The Norths Meet Murder Page 23

  Pete looked at Weigand and came to investigate. He smelled Weigand’s shoes and rolled over to be tickled on the belly. Weigand tickled him. Pete scratched playfully, drawing blood. He was, Weigand saw, the same Pete. Weigand left Pete, who spoke indignantly about it, and walked up to the cabin, saying, “Hello!” Nothing happened. He walked around it and found that the land sloped down toward a lake and that near the lake there were two tennis courts and a good many people. That would be Lone Lake; that would be the tournament, which the Norths had assured him he had missed by not coming the weekend before. The tournament, evidently, had waited. He walked down.

  There were perhaps twenty people, mostly in tennis shorts or slacks, sitting in canvas chairs along one side, and there were others sitting in linesmen’s chairs. Then Weigand heard a familiar voice.

  “Damn,” said Mrs. North. “Oh, damn!”

  A ball rose from Mrs. North’s racket on the far side of the court, cleared the backstop and subsided near Weigand. He picked it up and threw it back and both Norths waved their rackets at him.

  “Hey,” said Mr. North. He said it darkly, as from deep gloom. Weigand raised a hand and went on to a vacant chair. The Norths were playing together and evidently not doing too well.

  There was a young woman he had never seen before in the chair next Weigand’s.

  “Shh!” she said. “Finals. Mixed doubles.”

  “Right,” said Weigand. He watched Mr. North serve, hard to the opposing man. It was a fault. The second was good and went back hard to Mr. North’s backhand. It returned, hard, into the net.

  “Game,” said the umpire, and puzzled over his score-sheet. “The games are five-three, Miss Corbin and Mr. Saunders lead.”

  Miss Corbin was a slight, dark-eyed girl in shining white tennis shirt and shorts. Her face was clear-etched, in a fashion to make anyone feel, when he looked at her, that his eyes were sharper than he had thought them. Mr. Saunders was a large, blond man in slacks and shirt and bright red sunburn. He went to the net and Miss Corbin served.

  “They’ve each got a set,” the girl next Weigand said. “Isn’t it exciting?”

  Weigand said it was.

  “Jerry and Pam looked like taking it,” the girl said, “but then Jean and Hardie got going. They’ve been amazing, the way they played together. They, of all people.”

  Weigand said he saw. Miss Corbin, who might be either Hardie or Jean, served spitefully to Mrs. North’s backhand. Mrs. North lobbed it over Saunders. Miss Corbin covered, but her return arched lazily at the net. Mr. North, coming in, smashed it away and looked pleased. But he snarled angrily when his own return of service went unmolested down the alley and, still unmolested, over the base-line by a yard. Mr. North returned to position, shaking his head angrily. Mrs. North’s cross-court on the next service caught the netcord, hung a moment and fell on the Norths’ side. Mr. North shook his head darkly, as if he had expected it.

  “Come on, Jerry,” Mrs. North said. “We can take them.”

  Mr. North looked at her, and his profile was disconsolate. He cross-courted in turn, off the forehand, and missed the side-line by inches—out. He banged his racket on the ground and himself on the forehead, with an open hand.

  “Forty-fifteen,” the umpire said, formally. “Match point,” he added, out of sheer excitement. Mr. North glared at him.

  Mrs. North won her point with a forehand down the alley.

  “Forty-thirty,” the umpire said, tensely.

  Miss Corbin served with a sudden change of pace. Mr. North jumped in, barely caught it and everybody watched while it went off at an impossible angle, landed just over the net, and, under the impetus of an obviously unintended slice, bounced back into the Norths’ court.

  “Oh,” said the girl beside Weigand. “Oh. Oh!” Everybody else said “Oh” except the umpire, who said “Deuce.”

  Miss Corbin rapped her racket angrily on the ground and said something to Mr. Saunders. Weigand didn’t hear what it was, but it didn’t sound pleasant. He saw Saunders flush a little under the sunburn.

  “Keep your service deep, why don’t you?” he said. “And come in!”

  Miss Corbin served a fault and served again. Mrs. North let it go by, inches beyond the service line. Nobody said anything. The Norths looked at the linesman, who looked back blandly.

  “Advantage Miss Corbin,” the umpire said.

  She served to Mr. North, who chopped back to her. She returned to Mrs. North, who drove for a tiny opening between her opponents, and found it. Miss Corbin and Mr. Saunders glared at each other. They were irritated, strained. It seemed to Weigand, watching them, that their irritation might have a background beyond the evident cause. But you couldn’t tell. He watched Mr. North suddenly beam and go over to pat his wife on the shoulder. Miss Corbin served, set up another floater off Mrs. North’s drive, and North killed it. Advantage out. She served again and Mr. North, suddenly revived, drove hard to her alley. Her backhand went into the net and she threw her racket down angrily. Then she picked it up and went ahead of her partner around the net as they changed courts. Her face was set and angry.

  The Norths tied it at five-all on Mrs. North’s service and then broke through Saunders—thanks in part to a missed volley by Miss Corbin, at which Saunders stared coldly. The Norths looked at their adversaries curiously and everybody sitting along the court seemed subdued and a little nervous. The final game was a rout, the Norths winning at love. There was a strange moment after the last point when a situation seemed to be stretching in the air; then Miss Corbin suddenly smiled and ran forward to the net to shake Mrs. North’s hand. Then everybody shook hands and Miss Corbin and Saunders shook hands and it was only the end of a “bunny” tournament match.

  The four came off court together and the Norths descended on Weigand joyfully.

  “Bill!” Mrs. North said. “We won! Did you see? We won!”

  Weigand looked down at her affectionately and said it was nice going. He shook hands with Mr. North, who said, “Hiya, Bill, was I awful!” Mrs. North said he must meet people and darted off toward her late opponents. A dark, active young man had an arm around Miss Corbin’s shoulders and was saying, “You were going great, Jean.” He spoke like a Southerner, Weigand thought. He congratulated Pam North when she came up, and a pale-haired young woman with a face which was suddenly bitter turned away from where she had been standing near Jean Corbin and the young Southerner. Then Jean Corbin, Saunders, the dark young man and Mrs. North turned back to North and Weigand, and came toward them. Mrs. North introduced.

  “Jean,” she said, “this is Bill Weigand. Jean Corbin. Hardie Saunders. John Blair. He’s from Georgia. And—Bram, come here. Bram Van Horst. He owns us all.” Bram Van Horst was a tall, very blond man in his middle forties, with hair receding from a domed head. He laughed at Pam’s explanation of him, but did not amplify. Pam collected more.

  It was a haze of people, too rapidly moving and confused even for Weigand’s trained habits of identification. There was James Harlan Abel, who was Dr. Abel to Pam, and his wife, who was Evelyn. There was Thelma Smith—she was the pale-haired girl, who still looked bitter, but less bitter than she had. There was Helen Wilson, who was the girl who had given Weigand the score. There was a man named something Kennedy and a girl named Dorian something. Weigand’s confusion lightened a little when Dorian entered it; she was a girl who moved with an arresting certainty of balance such as Weigand had seen only once or twice before—in a boxer, once, and again in a tennis player to whom, years before, Weigand had lost in the second round of a rather good tournament. The place was thick with people—a couple named Askew floated into and out of the group; a middle-aged man named Hanscomb arrived, inquired how Weigand did and vanished.

  Then there was a tall, rangy man with a crooked smile and a familiar red head and beside him a slender, black-haired young woman in dark red slacks and a soft white shirt. She had a heart-shaped face and a diverting expression of impertinence.

  “You know
the Fullers,” Pam North said. “Jane. Ben. Here’s a friend of yours.”

  The Fullers looked at him, smiled, and looked at each other.

  “Do we know him, kid?” Ben Fuller inquired. “Do we know guys like him?”

  Jane Fuller thought, puckering her face.

  “Maybe a little,” she said. “Maybe we know him just a little.”

  They turned to Weigand.

  “We think we know you a little,” Fuller said. “How are you, fellow?”

  “Fine,” Weigand said. “On vacation, as it happens. If that’s all right with you, Fuller?”

  He grinned as he said it, and Fuller grinned back. They shook hands and Jane smiled at him. Then she whistled, lightly, a few bars from Gilbert and Sullivan. Weigand grinned at her, and said that just now there wasn’t any to be done.

  “Not for ten days, anyhow,” he said. “Vacation. So don’t start anything.”

  Then there were more people, drifting in, drifting away. Pam began what was evidently a move to corral.

  “Drinks with us,” she said. “Wait here.”

  Weigand, North and the Fullers waited in a small, expectant group while Mrs. North tapped guests. She tapped Helen Wilson and Helen brought the girl named Dorian, who still moved with that odd and challenging perfection of balance, to join the knot of the chosen. She tapped, in succession, Jean Corbin, who shook her head and smiled and said something, and Hardie Saunders, who nodded his head and smiled but did not join Mrs. North as she returned.

  “Jean’s going to Bram’s,” Mrs. North said. “And Hardie’s got a stew, but he’ll be along later.”

  She noticed a reeling expression on Weigand’s face and smiled at him helpfully.

  “A stew to put on,” she said. “He and Johnny Blair share a cabin and Hardie cooks.”

  Weigand nodded, consoled. Mrs. North led them toward the cabin.

  “Look,” her husband said, apparently to the company at large. “I don’t know about anybody else, but I’m going to take a shower.”

  “It’s September!” Mrs. North said in a shocked tone. “I was thinking of a fire.”

  Mr. North said there could be a fire afterward, but it was warm, even if September, and he was showering.

  “Anybody who wants—” he said. “You, Bill?”

  Weigand was a little puzzled, but he said, “Right,” because he supposed it would be. Mrs. North looked at them and shook her head.

  “You always fix it,” she said, “so that somebody else makes the drinks.” She paused and looked at her assembly, moving idly up the slope to the cabin. “Ben can,” she decided. “But we’ll save you the fire.”

  And then the group scattered on the Norths’ lawn and Pete met them and spoke urgently of the icebox, and the Norths moved Weigand and luggage into a room. It was a simple, rectangular cabin, with a spreading central living-room. There was a fireplace at one end and French doors opening on a terrace at the other. Three corner rooms were bedrooms, big enough for beds and chests of drawers; the fourth was the kitchen, big enough for stove and icebox and a clamoring cat, which was trying to get into the box.

  “Liver,” Mrs. North said. “He always does.”

  Weigand put on trunks as he was told and got a towel. Pete produced excited sounds indicating the arrival of liver; Ben Fuller moved toward the icebox and the liquor supply; Mr. North said “Tom Collinses, huh?” to Weigand and when Weigand nodded shouted “Two Toms” to Fuller. Then Weigand and North were going back the way they had come, past the tennis courts, and on along a path through reddening sumach, with the lake darting sunlight from the right.

  “Well—” said Weigand.

  “Isn’t it?” North said. “But you’ll get used to it. Do you mind cold showers?”

  “Well—” said Weigand.

  “Yes,” North said. “I see what you mean. But it’s swell afterward.”

  The path curved toward the lake through trees and came suddenly on a brook, crossed by a narrow bridge.

  “Hello the shower?” Mr. North yelled, suddenly.

  “Hello,” said what was apparently the shower, in a feminine voice. “Just coming out.”

  They crossed the bridge and hesitated and after a moment Jean Corbin came out, in fresh white slacks and yellow shirt and with damp hair. She said “brrr!

  “It’s getting to be more than I can take,” she said. “I freeze.” She turned along another path away from them and called back, “See you at the Fullers’.”

  North led Weigand to the shower. It was a pipe extending from the top of the bank over the brook with a shower nozzle giving freely at the end.

  “Right from a spring,” Mr. North said, cheerfully, and climbed out of his trunks. Weigand watched him, and shivered. Mr. North went under and seemed to contract. “Wow!” said Mr. North. He soaped, gyrated, and emerged. “Feels swell,” he said, chattering. Weigand wished himself elsewhere; or Mr. North elsewhere, taking any compulsion to manliness with him. But he braced himself and went under. When he could say anything he said “Jesus!” and it was more prayer than blasphemy. But it felt fine afterward.

  They rubbed and resumed trunks and talked idly.

  “A lot of people to meet at once, isn’t it?” Mr. North said. Weigand nodded.

  “They’ll come to you as time goes on,” North promised. “You’ll be seeing them all after dinner, at the Fullers’. Party.”

  “Right,” said Weigand.

  Mr. North submerged himself in thought.

  “Did you,” he said suddenly, “ever see anything flukier than that shot of mine?”

  Weigand said he hadn’t, that he could remember.

  2

  SATURDAY

  4 P.M. TO 6:30 P.M.

  The people began to come straight a little as they sat in the cabin, before a tiny fire built, Mrs. North said, for cheerfulness. (But as the sun sank one began to remember that it was September; that they were sixty miles northeast of New York and five hundred feet higher.) Bram Van Horst came straight, for example. He owned Lone Lake and all the cabins. He had been an aviator once, and an army officer in the first world war and for a while he had been rather successful as an illustrator. Then he had bought a hundred and fifty acres and built a dam—“he’s Dutch, you know,” Mrs. North explained—and put up cabins around the edge of the lake when it filled. He called it Lone Lake—“I guess because he was lonely then,” Mrs. North said—and rented the cabins to people he knew, or friends of people he knew.

  Weigand sat, glass in hand, on a couch beside Dorian Hunt. The people were new to her, too. She hadn’t, she said, been up before, although Helen had often asked her. Helen lived in what had been the farmhouse, when Lone Lake was a farm, commuting to New York in spite of unfriendly train schedules. Helen’s mother stayed at the lake all summer, and took care of Helen and Helen’s guests.

  “She’s a jolly soul,” Dorian Hunt told Weigand, as this information weaved in and out of the conversation, broke off at some remark from Ben Fuller, started again when the talk hesitated and almost stilled. Weigand thought of the description the next day, when he met Mrs. Wilson, who then had no cause for jollity.

  Dorian was a fashion artist and Arthur Kennedy, who was also a guest of the Wilsons’, was a friend of hers and of Helen’s.

  “Misplaced at the moment, apparently,” she added.

  Weigand exchanged information, giving her the Fullers, Ben and Jane. They lived in the Village, in a house all their own, and Fuller was an importer like his father before him.

  “I don’t know them at all well, as a matter of fact,” Weigand added. “I met them both once, in connection with a matter—well, a matter of business. Likable.”

  Dorian nodded, and looked off inquiringly at Helen Wilson, who was standing up, with a small package under her arm. Helen was a tall, solid girl with light hair and wholesome coloring. She told Dorian to stay right where she was.

  “I’ve got to go to Ireland’s,” she said, “and then around to Jean’s to leave her a tenn
is shirt I bought for her and forgot, and then I’ll be back. Keep my drink warm for me.” She looked around. “I’ll put it up here,” she said, and put it on the mantel. Then she went off along the path which paralleled the road toward Ireland’s store. Everybody who had looked up and smiled returned to their drinks. Nobody could do more than guess afterward what time she left or returned, but she was gone, Weigand thought, not quite half an hour.

  She came back, at any rate, took her drink, looked around at the others suspiciously, and said she had left more than that. “Lots more,” she said. Everybody laughed and Mr. North made her a fresh one. He had only finished it, and one or two refills, including Weigand’s, when somebody outside said: “Hello?”

  The Norths said “Yo!” and Hardie Saunders came in, tall and blond and with a sunburn which seemed to glow in the room. He had a rum collins, and cupped his big hands around the tall glass gratefully. Then he looked at the little fire and snorted.

  “My God,” he said. “A fire!” He looked hot, and made much of it, mopping his forehead. “I thought fires were weeks off.”

  “Not in this house,” Mrs. North said firmly. “Don’t give Jerry ideas. He never gets cold and I have to build them and get kerosene all over me. Smelly.”

  “Kerosene?” Weigand said, looking at the logs blazing.

  “To start,” North said. “We all do up here. Old Marvin doesn’t sell kindling, so we just slosh kerosene on and—pouff!”

  “That’s why we don’t allow Boy Scouts,” said Mrs. North. “They’d writhe so, the poor things.”

  The talk was now desultory, now heated as it turned to the world war that was beginning, shied away from it, edged relentlessly back. There were more drinks and Helen Wilson joined Dorian and Weigand on the couch. She seemed thoughtful, but listened smilingly when North and Saunders post-mortemed the mixed doubles final. Mr. North insisted gravely that he had all along intended the slice on his return of service.

  “It was just as we planned it,” he insisted. Saunders said, “Yah!” in burlesqued disgust. “Why, Jean and I—” he said. He left it at that and moved across the room away from the fire. He was out of earshot when Helen turned to Weigand.