“He’s Theron’s son,” I reminded. “Anyway, that’s Ansel’s idea — to see that no cheating b done.”
“Huh! I reckon he’s heard about that woman bein’ here.”
“Yes,” I said.
“You oughtta make a pair, I reckon. Name of Jeannie Dupree, she used to whisper songs in one of them Mobile night clubs. At that, she can shore act, would almost convince you that she’s honest sorry for old Theron and tryin’ to cheer up his last minutes outta the goodness of her heart. Huh!” It was s snort this time. “Well, ray name’s Jeddrath Sloan. I’m the handyman, but if you want anything done around here for you, you’ll have to do it yourself. You and Ansel Mace. Hub!” He stalked off.
If the coupé had been less a crate. I’d have called him back to pay for a paint job; in the hood were a few score shiny little pits where the shot had hit. As it was, I chuckled at the vinegary old guy and drove on toward the house.
I left the car on the edge of the drive. The dying sun cast thick gloomy shadows over the wide veranda. I let the heavy knocker fall on the massive oak door. A moment later a thin, pinch-faced maid answered the booming, dull knock. Along with a few other last-minute instructions, Ansel Mace had given me a note on one of his letterheads stating that this would serve as credential of one Allan Martin, employed by him. The maid handed it back. I told her, “Mr. Mace wanted me to look in on his father, and see Doctor Cole Delanard. Incidentally, Mace told me I might need to stay overnight and I’ve got a toothbrush and extra shirt in the pock-marked coupé there in the drive.”
The maid nodded. “I’ll show you to a room later. Doctor Delanard is upstairs with Mr. Theron Mace. He’s been there all day, sir, as the old master is sinking fast. No one has been allowed in his room, but as you come directly from Mr. Theron’s son...”
“Sure,” I said. Then I went with her down a hallway that could have been hired out for a gilt-party ballroom. The maid indicated the room, and I mounted the wide stairs.
A short, startlingly fat man answered my knock on Theron Mace’s door. He reminded me of one of those dime-store toys that you tip over only to have it bob upright again. “Doctor Delanard?” I asked.
He nodded.
“I’m Allan Martin,” I said. “Ansel Mace sent me up.”
He eased out in the hall, closing the door softly. He squinted at the card I handed him, said, “It was a good idea, Ansel sending you up here. It’ll make me feel a lot better, knowing a detective is on the scene.”
“It’s that bad?”
Delanard raised his pinkish brows. “As old Theron’s will stands, Ansel Mace gets next to nothing. But lying here, ill, Theron has thought about his son. He’s talked of changing his will, favoring Ansel. Certain people would like to see the old man die before he can do that. Old Jeddrath Sloan for one. Jed has given Theron Mace a lifetime of devoted service. He’s been well paid, but feels that Theron owes him something more, a sort of reward, I suppose. And then, Mr. Martin — then there is the girl, Jeannie Dupree.”
“Yes,” I said. “The girl.”
Delanard coughed behind his hand. “I don’t know exactly how Theron’s present will stands, but I do know that it was made in a moment of heated anger at Ansel, his son, giving the greater part of the fortune to the servants, charities, Jeddrath Sloan. And, I think, the girl.”
“I’ll get around to that, Doctor. Right now I’d like to see the old man. It’s been a hard push to drive it here in four hours, and Ansel — since he couldn’t leave New Orleans — asked me to give the old man his best wishes first thing. And see if I could gather what’s in old Theron’s mind.”
Delanard opened the door. “Quietly, please. He’s been sinking rapidly all day. I’m not sure he’ll last the night. I’ll see if he’s asleep.”
Inside the doorway, I shuddered. It was like walking in a tomb. The blinds were drawn, shrouding the room in dense twilight. The old man lay on his back in the four-poster bed, eyes closed, the old-fashioned nightcap covering his head to his ears, the silk comforter pulled to his chin.
Delanard eased back across the room from the bed. “He’s asleep,” he whispered. “As soon as he wakes, I’ll let you know.”
I nodded. “I’d better go back downstairs and see if I can get a clear circuit to New Orleans. Ansel asked me to phone as soon as I arrived.”
I left the room. I started down the stairs in a hurry; but halfway down I stopped. She was standing in the downstairs hallway, looking up at me.
The girl.
II.
She was small without looking weak. Her face had a fresh, young color, and her hair was a rich, warm brown.
“Jeddrath tells me a private detective named Allan Martin is looking for my scalp. Would you be Mr. Martin?”
I nodded, moving toward her at the foot of the stairs. “Uncle Jed put it a little strong. I suppose you’re Jean Dupree?”
“Yes,” she said. “Ansel Mace sent you up here to run me off, didn’t he? To get me away from his father?”
“Something like that,” I admitted. “But you don’t look exactly like...”
She waited, and when I didn’t finish it, she said wryly, “A siren? Thanks for the backhanded compliment But you can tell your employer that he needn’t be afraid I’ll try to influence his father if old Theron really wants to make a new will, favoring Ansel Mace, as Doctor Delanard has mentioned to us.”
She turned and started down the hall, I in step beside her. “There’s nothing,” she said, “I mind telling you about myself. It’s true that I was singing for a living in Mobile. Theron Mace was an old friend of my father’s, long ago, before my father died. Old Theron was lonely, Ansel, his only son, was certainly no comfort to him. Old Theron Mace looked on me simply as the daughter of a dear old friend.”
I waited; somehow I couldn’t quite meet her eyes. Then I remembered what Jeddrath Sloan had said about her being such a wonderful actress, and I colored, and when I looked back at her, I guess my eyes were hard.
She didn’t seem to notice. She went on speaking as if she felt she owed it to me to explain this, and I could take it or leave it. “Not long after that,” she said, “I had pneumonia. Theron Mace was a real friend in need, a second father. I’m allergic to sulpha drugs and had to be cured the old-fashioned way. I had a battle of it. So finally, when I saw a small item in the New Orleans paper about Theron Mace being desperately ill I came up here. It was the least appreciation I could show. You can tell Ansel Mace that — and several other things that I’m too much of a lady to say aloud!”
She wheeled and hurried down the hall. The flash of her ankles was swell. I was quite suddenly aware that my pulse hadn’t beat this fast in several years, if ever. I laughed, sprang after her, caught her wrist. “Hey, wait a minute! You’ve had your say, now let me tell you what I...”
A big, unpleasant voice behind me said, “Let her go, you!”
I turned. The man must have been somewhere near the hallway the whole time. But I’d never seen him before. He was tall, inclined to stoutness. His face was pudgy, his mouth small, and his black hair blossomed out of his head the way a beet top grows. His imported tweed suit must have cost every dime of a couple hundred bucks.
“Hannibal,” the girl said, sharply.
“Hannibal?” I met his glower with one of my own. “Where are your elephants?”
“You’re not a damn bit funny, Martin,” he informed me. “I’m Hannibal Constan, and next to Theron Mace, the Constans are the richest people in Mace County.”