good morning, George. Mrs. Lockwood. Number 8 is on time. She was a little late leaving Reading, but she'll make that up. You got about five or six minutes' wait." "Thank you, Karl," said George Lockwood. "Will I tell the folks in the Pierce?" said Schissler. "You might as well," said George. There were two middle-aged couples in the Pierce-Arrow. He opened the rear door and saw that they were all strangers. "I just thought you folks would wish to know, the train is on time. I'm the funeral director, Schissler's my name." The men mumbled their thanks, and Schissler, after a momentary hesitation, slowly closed the door. They were a stuck-up bunch, especially considering Pen Lockwood and the disgrace he had brought on himself and the town. Swedish Haven had been mentioned in the papers, New York and Philadelphia. Schissler returned to the north end of the platform, where the baggage car on Number 8 always stopped. He was joined by Ike Wehner, the baggage master, wearing his uniform cap and striped overalls. "She on time?" said Schissler. "She had two minutes to make up leaving Port Clinton," said Ike Wehner. "But that's no trouble for Ed Duncan. Ed could make up