Suspicious Circumstances (23 page)

The man ... the only man ... (
ANNY ROOD SECRETLY MARRIED TO HER OWN CHAUFFEUR
).

Gino!

Mother came back into the room. She was carrying one of the birthday packages, a small package wrapped in gold paper with a terrible red ribbon bow. She didn’t come to the bed. She hardly seemed to know I was there. She sat down in a chair by the vanity and started ripping off the paper. A box emerged. She tugged off the lid. She brought out, not an object, but a letter. And, as she pulled the sheets out of the envelope and looked at them, she gave a strangled little gasp.

I watched her trying to read. It was pitiful because she was too far gone to remember about her reading glasses. She was holding the sheets near and then away at arms’ length and then near again. I jumped up from the bed, ran to the vanity, got the glasses and handed them to her.

She took them, without a word, and put them on. Then she started to read.

I knew she wanted to pretend she was alone. I knew that at the moment I had not reality for her at all. I just sat on the bed, trying not to look at her much, trying to think of other things. What things? Monique?

Eventually her voice brought me back.

‘Nickie.’

I turned on the bed. She was just sitting with the pages of the letter in her lap. I crossed to her.

‘Mother.’

She looked up at me. Behind the glasses the huge swooning legendary eyes were different from any way I’d ever seen them before. They were just any woman’s eyes, the eyes of a woman who hadn’t learnt that eyes, like waistlines, were things to be disciplined.

‘Oh, Nickie ... I’ve always known. I see that now. All these years I’ve been deceiving myself because I knew if I faced it, I’d have to face the fact that my whole career has been based on ... based on ...’

‘Do you want me to read it?’

She took off her glasses. Slowly her hands went down and gathered up the sheets and gave them to me.

I took them over to the bed. Because I knew so much already, because, really, it had all been guessed, I found myself skimming, noticing a fact here, a fact there.

Dearest Anny,

I’m writing this because a time may come — I don’t think it will though — when the police may have to read it. If it wasn’t for that I would have held my peace. But I can’t because there’s still one more job to be done and I can’t be sure how it will turn out....

Anny, dear wonderful Anny, I’ll never know if you secretly guessed that I pushed M. Picquot. You knew I was in the other room with Nickie, you knew there was a second door out to the landing, you must have known I’d heard him destroying your one big chance. But — well, we never talked about it and it was better that way. My love wouldn’t have amounted to much if I’d made you share my guilt. So there it was and Hollywood came and your great success and it all seemed all right for ever. ... There was always Norma, of course. It was obvious that Roger Renard had told her enough to make her suspicious, but that didn’t seem to matter — until that night. And then, at Ronnie’s pool house, when she turned on you — suddenly I saw she could ruin you. That’s why I followed when you went back to the house, that’s why I listened outside her door and, when I heard her screaming at you that she was going to denounce you as the murderer of M. Picquot, I knew it would be a disaster. What happened later just happened. You left. She came stumbling after you. She didn’t even see me. Almost before I’d realized what I was doing, the temptation was too strong to resist and I’d pushed. ... Later it was easy to pretend that the two of us had stayed on at the pool house together. ... He, loving you too, suspecting whatever he suspected, wasn’t going to say anything...

My eyes, fascinated yet fickle, ran on, rejecting, picking up again.

. . . of course, killing Norma didn’t end it because of Sylvia ... I knew, there in Sylvia’s suite at the Tamberlaine, that it would have to be done again. And suddenly there was everything to help me — the reducing salts, the regular bath at five-thirty, her terror of Tray. There was only one obstacle, the original of the letter, and then even that was all right because, before she took the photostat out of her pocket-book, I saw her hand go up to her bosom and I was sure that Sylvia, being Sylvia, trusting no one, had the original page right there in her brassière. ... It couldn’t have been more simple. Even the key was in the door. As we left, I put it in my pocket. Then, later, when you were all resting, it was easy to slip over with Tray and let myself in. She was in the tub and, yes, there on the stool beside her with the bathrobe and the brassière was the letter. Tray worked almost too well ... hysteria at first and then a total collapse ... for all I know she was dead before I pushed her head under the water. ... That was it, then, except what to do with the letter. I was pretty sure you would be clever enough to have Steve take care of everything, but I knew you’d have no peace as long as the letter was missing. ... All I could think of was to slip it into your jewel box so at least you’d find it and know it was safe. . . .

Once again it all seemed to be over, but it wasn’t, was it, because of Delight? It was lucky you told me about your talk, lucky you showed me that absurd little paper you’d made her sign. I knew it wouldn’t do any good. I knew it would destroy you to have to sacrifice Nickie like that. I knew then that we’d never be safe so long as Delight was in existence. ... But even this seems simple. I can pretend to stay behind here and then, when the others leave, I can fly to London, wait for my chance - what will it be? Under a bus, perhaps? A crowded underground train at rush hour? But I will wait and my chance will come and I’ll have a flight reserved back to France... I am wrapping this as a birthday present to be taken to you. Once I’ve been successful, I’ll send you a telegram. And then, Anny, dearest Anny, you know there is only one possible end. After this you will never be able to look at me again and why, after all these years of being tied to me, shouldn’t you have your freedom when you love Ronnie Light, when you deserve everything that’s wonderful, when ... So, Anny dear, the day after the telegram comes, you’ll see in the papers. ... In some obscure little hotel in the Var, an elderly gentleman with a bad tummy will have taken an overdose of sleeping pills. ... The end, Anny dear, of a rather peculiar life but a life which, at least, was dedicated.

Good-bye, dear. God bless you.

HANS

I sat looking down at the final page, clutching it.

Mother was at my side. I hadn’t heard her come over, didn’t know she was there until she said,

‘It seemed better, dear — calling him Uncle. The marriage was never a real one, you know that. It was just for my papers when I was down and out, desperate, quite desperate. But he’d been so good, so faithful, he loved me so much. I couldn’t leave him behind with his career finished, with nowhere to turn. I had to take care of him. It was the least I could do. Uncle Hans. I’d hardly thought about that part of it at all until the reporters were crowding on to the boat in New York. Miss Rood, who is the gentleman with you? they asked. And I turned to Hans and I said, Oh, that’s my uncle — my Uncle Hans.’

She dropped down on to the bed next to me. She was clinging desperately to my hand. ‘Nickie, Nickie, what are we going to do? The flight back to France ... the little hotel in the Var ... the sleeping pills. ... Oh, poor, poor Uncle Hans, we must stop him.’

As I looked at her face, stricken, quite out of control, I knew for the first time that I was the stronger. Is this, I wondered dimly, what it feels like to have a mother complex coming to its end?

‘We mustn’t stop him, Mother. Don’t you see? There’s no point in it for him unless you let him finish it his way. Mother darling, it’s all going to be all right. The police will ask questions about Delight, but it’ll just end up as a rush-hour accident on the subway. And then you’ll be able to start a new life. Marry Ronnie if you want to — even play Ninon…’

But Mother had thrown herself down on the bed. She was lying with her face buried against the pink pillows, sobbing without hope. Okay, I thought. Let her sob. Let her get it over with. I lay down next to her, letting my hand rest lightly on her shoulder. I’ve always loved Mother’s beds. They’re so soft, so voluptuous. Gradually, as I lay there, listening to her sobbing, knowing that I was helping her just by being near her, the insidious thought stirred: No more Anny Rood And Family. Mother would go indomitably onward and upward, onward and upward. Of course she would. But there could be no more And Family, no more bucks and wings, no more women begging for my autograph.

Freedom. The word formed itself in my mind, a tiny seed which soon, when the shock was over, would grow and grow. Freedom and peace — peace to get to be twenty instead of nineteen, peace to love Mother for the wonder phenomenon she was, with no more growing-pain complications, freedom to become a Parisian writer again under the beautifully inspirational inspiration of Monique.

My hand was still on Mother’s shoulder. She was still sobbing. It was amazing how I felt — the new me, positive, protective, mature.

‘Mother darling, it’ll be all right.’

‘No, Nickie, no.’

‘You never needed anybody. Don’t you see? If there’d never been a M. Picquot, never been an Uncle Hans, it would have been the same. You’d always have got to the top. It isn’t what other people did for you. It’s you.’

‘But, Nickie, Uncle Hans, poor Uncle Hans ...’

‘Would he want you to be lying there — giving up?’ I found I could handle her now the way I’d never been able to before. This new love was a love which could see her exactly as she was without losing any of its tenderness. ‘Mother dear, think how much there is to be done. You’ll have to call the Palladium and cancel the engagement. Or postpone it, perhaps. Yes, why don’t you postpone it? You could do Ninon for Ronnie first and then come back to the Palladium as a solo act. You never needed us. You know you didn’t. As a solo you’d be even more sensational.’

Her head shifted slightly on the pillows, and the sobbing was a little less.

‘And there’s not only the Palladium, Mother. There’s your birthday party. All your dear friends. They’ll be here in a couple of hours. Are you sure you’ve got everything ready? And what about the sewing women?’

‘The sewing women!’ The right chord had been struck. Almost briskly Mother sat up. ‘Oh, Nickie, those poor, dear, patient sewing women.’

Nothing had happened to her face, of course. It was as splendidly undamaged as ever. With a forlorn little smile, she threw her arms around me.

‘Oh, Nickie, dear, dear Nickie.’

‘They’ll have fixed the crease by now.’

‘Yes, yes. I’m sure. Oh, Nickie, I wasn’t beastly to them, was I?’ She was looking at me from huge, wide eyes — little girl’s eyes, really. ‘Darling, I do hate to be beastly. You know that, don’t you? But this is so important. Being Presented. Such a great honor. One simply must rise to the occasion.’

She got up from the bed then and drew herself up as if already in her mind there was the first hush, the first rustle which heralded the arrival of Elizabeth II R. She wasn’t quite The One, The Only, but she would be when the time came.

There was no doubt about that now.

FIN

PATRICK QUENTIN

Patrick Quentin, Q. Patrick and Jonathan Stagge were pen names under which Hugh Callingham Wheeler (19 March 1912 – 26 July 1987), Richard Wilson Webb (August 1901 – December 1966), Martha Mott Kelley (30 April 1906 – 2005) and Mary Louise White Aswell (3 June 1902 – 24 December 1984) wrote detective fiction. In some foreign countries their books have been published under the variant Quentin Patrick. Most of the stories were written by Webb and Wheeler in collaboration, or by Wheeler alone. Their most famous creation is the amateur sleuth Peter Duluth. In 1963, the story collection
The Ordeal of Mrs. Snow
was given a Special Edgar Award by the Mystery Writers of America.

In 1931 Richard Wilson Webb (born in 1901 in Burnham-on-Sea, Somerset, an Englishman working for a pharmaceutical company in Philadelphia) and Martha Mott Kelley collaborated on the detective novel
Cottage Sinister.
Kelley was known as Patsy (Patsy Kelly was a well-known character actress of that era) and Webb as Rick, so they created the pseudonym Q. Patrick by combining their nicknames—adding the Q "because it was unusual".

Webb's and Kelley's literary partnership ended with Kelley's marriage to Stephen Wilson. Webb continued to write under the Q. Patrick name, while looking for a new writing partner. Although he wrote two novels with the journalist and
Harper's Bazaar
editor Mary Louise Aswell, he would find his permanent collaborator in Hugh Wheeler, a Londoner who had moved to the US in 1934.

Wheeler's and Webb's first collaboration was published in 1936. That same year, they introduced two new pseudonyms:
Murder Gone to Earth
, the first novel featuring Dr. Westlake, was credited to Jonathan Stagge, a name they would continue to use for the rest of the Westlake series.
A Puzzle for Fools
introduced Peter Duluth and was signed Patrick Quentin. This would become their primary and most famous pen name, even though they also continued to use Q. Patrick until the end of their collaboration (particularly for Inspector Trant stories).

In the late 1940s, Webb's contributions gradually decreased due to health problems. From the 1950s and on, Wheeler continued writing as Patrick Quentin on his own, and also had one book published under his own name. In the 1960s and '70s, Wheeler achieved success as a playwright and librettist, and his output as Quentin Patrick slowed and then ceased altogether after 1965. However, Wheeler did write the book for the 1979 musical
Sweeney Todd
about a fictional London mass murderer, showing he had not altogether abandoned the genre.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

As Patrick Quentin

• A Puzzle For Fools (1936)
  
• Puzzle For Players (1938)
  
• Puzzle For Puppets (1944)
  
• Puzzle For Wantons (1945) aka Slay the Loose Ladies
  
• Puzzle For Fiends (1946) aka Love Is a Deadly Weapon
  
• Puzzle For Pilgrims (1947) aka The Fate of the Immodest Blonde
  
• Run To Death (1948)
  
• The Follower (1950)
  
• Black Widow (1952) aka Fatal Woman
  
• My Son, the Murderer (1954) aka the Wife of Ronald Sheldon
  
• The Man With Two Wives (1955)
  
• The Man in the Net (1956)
  
• Suspicious Circumstances (1957)
  
• Shadow of Guilt (1959)
  
• The Green-Eyed Monster (1960)
  
• The Ordeal of Mrs Snow (1961), short stories
  
• Family Skeletons (1965)