Bill Pronzini - Deadfall

“Yes.”

“Well. Would you like some coffee? Tea?”

“Nothing, thanks.”

“Shall we sit down, then?”

We sat on the weird-looking furniture. She got what looked to be a couch; I got a chair that appeared to have been made out of a bunch of twisted-up coat hangers and had a funny off-color orange cushion that seemed to massage my rear end as I lowered into it, as if it were something sentient and perverted bent on playing grab-ass. I almost came up out of the thing in reaction. As it was I managed to curb my imagination and stay put-but I sat gingerly, with no squirming around. I did not want to give the chair any ideas.

Mrs. Purcell crossed one leg over the other. They were nice legs, and she was letting me see plenty of them under the short hem of the skirt. I wondered if the free show was deliberate-if she just naturally came on to every man she encountered-or if she just didn’t give a damn.

She said, “I suppose it’s that call Tom Washburn received?”

“Ma’am?”

“The reason he believes Kenneth was murdered. The call he took that was meant for Leonard.”

“How did you know about the call?”

“The police told me when they were here-the San Francisco police, last week. He was a crank, of course. The caller.”

“Was he? Why are you so sure?”

“If he did know something… sinister about Kenneth’s death-and I don’t believe that for a minute-why would he have waited six months to contact Leonard?”

That was the sticking point, all right. But I said, “He might have had his reasons.”

“What reasons, for heaven’s sake?”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Purcell.”

“Well,” she said, and waved a hand as if to wave away the entire issue. She probed in the slash pocket of her skirt, drawing the hem even higher on her thighs, and came out with a package of cigarettes and a platinum-and-gold lighter. I watched her light up and blow smoke off to one side. Marlene Dietrich, I thought. She didn’t smoke a cigarette; she made love to it.

I waited, not saying anything, to see what she would do with the conversation. Pretty soon she said, “Last night you mentioned some details you wanted to clear up. What are they?”

“They have to do with the night your husband died.”

“Yes?”

“According to the newspaper accounts, he disappeared at around nine-thirty-”

“Approximately, yes. That was the last any of us saw him.”

“Who saw him then?”

“Lina. He went out through the kitchen.”

I said, “Who would Lina be?”

“My housekeeper. She let you in.”

“Did your husband go out alone or with someone?”

“Alone.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Not long before that. In his hobby room.”

“May I ask what you talked about?”

“His drinking,” she said. “He’d had several Scotches and he was rather drunk. He had a tendency to make a spectacle of himself when he drank too much, so I-”

“How do you mean, make a spectacle of himself?”

“Oh, you know: he became obnoxiously loud, argumentative, sometimes insulting to guests.”

“But he hadn’t reached that state when you spoke to him?”

“No. But I knew it wouldn’t be long before one of his mood swings. I asked him to please not drink any more.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he wouldn’t.”

“Was he always that accommodating?”

“Not always, no. He was that night-I suppose because it was an occasion for him. He’d just bought a valuable French snuff box… you know about that, I’m sure.”

“Yes.”

“Well, that must be why he went out on the cliffs,” she said. “To accomodate me, I mean. To sober up.”

“What did you do after you left him in the hobby room?”

“I don’t remember exactly. It was such a hectic evening-parties are always hectic for the hostess-and I’d had a fair amount to drink myself. Champagne, at least that wears off after a while. I think I went to the kitchen to see how Lina was doing.”

“And after that?”

“Let’s see… That was when Leonard and I talked in the library.”

“Talked privately, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“What did you talk about?”

She reached over to crush out her cigarette in an ashtray that looked like the cross-section of a stomach in the Pepto-Bismol commercial. “It was girl-talk,” she said, and smiled.

“How do you mean, Mrs. Purcell?”

“Well, you know Leonard was gay…”

“Yes.”

“And that he and Tom Washburn had been living together for some time…”

“Yes.”

“Well, they were thinking seriously about getting married. Did you know that?”

“Washburn mentioned it, yes.”

“Leonard wanted my opinion,” she said. “He knew I wouldn’t laugh at him; he knew I would understand. That was what we discussed.”

“You and Leonard were close, then?”

“Close? No, I wouldn’t say that. We only saw each other a few times a year. But we could talk to each other; we had a kind of sisterly rapport. And I don’t mean that to sound facetious.”

I nodded and said nothing.

“I was shocked when I heard he’d been murdered,” she said, “but after Kenneth’s death… well, I couldn’t feel any deep sense of loss. I still can’t. Can you understand that?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Please don’t call me ma’am,” she said. “It makes me feel like an old lady. Do I look like an old lady?”

“Not from where I sit.”

She smiled again and recrossed her legs and tugged the skirt down a little. Not much.

I said, “Do you feel a deep loss at your husband’s death?”

Her eyes moved over my face, as if trying to find a way inside my head so she could read my thoughts. Then she shrugged and smiled self-deprecatingly and said, “To be honest, no. Kenneth and I were no longer in love; we seldom even slept together any more. He led his life and I led mine.”

“Then why did you stay married?”

“He liked having me around, and I like this house.” The self-deprecating smile again. “He was a very wealthy man,” she said. “And if that sounds mercenary, so be it. I would much rather be rich than poor.”

“Did you know you were one of the principal beneficiaries of his will?”

“Of course. Kenneth had no financial secrets from me. Do you think I murdered him? For his money?”

“Money is a primary motive for murder,” I said.

“Not in my case. I never wanted for anything the entire time we were married. And I was here in the house when he fell; others have already vouched for that. Not that I or anyone else needs an alibi. My husband’s death was an accident; I believe that with all my heart.”

I said, “Let’s go back to you and Leonard in the library. How long were you together?”

“Fifteen or twenty minutes.”

“Did you leave at the same time?”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“Someone, I don’t remember who, asked me where Kenneth was. No one had seen him in a while. I thought perhaps he’d passed out in his bedroom-he’d done that more than once at a party-but he wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere in the house.”

“What did you do then?”

“I knew he must have gone out on the cliffs,” she said. “He’d done that before, too, even though I warned him not to; it’s dangerous out there at night. I didn’t want to go alone for that reason, so I asked Leonard and one of the other guests, George Collins, to come with me. We took a flashlight and when we reached the edge… there was a moon that night and we could see Kenneth down below-” She broke off, sighed, and lighted another cigarette. “Well, it was an ugly scene and I’d rather not talk about it. I’ve been trying to forget that night for the past six months.”