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  She came on—quick; there was commonly something of a trot even in Dorcas’s less hurried movements—and dumped mail on a coffee table in the living room. She said, “Here it is,” and held an envelope out and said, in the same breath, “Mine didn’t, the bum,” and shuffled through the rest of the mail, leaving Caroline to hers. Most of it was what they dismissed as “trash-can stuff.” Part of it was the weekend edition of the North Wellwood Advertiser and part the (rather fragile) Saturday edition of the New York Herald Tribune.

  There was also—and it was that which had slipped away and been reclaimed—a small envelope; an invitation envelope. Its inadequate surface was crowded with address:

  Cdr. and Mrs. Brady Wilkins,

  Miss Dorcas Cameron,

  RFD 1,

  North Wellwood, New York.

  “Glory be to God that there are no more of us,” Dorcas sang—soundlessly—to herself and opened the little envelope. Then she said, “Why, the old dear,” this time audibly, but when she looked at her cousin she saw that Caroline had something more important to listen to. So she waited until Caroline had finished listening to the far away (she supposed; he usually was) voice of Lieutenant Commander Brady Wilkins, assigned to an operation apparently too secret to have a name; now—she had allowed herself to look at the postmark—in San Diego, but probably by now, by this Saturday afternoon, somewhere else.

  Caroline finished her husband’s letter, but held it, still, in both hands in her lap. She’s far away, Dorcas thought—so far away. Do I look like that when I read a letter Alan has written, listen to Alan’s voice? Not quite like that, of course. With us it is—it’s tomorrow, or the day after. And with them it’s now—complete.

  Caroline looked at her.

  “How’s your sailor?” Dorcas said. “Home from the sea?”

  She was very matter of fact, very casual.

  “Seems to be fine,” Caroline said. “Might even—” She was matter of fact, too. But her voice, for all that, wavered a little. “Might even honor us,” she said. “Next weekend, even. If something he can’t mention happens to something he can’t write about at a place which shall be forever nameless.”

  Then she raised eyebrows, enquiring.

  “Not a line,” Dorcas said. “Not an ever-loving line. Or any other kind. I—”

  “Well,” Caroline said, “after all, it’s only been three days. And if it is sea duty it’ll probably be ‘proceed and report,’ maybe even with ‘to count as leave’ thrown in.” Caroline, twenty-six, three years married, looked at her cousin—twenty-two, marriage arranged for whenever the United States Navy decided, in its wisdom, it could spare Lieutenant Alan Kelley long enough. How the child’s eyes shine at that, “to count as leave,” Caroline thought, and said, “The rest for the ash can?”

  “Pretty much—” Dorcas said, and then said, “No. The sweet old thing’s giving a party,” and held out the invitation from the sweet old thing—an appellation which would have pleased Walter Brinkley, Ph.D. had he known of it.

  “Cocktails, five to eight,” Caroline read, and, “June twenty-eighth” and “RSVP.”

  “The lamb,” Caroline said.

  They had known the sweet old thing for less than a year; for most of the time they had shared the house on Hayride Lane half a mile or so north of the “old Brinkley place”; a house just (for Dorcas) within commuting distance of an editorial assistant’s desk in the city; a house where Navy wives (present and to come) could hold each other’s hands against emptiness. (And keep a shotgun handy to frighten away marauders, who had not appeared.)

  Professor Brinkley had waved at them, quite as if he had known them for some time, the previous autumn—a glowing yellow day in autumn—as he was fishing mail from his rural box and they were driving past in an open car. After that, they had asked him to tea—which had seemed a suitable beverage for a white-haired, retired professor—and Walter Brinkley had drunk it without protest. But during the Christmas holidays—when it is especially dreary to be alone; Brady Wilkins had been, mysteriously as always, in Alaska—“the sweet old thing,” known alternatively as “the lamb,” had invited them down, also for “tea.” He had, however, said, “If you really like the stuff,” after which matters proceeded in more conventional paths.

  “Neighbors?” Dorcas said, and Caroline raised slim shoulders under the fleece of a summer sweater.

  “Of course,” she said, “it could be more professors.”

  “From the sample,” Dorcas said, “professors seem very nice. Woolly.”

  At the barracks of Troop K, Hawthorne, New York, invitation envelopes are infrequent, the mail consisting of what are known as “squeals,” which are often rambling and seldom short, and official communications which seldom have to do with the more cheerful aspects of everyday life—such as, for example, cocktail parties. But the small envelope addressed to “Captain M. L. Heimrich, BCI, State Police Barracks, Hawthorne, N. Y.” did, dutifully find its way into the proper “In” basket, where it was quickly buried under bulkier papers. Captain Heimrich is, however, a man prone to get to the bottom of things, even of “In” baskets, and in due time he found that he was invited to have cocktails with one Walter Brinkley, in Wellwood.

  This did not, immediately, convey anything to Heimrich, who closed his eyes better to consider. There was a “Brinkley”—something very like Brinkley, at any rate—who had been sent up for aggravated assault. It seemed improbable that he would request the pleasure of Captain Heimrich’s presence at any function which did not involve blackjacks. There was a “Brinkley”—no, that was more like Barkly—who thought he had invented a new method to kill a wife, and found himself mistaken. Not this Brinkley, obviously. This Brinkley—

  Heimrich was shaking his head when he remembered. A round engaging man, pink of face, white of hair and, as recalled, worried of expression. A man who had been meticulous; who had spoken of the indeterminate sound of a vowel and so, somewhat abruptly, brought a brief investigation to an acceptable end. Professor Walter Brinkley. That was the man.

  It is always difficult for a detective, and especially one concerned primarily with homicide, to “RSVP” with any confidence. People kill other people at cocktail hour, as at other times; on Saturdays as on other days.

  On the other hand—although why he thought of it in that way was not entirely clear—a gray-eyed young woman named Susan Faye would, on the Saturday in question, be driving a grave-eyed boy named Michael to summer camp. (There would be a mournful big dog in the car.) She, therefore, would not be available. So—if murderers would refrain from murdering, naturally—it might be pleasant to see Professor Brinkley again, with nothing hanging on vowels, determinate or indeterminate.

  II

  IT WAS SURPRISING, Walter Brinkley thought at four-thirty on the afternoon of Saturday, June twenty-eighth, how one guest led to another. It had been different in the old days; it had been, “They’ll start coming in about an hour, dear, so don’t you think—” in the gentlest, the dearest remembered, of voices. It had been, “You will remember to be especially nice to poor dear Thelma, won’t you, Walter?” But then too there had, usually, been more people than he would have expected, and now, more clearly than before, he understood why. It was, specifically, that one guest did lead to another.

  The Sands, of course. And the Farnleys. And Jerry Hopkins—the cantankerous old galoot. But if the Sands, then, if one was not to be rude, the Abernathys, who went around so much with the Sands. And if the Abernathys, the Thayers, also, since he knew the Thayers equally well, and had known them for as long a time. And dear old Mrs. Belsen—who was really a person one invited to tea, instead of to cocktails—would be surprised, and in her gentle way might even be hurt, if other old-timers, like the Farnleys, for example, were invited and she was not. Mrs. Belsen, of course, led inevitably to the Misses Monroe, listed in telephone directory as “Monroe, Misses, the,” a form which had always delighted Walter Brinkley. And since the party was, after all, for young
Craig (How boyhood habits of thought do linger!) it would be unpardonable to omit the Knights, although Walter did not, himself, much care for Jasper Knight. (There had been the matter, while it was Jasper’s turn, in the methodical revolution of Republican wheels, to be town supervisor, of the exemption from two-acre zoning of a considerable area of land, almost all of which had happened to be the property of Jasper Knight.) I must, Walter Brinkley thought, a little worriedly, try not to be prejudiced against Republicans.

  Brinkley adjusted his blue bow tie, knowing that long before the party was over it would have ceased to pursue the even tenor of its ways, and that he would not remember to do anything about it, and went downstairs to ask about the ice.

  Harry Washington wore a white coat which shone. He said, “Now jes rest yuhself, professor,” and that the ice—a big bag of the ice—was in the freezer. He said, also, that Ellen White, available since she did not work on Saturdays for the Craigs, would be there in plenty of time to pass the canapés, and that the inn had sent the canapés, and that Ben had been instructed about parking the cars, and that the bar was all set up and that there would be plenty of liquor, of all kinds, to go around—and around and around and around, if the younger set, the “ranch-house set,” felt like revolving.

  “I make it forty-three,” Walter Brinkley said. “Will there be room enough, Harry?”

  “’Ceptin around the bah,” Harry said. “Now you jes rest yuhself, professor. Only it’s forty-five if Mister and Miz Sands bring their weekend guests, like they said maybe.”

  Walter Brinkley went out onto the terrace, and sat in a shady place, and was very glad that the afternoon was fine, because that meant that the party could, if it chose, spill over onto the terrace. It meant also, which is always important at country parties, that cars, which would necessarily be parked off the driveway, on the lawn, would not be mired there. Sometimes guests kept coming back for days, often with tow trucks, and what the turf looked like afterward—

  I, Walter Brinkley thought, am getting so that I worry about not having to worry about things. A doddering old man—too old for this sort of thing. A fussy old man, anticipating dire consequences from the most innocent of things. What, really, could go wrong at a small party—and with Harry to see to things—on a pleasant afternoon in early summer? Jes rest yuhself, professor. And what part of the Deep South did Harry fancy his assumed, his so carefully assumed, accent came from? Professor Brinkley ran it over in his mind. Georgia? Not quite Georgia. Tennessee, then? Perhaps a little nearer Tennessee. It would be interesting to know where Harry’s parents had grown up since it must have been from them Harry mimicked the soft accents he used—when he remembered to—for, surely, his own amusement. Or, gently to ridicule—without hatred, conceivably to avoid hatred—the paler skinned ones he, and all his color, had cause to hate?

  A car—the most ancient of Rolls-Royces, with the most ancient of men driving it—crept cautiously off Hayride Lane, into the driveway. That would be the Misses Monroe. They would be surprised, fluttered, to be first. They had so been fluttered since he could remember, Walter Brinkley thought, and crinkled inside, and walked across the terrace, toward the drive, to greet his guests.

  Lieutenant Commander Brady Wilkins had been in San Diego and then he had been in Texas—what was the Navy doing in Texas?—and then in Florida, at Key West, where it might be that the Navy was doing a variety of things. And now he was either in New York, probably at 90 Church Street, or—on his way to North Wellwood. They had been on the terrace, finishing lunch, when the telephone rang inside and, very quickly, Caroline said, “I’ll take it,” and spoke with a kind of excitement in her voice. She went through the open french doors; Dorcas could hear her steps—so much quicker than usual; it was almost as if she were running—on the wide boards of the living room floor. And, tensed too, listening, Dorcas found that she was holding her breath—holding her breath for Caroline, hoping for Caroline.

  “Hello,” she heard Caroline say, and the ordinary word seemed somehow to tremble. But then Caroline said, “Oh. Darling,” and Dorcas got out of the terrace chair and walked off on the lawn until she had walked away from her cousin’s voice—from the eagerness, the happiness in a voice which belonged to only two and was nothing to be spied upon. I’m so glad, Dorcas Cameron thought; so glad for her.

  She did not return quickly to the terrace; did not return at all, indeed, until Caroline stood on the terrace, in the sun, with the sun on her honey-colored hair, and looked toward her across the sweep of green and then moved her head in a gesture which beckoned. Dorcas went back, then, and went quickly, and did not need to be told, because her cousin’s face was lighted with it, and was told anyway.

  “Brady,” Caroline said. “In New York. And—coming up. This afternoon. Borrowing a car and—”

  “Darling,” Dorcas said and then, “It’s wonderful” and then, “I’m so glad,” and took the hands Caroline held out to her. And then, rather absurdly, very delightedly, the two girls did a little circling dance on the terrace, in the sunlight.

  There was, however, more to it. Lieutenant Commander Brady Wilkins was in New York, was coming up. However—

  When he would get there depended on things which he could not entirely control; on, it appeared—and, as always, appeared in the murk of security—a man he had to see in regard to something he wasn’t supposed to mention. (And wouldn’t mention, even to a wife; even to a wife who was also Caroline.) If he and this man could finish with what they had to discuss early enough, Brady Wilkins would be in time for the party. To “drop in on the party.”

  “I don’t,” Caroline said, “think he’ll want to stay long. Or—that either of us will.”

  “I should think not,” Dorcas said.

  “So much to—that is, to talk about,” Caroline said.

  “I,” Dorcas said, and spoke gravely, while laughter, and delight, flickered in her eyes, “would think there might be.”

  To which Caroline said, of course, “You!”

  It was four-thirty, and Dorcas was under a shower, changing for the party when, faintly over the sound of beating water, she heard the telephone ring again. She shut the water off and was wrapping herself in a towel robe, but then the telephone was stopped in the middle of its ringing, so she wriggled in the robe to dry her body and stood on first one foot and then the other to dry brown feet and legs. She was, she decided, getting a good start; was well along to browning, although it still was June. That was because they had “the place”—the place they had found early the previous autumn, too late in the year to do much good, but a place which had been wonderful, now, since mid-May.

  It was a sheltered place—a kind of cup of sunlight, some distance from the house, with the house, and a dip of ground, and many trees and bushes between it and the road. It was smooth grass, shielded alike from breeze and from alien observation, and a wonderful place for sun-bathing. It might have been planned for that—dry tinder the robe, walking along the hallway from her bedroom toward the much larger “master” bedroom, so commonly without any “master”—Dorcas wondered if it had. She said, “Hi?” tentatively, into the large bedroom.

  “Brady,” Caroline said, and turned on the padded bench in front of her dressing table. Caroline was brown too; browner, if anything, thanks to their “solarium.” “He’s just leaving.”

  “Oh,” Dorcas said, and the tone was a little flat.

  “Yes,” Caroline said. “And—two hours, with weekend traffic. At least two hours.”

  To which Dorcas again said, “Oh.”

  “So,” Caroline said, “you go along when you want to and we’ll come when we can. Sevenish, probably.”

  “You will?” She looked at the brown-all-over of “the beautiful one” and thought of Brady Wilkins and was, somewhat, inclined to doubt it.

  “You,” Caroline said. “Of course we will. For a quick one, anyway. We promised the lamb.”

  So, at a little after five—there was no use twiddling thumbs abo
ut it—Dorcas Cameron called, “Be seeing you,” upstairs to her cousin, and went across the terrace toward the garage—went the long way around, by path, because grass will, when one least expects it, stain white shoes. She wore a green linen dress and went hatless. It was not until she was turning into the Brinkley driveway in the little commuting Ford that it occurred to her that this might be one of those at which people wore hats. And, it was even conceivable, white gloves.

  Nonsense, Dorcas Cameron decided and said, “Hello, Ben,” to the elderly colored man in white jacket who had said, “Afternoon, Miss Cameron,” and waited to do something with her car. “Treat her gently, Ben,” Dorcas said, “she’s pretty feeble,” and Ben laughed at that—what gaiety there is in their laughter, Dorcas thought—and said, “Sho will, Miss Cameron.” And then she went to the door, at which the lamb—the lamb himself—waited.

  “My dear,” William Brinkley said, as if he meant it, and then, “No cousin?”

  She explained. Looking into the big, cool living room, she said, “I guess I’m early, Mr. Brinkley.” She had heard about the professor part—that it was an appellation for the campus. “Of course not,” he said, “come and meet the Misses Monroe.”

  The Misses Monroe did wear hats—little white hats, with flowers. They were not identical white hats, but they were very sisterly white hats. Each Miss Monroe wore a white glove on her left hand, and cuddled another white glove within it. The Misses Monroe were much of a size, which was small, and they had faces which reminded Dorcas of soft pink tissue paper, ever so tenderly crumpled. They wore silk dresses, and one of the dresses was gray with a print of very tiny yellow flowers and the other was pale blue with very tiny white flowers. One of the Misses Monroe was Miss Elvina and the other was Miss Martha.