Stranger Than Truth Read online

  Servility was a deeply ingrained habit. Ed showed little spirit in defending himself and struck out feebly against his master. When he crumpled and fell, it was like the collapse of a dummy.

  The doorbell rang.

  Father paid no attention. He knelt beside Ed, searching the lining of his coat, feeling for the manuscript under Ed’s shirt. Ed lay on the carpet, limp and spineless, his face the color of putty.

  The bell rang again.

  “Better answer it, Eleanor. Stall them as long as you can,” Father said.

  Evidently the servants had awakened. I heard voices and footsteps in the kitchen. Gloria called down the stairs. I opened the door and saw Johnnie. I do not remember what I felt when I saw him nor if I spoke a word of greeting before I fainted. All I remember is darkness and the sudden pain of light, Johnnie’s arm tight about me and his anxious voice.

  “You all right, kid?”

  I was all right then, secure in a world of solid people. Johnnie was there; he stood for the solidity and rightness of the world. Gloria had come down a few steps and was asking, petulantly, why no one had answered the bell. Hardy, the butler, in a black dressing-gown and white silk scarf, hurried out of the dining room.

  Father came out of the study. “Sorry you were disturbed,” he said to Hardy. “Go back to bed.”

  To Gloria he called, “It’s Eleanor’s impetuous suitor, coming after her at this hour. Go back to bed, Lover.”

  “Come in, lad.” Father led us to the study. This surprised me. In the circumstances I thought he would not want Johnnie to find Ed there.

  The study was empty.

  “Sit down, make yourself comfortable.” Father fussed over Johnnie as though he were honored by this midnight visit.

  “I’m sorry if I disturbed everyone,” Johnnie said, “but I thought Eleanor might be shocked at the news, so I came to call for her. Mind if I smoke?”

  “Go right ahead. Make yourself at home. Why did you think Eleanor might be overcome at the news? She broke her engagement to him more than a year ago.”

  “Oh,” said Johnnie.

  In that evening of shocking revelation, nothing had shamed me more than Johnnie’s startled glance when he learned that Ed Munn was the man I had once promised to marry.

  Johnnie took a long time with his cigarette. “Just the same,” he said evenly, “it must have been a shock to discover that someone so close to her father killed one of her friends. Did he kill Wilson, too?”

  With his fine, swinging stride Father went to the desk. He pulled out the chair and seated himself, looking at us as if we had come to beg for jobs or a raise in pay. “What gives you that idea, lad?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “Reasons or suspicions?” Father looked like an executive in one of those advertisements in the slick magazines. “I imagine you’ve confided those suspicions to your friends at the Detective Bureau, your old pals who gave you all those fine stories for Truth and Crime.”

  Johnnie had started to flick the ash off his cigarette. He stopped, stared at the crystal ashtray and flicked the ash on the carpet. “Not at all, Mr. Barclay. I haven’t had enough proof.”

  “What did you tell them?” asked Father as nonchalantly as if he had been asking the address of Johnnie’s tailor.

  Johnnie smiled. “When I learned that Lola Manfred had been murdered…”

  “Wasn’t it suicide?” Father interrupted.

  “There was a man with her last night. Neighbors heard them quarreling.”

  Father raised his eyebrows. “That happened rather frequently, I suspect. Miss Manfred wasn’t known as a celibate.” It was disquieting to remember that this suave, immaculate, white-haired executive had a few minutes earlier beaten a man and called him a murderer.

  Heedless of father’s arguments, Johnnie went on, “I thought it was murder and called Captain Riordan to tell him he ought to investigate.”

  “Why did you do that? Had you some personal reason for getting involved in this case?”

  Ignoring the question, Johnnie said, “Captain Riordan not only found evidence that Miss Manfred had a visitor last night, but certain identification.”

  “Of Ed?” I asked.

  Father scowled at me.

  Johnnie said, “It was lucky I went with Riordan to Lola’s apartment, although I’d have been able to name the guy later when I read about it in the papers. Still, we got the jump on him that way…”

  “What evidence, Ansell?”

  Johnnie picked up the ashtray and carried it to the desk. I came and looked at it, too. There were two of my rouge-stained stubs in it.

  “You don’t mean to get Eleanor mixed up in this, do you?” Father said.

  “Eleanor’s mixed up in it already, and it’s not my fault. Look into that ashtray, Mr. Barclay.”

  In the ashtray, beside my rouge-stained stubs, there was loose ash, a residue of unsmoked tobacco and two minute balls of crumpled cigarette paper.

  “One of your best friends doesn’t believe that cigarette stubs should be left around. He thinks they taint the air, that it’s not good for the health,” Johnnie said. He picked up a couple of grains of tobacco and smelled it. “Turkish. Just like the Turkish tobacco found in the ashtrays at Lola’s. As soon as I saw those little balls of cigarette paper I was able to tell Riordan the name of Lola’s visitor. Apparently he’s been here, too, this evening.”

  A sudden gust of wind blew open the door of the terrace. A chill entered the room. On Fifth Avenue a siren wailed. Father got up and closed the terrace door.

  “I told Captain Riordan that when he picks up this cautious connoisseur of Turkish tobacco not to use the verb ‘look’ if he means ‘listen.’”

  The siren’s echo died and I wondered whether I had actually heard it, or whether it was a whim of my strained imagination. By this time I was certain of nothing; I wondered whether Ed Munn had ever been in this room, whether I had heard him whine his unconvincing denial of the murder. Out of the mists clouding my mind, I heard Johnnie’s voice.

  “…and I keep wondering what connection there was between Munn and Lola Manfred, and between Lola and Warren G. Wilson. Do you know, Mr. Barclay?”

  My father shook his head. The movement was weary and without conviction.

  “Why did you refuse to let me print the Wilson story in Truth and Crime, Mr. Barclay?”

  The doorbell rang.

  “Probably the police,” Johnnie said. “Looking for Munn. Was he here when I phoned the news? Damn it, I didn’t think of that until afterward.”

  Father stood up. “Take her home, John. Get her out of here. We don’t want her involved.”

  “The police may want to question her.”

  “I’ll take care of that. I’ll take all responsibility. Take her home, son, she’s all in.”

  Johnnie wheeled around. “Well, Eleanor?”

  “I’m tired. Please take me home. I couldn’t talk to them now, not now.”

  Father was pleased. “Use the service elevator. It’s self-operated. Go straight to the basement. There’s a corridor that will take you to Madison Avenue.”

  “Is that how Munn left?” Johnnie asked.

  The bell rang again.

  My father went to fetch my coat, but I rushed ahead, pushed past him in the hall and jerked my coat out of his hands. Father tried to hold it for me, but I pulled away from him and from Johnnie, too. I would not let either of them near me until I had my coat on; and on the drive home I held my coat tight around me, hugging myself with both arms, because I did not want anyone, not even Johnnie, to know I had the manuscript hidden in the inside pocket.

  I put it in the locked box in a locked cupboard of my closet. Janet Barclay had given me the box on my thirteenth birthday. It was made of inlaid wood and had silver clasps and a silver lock. The box had been filled with old keepsakes, and when I cleaned it out I found a stale sugar violet. The lock was of soft silver and anyone could pry it open with a hairpin, but the cupboard door
had a Yale lock, for I kept my jewelry there, my grandmother’s gold bracelets and garnets, and the pearls Father had given me when I was eighteen.

  In those first terrified moments after Johnnie had telephoned to tell me that Ed was wanted by the police, while my father made preparations for Ed’s escape, and Ed clung with bloodless hands to the arm of the couch, I had taken the manuscript from the low ebony table. While they fought, while my father struck blow after blow, while Ed crumpled and whimpered on the carpet, I had the manuscript tucked behind me in the armchair. And when the doorbell rang and I hurried to answer it, I stopped to hide the manuscript in the pocket of my coat lining.

  I did not know at this time what the manuscript revealed but I heard and saw enough to realize that it was dangerous. I had learned that night of murder and treachery; I had been shocked, hurt and disillusioned, but I followed an instinct that urged the protection of my father. It was the old habit, loyalty. He might be a fraud, a hypocrite, partner in murder, but he was still my father and his secret guilt, like the publishing business, the Barclay Building, the royalties, the country estate and all the stocks and bonds, was family property.

  “He brought her roses,” Johnnie said when we were in the taxi, the sirens and police cars and detectives far behind.

  My thoughts had been on other things, and I must have seemed very stupid when I asked, “Who brought roses? Where?”

  “Lola. There was an unopened box in her living room. Twelve American Beauties. Just like the flowers that sent her into a tantrum yesterday.”

  “No, Johnnie, it’s impossible. She loathed him and he detested her. Of all the men in the world! Lola had a lot of lovers. It could’ve been one of them.”

  “Do you remember the name of the florist on the boxes that came to the office?”

  They were always the same, American Beauties, a round, dozen, long-stemmed, unimaginative and expensive. G. Botticelli, the Personal Florist. But Ed Munn! In my wildest dreams I could never conceive of such a romance. Hadn’t it been Lola who persuaded me, with subtle indirect argument and sly hints, to break the engagement?

  Johnnie wanted to talk. I told him that I was too weary to think about the murder. This was not completely a lie. Fatigue was a pleasant drug that kept me from feeling or thinking. There had been too many discoveries that evening, too much emotion, a surplus of disillusionment. And if Johnnie asked certain questions, I should have been obliged to lie to him.

  I disliked lying to Johnnie.

  When we reached the apartment I gave my pocketbook to him and he found the key. He opened the door, turned on the lights and tried to help me with my coat. I pulled away sulkily and sat down, holding my coat tight about me.

  “What a peevish wench! I guess it’s because you’re worn out.”

  “Please don’t be angry, Johnnie. Please.”

  “Did you ask your father why he told me he believed you were mixed up in Wilson’s murder?”

  “Not tonight, please. I’m exhausted. Will you fix me a drink, a double triple highball with lots of ice and practically no soda?”

  The drink was an excuse to get him into the kitchen. When I heard him running water over the ice trays I stole into my bedroom, hid the manuscript between the box spring and the mattress and hung up my coat.

  Johnnie spent the night. He thought someone ought to be with me in case the police came. After he had tucked me in and kissed me he made up an uncomfortable bed for himself on the living-room couch. As soon as I heard his steady breathing and decided that he was sleeping, I closed the door between our rooms, wrapped myself in an Angora shawl and, smoking cigarette after cigarette, I read the manuscript.

  When I had finished I put it away carefully in the inlaid box, locked it with the silver key, restored the box to the cupboard in the linen closet and hid both keys in the pocket of my plaid coat. There was no sane reason for these precautions as I did not think the police would search the house, but, until I had decided what to do about it, I wanted the manuscript hidden.

  I opened the window wide to get the smell of tobacco out of my room, turned out the light and crept into bed. Under two wool blankets and a quilted comforter I shivered. A chill had settled in my bones. If Mr. Wilson were still alive, I should have doubted the history of Homer Peck.

  I woke with a start. The blackness around me was broken suddenly by brightness as searing as pain. Johnnie stood beside the bed, naked except for the blanket wrapped around him, Indian-fashion.

  “What is it, Eleanor? What’s wrong, honey?”

  I was crying and trembling. The comforter and two blankets had slipped to the floor and I was stiff with cold.

  Johnnie covered me again, sat on the edge of the bed, took me in his arms. “Why are you so frightened? A nightmare?”

  I spoke weakly. “There was a man, he was carrying me, it must have been a mountain pass. It was worse than that, it was…” But the anguish had faded. I could not remember clearly. “He carried me to the edge and threw me over.” For a split second the dream’s exquisite terror returned. I shuddered out of Johnnie’s embrace.

  He warmed milk for me, brought a hot-water bag. When I was soothed and comfortable, he returned to his couch. Again I waited until I was sure he slept, and again I turned on the lights. I had become afraid of sleep and of darkness because sleep is lonely and in the dark you are deserted by all of mankind.

  When Johnnie woke in the morning he found me bathed, brushed and combed, rouge on my lips, a yellow ribbon in my hair and a starched apron over my best housecoat. The kitchen smelled of bacon and coffee. Bread was sliced and ready for the toaster; eggs and the beater waited beside a pottery bowl.

  Johnnie kissed the back of my neck. “You look a lot better. Sleep well?”

  I broke the eggs into the bowl. “Would you go downstairs, please, and see if the milkman’s left any cream? I could scramble them with milk but cream’s better. And you’ll want some for your coffee.”

  “I want to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “After breakfast, darling. I never like to talk about serious things before I’ve had my coffee.”

  I was a happy, healthy little housewife. My coffee was strong, my toast and eggs ready at the same moment, my grapefruit cold and cut deftly out of the rind.

  We were having second cups of coffee when the bell rang. Johnnie set his cup down hard upon the saucer. “I wish we’d had a chance to talk,” he said, “but you were so nervous last night”

  “I’m all right now. I can take it.”

  He pushed the button that opened the safety latch downstairs. “Look, kid, tell the whole truth, no matter what. Half the truth isn’t any good; half the truth’s the same as a lie.” Then he opened the door.

  Tall and straight, self-possessed, handsome, bringing the fresh air of December morning into my overheated room, Father marched past Johnnie, kissed me and said, “Good morning” as casually as if an early call were part of the daily program.

  “Good morning, Father. We’re just having breakfast. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “My dear girl!” His anguish suggested that I had made some immoral proposal.

  “Milk?”

  He nodded, shook hands with Johnnie, took off his overcoat, looked the room over and chose the love-seat. I gave him milk in a tall highball glass and he drank it at one swallow. To Johnnie he said, “Captain Riordan wanted to talk to her last night, but I told him she’d collapsed. He’ll see her today.”

  I lit a cigarette. My hand trembled.

  “I wish you wouldn’t smoke so much. It makes you nervous,” Father said. “They want to talk to you too, John. They want to find out if you knew, when you phoned last night, that Munn was with us. I told them I didn’t know.”

  Father’s eyes roved, took in the table set for two and the couch with the blankets and sheets.

  “I stayed last night. Eleanor was nervous,” Johnnie explained.

  Father nodded. “He’s a good lad, Eleanor. There’s nothing that makes
a woman so happy as a thoughtful man. You’re a lucky girl. But I wish you wouldn’t let her smoke so much, John. You see how nervous it makes her.”

  “It’s not smoking that makes me nervous.”

  “You’re very irritable,” Father said. “I don’t like that shrill note in your voice. It reminds me of your mother before she…”

  “Please,” my voice became shriller. “You didn’t come here to talk about my smoking. Why did you come?”

  Father’s glance was reproachful. “Comes and sit beside me, Eleanor. I want to talk to you.” He pulled me down to the love-seat beside him. His hands were cold and dry.

  “I’d like a word or two alone with her, lad.”

  “Okay.” Johnnie picked up his coat and hat. “I’ll get the papers. Want me to come back, Eleanor?”

  “Please come back.”

  “A fine lad,” my father said as the door closed behind Johnnie. “A decent, honest boy, I could want nothing better for you, child.”

  “Why have you come here?”

  “To see my little girl. Why are you so resentful? Afraid I’ll disapprove?” He nodded toward the sheets and blankets on the couch. “You ought to know your father better than that, my dear. After all, I’m pretty broadminded—for a parent.” He offered an engaging grin.

  I moved away, pushed myself into a small space at the end of the love-seat. My cozy living room looked cramped now; the furniture seemed swollen and oversized. On the table in the window stood a lustre bowl filled with freesia which I had bought centuries before, on the night that Johnnie came to dinner.

  “What happened to Ed, Father? Did he get away?”

  Father was no longer handsome, no longer radiant nor young. The lines deepened along his mouth; the cheekbones protruded like rocky knobs below sunken eyes. I saw again the cruel peaks, the tormented paths, the endless precipice and the face of the man in my nightmare.