Stranger Than Truth Read online

  I had just started reading the titles on the second bookshelf when Eleanor returned with the Martinis. We drank to each other and started making love again. The mulatto maid kept coming in and out, setting the table and pretending she did not see us.

  The Martinis were excellent. The olives had no pits and the glasses had been chilled. Eleanor’s skin was as cool and smooth as a flower just out of the florist’s icebox. She was in my arms and I was looking over her shoulder at the second bookshelf when my eye hit on the volume of Blake.

  Eleanor felt the tension my body and pulled away. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why did you recoil?”

  “I didn’t recoil.”

  “Excuse me. I’ll go and wash,” She left, walking stiffly. I did not call her back nor kiss her again, but went straight to the bookshelves.

  The first Blake was a modern edition, published in 1937, illustrated with reproductions of the poet’s drawings. A silver sticker inside the back cover showed that it had come from a Greenwich Village bookstore. The second was a biography of the poet. And there was an old volume, probably a collector’s item and worth a lot of money. There was an inscription on the flyleaf. As I read it my heart stopped beating.

  To that most genteel lady, Eleanor Barclay, from her humblest admirer, this Valentine.

  W.G.W.

  February ’45.

  She called to me from the next room, telling me to have another cocktail and promising to be ready in three minutes. Three minutes were like three years. I remembered the look on Eleanor’s face when she came out of the Ladies’ Room after her session with Grace Eccles. I put the Blake back upon the shelf guiltily and started to poke at the fire. The logs had been treated with some salt preparation and the flames were liquid stripes, orange and blue, gold, purple, scarlet, with an occasional tongue of sulphurous green.

  “Hello, Johnnie,” Eleanor said.

  She wore a long black velvet thing, a hostess gown, I think it is called, with a full skirt and low neck. She had on old-fashioned earrings set with dark red stones and a big red pin, shaped like a heart, on her shoulder. She was beautiful, she was a lady, a genteel lady to whom a humble admirer had given the poems of Blake as a Valentine.

  Dinner was ready. Brenda lit the candles. I pulled out Eleanor’s chair, became formal and bowed over it. The candlelight gave her face a different look. The wonder of this girl was that she could look like so many different people: an innocent youngster or a sorceress or what they called in our office, a business girl. Or a genteel lady. This should have made me love her more, love the variable qualities which would prevent boredom, but I was distressed by the variable qualities. I loved her, but I did not know what to expect of Barclay’s daughter.

  Just around the corner from Eleanor’s apartment was the hotel where Warren G. Wilson had lived and died. You could walk there in two minutes. I thought of Eleanor hurrying along East Tenth Street, the plaid coat pulled tight around her, and her high heels tapping the pavement.

  The dinner was good. Brenda took away the soup plates and served broiled chicken, broccoli and browned potatoes. There were hot biscuits, strawberry jam and a thin white wine. It was my first dinner at her place and I am sure Eleanor had thought about it and had a long conversation with the maid.

  Conversation flowed along, but it had no meaning. A lady in black velvet entertained a guest. Have some more chicken, please. Do you like this wine? It’s a Rhine wine. Rhine wines are my favorite. We talked about books and I asked if she liked poetry. I had not read much poetry since I left college, but I talked as if I gave three nights a week to the Browning Society. Finally I managed to say, casually, “I see you’re fond of Blake.”

  “Not wildly. He’s too mystic for my taste. The combination of naïveté and mysticism leaves me cold.” There was no emotion in her answer. The Blakes might have been birthday presents from old school chums. “I had a friend,” she went on, “who tried to make me appreciate Blake. That’s where I got all the books.” She nodded in the direction of the shelves. “In fact, I’ve known two fans in my life.”

  I could name both of her Blake fans, Lola Manfred and Warren G. Wilson. Instead I remarked with heavy humor, “Nice highbrow evenings you three must have had, getting together and reading his works.”

  “We never did. As a matter of fact, they didn’t even know each other. Why aren’t you eating, Johnnie? You ought to, you know. You’ve lost weight.”

  She was so sweet that I hoped her concern for me was honest and not an attempt to divert me from memories of the poetry lovers. Through the rest of the meal she talked rapidly and gaily. Everything I said, whether it was funny or not, made her laugh. In the circumstances her nervous vivacity made me restless.

  Brenda left, and for the first time Eleanor and I were alone in a secluded place. I did not even try to sit next to Eleanor on the sofa, but chose a chair at the opposite side of the room. She seemed disappointed. Her movements were jerky. She changed seats frequently. For a while she stood with her back to the fireplace as if she were cold.

  I went away early. My excuse was reasonable. I had not been out of the hospital for long, and the new job had taken a lot out of me. I needed sleep.

  “Yes, of course, I understand perfectly,” she said as she took me to the door. “Well, good night.”

  “I’ve had a swell time. The dinner was swell. Thanks.”

  She did not offer her hand nor ask me to come again.

  I rode uptown on the top of the Fifth Avenue bus. My feet were cold and I remembered how cozy it had been at Eleanor’s. I got angry, not only at myself, but at William Blake and Warren G. Wilson. A mystic poet and a correspondence-school tycoon, both dead, were ruining my love life.

  As I unlocked the door of my one-room bachelor apartment I heard the phone ring. I caught it just in time. It was Captain Riordan, my friend at Police Headquarters.

  “Have you run the Wilson story yet?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “The murder of Wilson, the guy that took the name of the correspondence course. He was murdered last May. I thought you were going to write it up.”

  “Of course I remember. I was shocked at your calling me about it tonight.”

  “Shocked. Why?”

  “Coincidence. I just happened to be thinking of that story.

  Riordan was friendly, but he was still a cop. I knew nothing definite about the Wilson murder, and I was certainly not going to tell him that the girl I loved could look both blonde and brunette, that she wore a plaid coat and that Warren G. Wilson had sent her a Valentine.

  “They’ve got the woman in the plaid coat,” Riordan said.

  “Go on.”

  “She got lit and staggered out of a Third Avenue bar and told the cop on the beat she was the girl who had taken the elevator up to the thirtieth floor of Wilson’s hotel the night he was murdered.”

  I tried to sound cool about it. “Who is she?”

  “Name’s Arvah Lucille Kennedy. We found the name in her purse.”

  “Has she confessed?”

  “She passed out. When she’s slept it off we’ll question her. I called you because you told me your story was going to press this month, and I thought there might be a new development.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate your thinking of me.”

  “I didn’t want to put you on the spot by solving your Unsolved Mystery before the magazine came out.”

  “You think you’ve got it solved then?”

  “Arvah knows something. Otherwise it wouldn’t have taken six months and a bun to get it off her chest.”

  After Riordan had hung up I sat on the studio couch and thought about the Unsolved Mystery. Was my face red? Remorse broke out in beads on my forehead. I hated myself for having tolerated the suspicion that Eleanor knew something about the murder. My relief was so great that I conveniently forgot Grace Eccles and how Eleanor had looked when she hurried out of the Ladies’ Room after
that secret session. I even forgot the shrimps.

  I dialed Eleanor’s number.

  “Hello,” she said in the querulous voice of a woman who has been called out of a hot bath.

  “Eleanor…”

  “Oh, it’s you.”

  “Eleanor, I suppose you’re angry with me. You must think I’m an awful jerk. But there was a reason…maybe not such a good reason, Eleanor, but something…something…”

  “What reason?”

  I hesitated. What would she think if I told her suddenly over the phone that I had imagined her mixed up in a murder? I used the first excuse that popped into my head. “Look, Eleanor, I’m crazy about you. And I was afraid to make love to you, afraid you’d be angry…”

  “Did I act that way?”

  “I guess I’m shy.”

  “Why, Johnnie! And I was afraid I’d been too forward. I’ve acted like a brazen hussy. I thought you were disgusted with me.”

  “Eleanor, my sweet. You’re wonderful. You’re beautiful. Can I come back?”

  “Now?”

  “Right away.”

  “It’s so late.”

  “I’ve got to come and tell you how sorry I am. I want to say good night properly. I want to thank you for that wonderful dinner. I’ve got to tell you how much I love you. Eleanor…”

  “Hurry,” she said.

  I ran down the stairs carrying my hat and coat. On Madison Avenue I tried to leap into a cab parked for a stop light. In the cab a man was making love to his girl, and he shouted at me to get out. An empty cab finally came along and I told the driver to make it snappy. It seemed that we got caught in traffic at every intersection. When we got to Tenth Street I jumped out before the driver had pulled up at the curb. Eleanor must have waited at the window because the latch of the door started clicking before I rang the bell.

  I leaped up the stairs. The door of Eleanor’s apartment was open. She was waiting in the hall. Her hair hung loose over her shoulders and she had on a blue robe. I took her in my arms.

  “My God, Ansell, you do look silly with that smirk on your face. What’s up?” Tony Shaw asked.

  We were sitting on stools at the counter of the Barclay Building drugstore. It was half past nine in the morning. I was so hungry that I had ordered a double orange juice, a bowl of oatmeal, two eggs, ham, toast, Danish pastry and coffee.

  “I’m feeling healthy,” I told Tony as I finished my oatmeal and started on the ham and eggs.

  I had never felt better in my life. I had never seen such a beautiful morning. Alexander, having found new worlds to conquer, was a slouch in comparison with John Miles Ansell. I was in love with Eleanor and she with me. We had decided to get married. She hoped our children would have curly hair like mine, and I had put in a bid for a daughter who would look exactly like her mother. Eleanor had confessed that she had been annoyed the first time she met me, interested the second, and in love the third. I could not name dates, but my ardor made up for the deficiencies in the history of my passion. Eleanor and I were right for each other. We belonged. Nothing in the world could ever separate us.

  Tony Shaw finished his coffee and left. The waitress brought my Danish pastry and second cup of coffee. Someone took Tony’s deserted stool.

  “’Morning, Ansell. How’s the bright young editor?”

  My coffee tasted bitter. The world had been so beautiful that I had forgotten the existence of snakes, lice, cockroaches and Edward Everett Munn.

  “Good morning,” I said, and ate a little faster.

  “How about lunch tomorrow? Are you free? I’d like to take you to my club.”

  When Munn talked about his club there was a solemn, almost reverent look on his face. He was not a man born to clubs; he had achieved one. Now that I had a good job and had shown myself a man of some importance in the office, I was to be patronized by a clubman.

  “Thanks, but I don’t believe in clubs. They promote class feeling. When it comes to clubs I’m a bit of a Communist.”

  The waitress set before him a cup of hot water and a tea bag. He took out his watch and set it beside the saucer while the bag dangled in his teacup.

  “The Wilson case may be solved, after all,” I said.

  “Wilson case? Oh, the Unsolved Murder. Really?” he inquired politely.

  “Yep, it may be solved. Warren G. Wilson’s murderer is probably in the hands of the police at this very minute.”

  Without consulting his watch Munn yanked the tea bag out of the hot water. The clown’s mouth formed several wordless syllables before he asked, “Who was it?”

  “The lady in the plaid coat. She staggered into a policeman’s arms last night and confessed that she’d gone up to the thirtieth floor the night he was shot.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Kennedy. Arvah Lucille Kennedy.”

  He picked up the tea bag by the string, and dangled it in the hot water again. His eyes were fixed upon the cup as if there were nothing in the world so important as the strength of his morning tea. “Has she confessed?”

  “She was so tight she passed out in the cop’s arms. The last I heard she was sleeping it off. They expect to get the full story this morning.”

  “It’s about time.” Munn lay the soaked tea bag on his saucer, measured a level spoonful of sugar and squeezed some lemon into the cup. His lips moved and I thought he was counting the drops.

  In the mirror behind the counter, between the signs—FRESH ORANGE JUICE 20¢ and BANANA ROYALE 35¢—I could see him blowing into his hot tea. He took out his cigarette case.

  As he offered it, I said, “Every time you do that I tell you I don’t smoke Turkish. Can’t you remember?”

  He grinned as if he thought this a remarkably funny joke. It occurred to me that he smoked Turkish because he was stingy and knew that few people would accept the cigarettes he offered. I changed my mind and took one.

  “If I were you I wouldn’t say anything about this to Mr. Barclay, Ansell. He won’t be interested.”

  “What won’t he be interested in?”

  “This lady.”

  “Which lady?”

  “The one in the plaid coat who rode up to Wilson’s apartment that night. You seemed wrought up about her.”

  I put out the half-smoked cigarette and lighted one of my own. “Why do you think Barclay won’t be interested? Everyone is interested in the solution of a mystery.”

  He crushed the light out of his cigarette and went through the regular routine of squeezing out the unsmoked tobacco and rolling the paper into a little ball. “I don’t think you like me, Ansell.”

  “You’re oversensitive,” I said. “I’m sure I’ve never done anything to give you that impression.”

  “I’ve always tried to help you; I’ve given you a hand wherever I could and you’ve always laughed at me. Someday,” he hinted in a whisper, “you may need help. I’m not without power in the organization.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t believe in patronage. I’m the sort of fellow who fends for himself. Pulls himself up by the bootstraps, so to speak. Why is it, do you suppose, that my salary was raised to two hundred a week if it wasn’t for my hard work and willing spirit?”

  His mouth worked. “I’ve warned you, young man. If you’re too smart to take a hint…” He slipped off the stool and, without finishing the sentence, left.

  I was too smart to take the hint. Hating Munn and not wanting him or Barclay or anyone else to think I’d take a bribe, even temporarily, I did exactly what Munn had advised me not to do. Whether or not Barclay was interested in the lady in the plaid coat, he was going to hear about her. Even though the unknown Arvah might be proved Wilson’s murderer, Barclay was involved in the case. When I had pursued my private investigations too far, someone had slipped a dose of poison into my water bottle. Then I had been bribed with a big raise and an important job. Probably other people had been bribed, too. What about the voice in the ambulance? Either I had been poisoned by shrimps I never ate or a few cri
sp bills had been slipped into the hand of an underpaid ambulance doctor.

  Instead of dictating it to Miss Kaufman, I typed the memo myself. I did not want her to ask questions nor offer advice. The memo, I thought, was fat bait and would make the fish bite.

  MEMORANDUM

  From the office of: J. M. Ansell.

  To: Mr. Barclay

  Date: 12/7/45

  Ref: Ms. 1028-TaC

  Unsolved Mystery (Warren G. Wilson case)

  According to information I have received privately from my contacts at Police Headquarters, this murder has been solved.

  Inasmuch as we have gone to the expense of making layouts, illustrations, etc., I suggest we absorb this expense by having part of the story rewritten, eliminating the Unsolved Mystery angle, and run it in TaC. All objectionable matter, such as reference to spirituous liquor, irreverence toward correspondence schools, etc., can be eliminated.

  Any personal objections you may have had to the use of this story are obviously eliminated by the solution of the mystery.

  Copy to E. E. Munn.

  I filed the third copy and sealed the other two in manila office envelopes, addressed them to Barclay and Munn, pasted red Rush stickers on them and put them in my Out-Basket.

  Miss Kaufman came in, looked suspiciously at the Out-Basket, but did not ask why I typed my own memos. “You’d better step on it,” she said. “Mr. Barclay won’t like a new editor being late for a meeting.”

  I strutted out, the new editor bound for his first conference. On the way I passed the Truth and Love office. The door was open. Eleanor turned from the typewriter and blew me a kiss. At the risk of keeping her father waiting I stepped into her office and took her in my arms. She squealed.