"Rod, there is absolutely no way to predict that. It could be days, weeks, months, years."
He groaned.
"But there is no statute of limitations on homicide," I said. "The police will keep at it as long as it takes-and so will I."
"Thank you for that," he said. "I see you need a refill. Please help yourself." While I was doing exactly that, he said, "Archy, will you be exchanging information with Rogoff?"
"I hope so."
"While I'm up north for Lydia's funeral, may I phone you to ask if any progress has been made? I don't want to call Rogoff; he'll tell me nothing."
"Of course you can phone me," I said. I was about to add that naturally I'd be unable to reveal anything without Rogoff s permission. But Gillsworth's animus toward the sergeant seemed evident, and not wanting to exacerbate it, I said no more.
"I'll really appreciate it if you can keep me informed."
"How long will you be gone, Rod?"
"Two or three days. I'd like to give you a set of house keys before you leave tonight. Would you be kind enough to look in once or twice while I'm gone?"
"I'd be glad to."
"Thank you. Our cleaning lady, Marita, has been given two weeks off, so she won't be around. And I have handed over a set of keys to the police. I don't know why they wanted them, but that sergeant grunted something about security. Oh God, what a mess this whole thing is."
"Rod, I hate to add to your burdens, but my father asked me to mention something to you. It is imperative that you make out a new will. Unfortunately, circumstances have changed, and your present will is simply inadequate."
His head snapped up as if I had slapped him.
"I hope I haven't offended you by referring to it," I said hastily.
"No, no," he said. "That's all right. I was just shocked that it hadn't even occurred to me. Your father is correct, as usual. As you probably know, Lydia inherited a great deal of money, and now I suppose it comes to me. What a filthy way to get rich."
"It was her wish," I reminded him.
"I know, but still.. Very well, you can tell your father that I'll certainly give it a lot of thought, and when I return from the funeral I'll get together with him."
"Good," I said. "A will isn't something that should be delayed."
He looked at me with a twisted smile. "A legal acknowledgment of one's mortality," he said. "Isn't that what a will is?"
"I suppose so," I said. "But for a man in your position it's a necessity."
He poured himself another drink with a hand that trembled slightly. I wondered how many more of those bombs he'd be able to gulp without falling on his face. I wanted to caution him but it wasn't my place.
He must have guessed what I was thinking because he grinned foolishly and said, "I'll sleep tonight."
"That you will."
"You know, these are the first drinks I've had since Lydia died. I wanted a drink desperately while waiting for the police to arrive, but it seemed shameful to need alcohol to give me courage to see it through. But now I don't care. I need peace even if it comes from a bottle and even if it's only temporary. Can you understand that?"
"Of course," I said. "As long as you have no intention of leaving the house tonight."
"No intention," he mumbled, his voice beginning to slur. "Positively no intention."
"That's wise," I said, finished my drink, and stood up. I had no desire to witness this stricken man's collapse. "Then if you'll give me your house keys, I'll be on my way."
He rooted in the top drawer of his desk and finally handed me three keys strung on an oversized paperclip. "Front door, back door, and garage," he said.
"I'll look in while you're gone," I promised. "And may I tell father you'll consult him about a new will when you return?"
"Yes," he said. "New will. I'll think about it."
He didn't stagger when he accompanied me to the front door, but he moved very, very slowly and once he placed a palm against the wall for support. He turned to face me at the entrance. I couldn't read his expression.
"Archy," he said, "do you like me? Do you?"
"Of course I like you," I said.
He grabbed my hand and clasped it tightly between both of his. "Good man," he said thickly. "Good man."
I gently drew my hand away. "Rod, be sure to lock up and put the chain on."
Outside, the door closed, I listened until I heard the sounds of the lock being turned and the chain fumbled into place. Then I took a deep breath of the cool night air and drove home.
I garaged the Miata and saw lights in my father's study. His door was open, which I took as an invitation to enter. He was seated in the leather club chair, a glass of port at his elbow. He was reading one of the volumes from his leather-bound set of Dickens. The book was hefty, and I guessed it to be Dombey and Son. He was stolidly reading his way through the entire Dickens oeuvre, and I admired his perseverance. Even more amazing, he remembered all the plots. I don't think even Dickens could do that.
He looked up as I entered. "Archy," he said, "you're home. You saw Gillsworth?"
"Yes, sir. He gave me a set of his house keys and asked that I look in once or twice while he's up north at the funeral."
I was waiting for him to ask me to sit down and have a glass of something, but he didn't.
"You brought up the subject of the will?"
"I did. He said he'd give it some thought and consult you when he returned."
"I suppose that's the best that can be hoped for. What condition is he in?"
"When I left him, he was half in the bag and still drinking."
One of father's eyebrows ascended. "That's not like Gillsworth. I've never known him to overindulge."
"Emotional strain," I suggested.
"No excuse," the lord of the manor pronounced and went back to his Dickens.
I climbed the stairs to my perch, thinking of what an uncompromising man my father was. And as I well knew, his bite was worse than his bark.
I undressed, showered, and scrubbed my choppers. Then I pulled on a silk robe I had recently purchased at a fancy-schmancy men's boutique on Worth Avenue. It bore a design of multicolored parrots carousing in a jungle setting. One of those crazy birds had a startling resemblance to Roderick Gillsworth.
I treated myself to a dram of marc and lighted an English Oval-my first cigarette of the day! I slouched in the padded swivel chair, put my bare feet up on the desk, and ruminated on why the poet had asked if I liked him. His question was as perplexing as Hertha Gloriana's kiss.
I didn't think it was the vodka talking; Gillsworth was seeking reassurance. But of what-and why from me? I could only conclude that his wife's death had left him so bereft that he had reached out to make contact with another human being. I happened to be handy.
But that explanation was not completely satisfying. Sgt. Rogoff has often accused me of having a taste for complexity, of searching for hidden motives and unconscious desires when I'd do better to accept the obvious. A1 could be right, and mother was correct in suggesting that Gillsworth was simply lonely. But I was not totally convinced.
Take as a case in point the recent behavior of yrs. truly. When the poet had asked, "Do you like me?" I had automatically replied, "Of course I like you." That was the polite and proper response to an intimate query from a man who was apparently suffering and needed, for whatever reason, a boost to his morale. And I had duly provided it.
But if the truth be known, I didn't like him. I didn't dislike him; I just felt nothing for him at all. That was my secret, and hardly something I'd reveal to him. I mention it now merely as an illustration of how the obvious frequently masks reality.
I was still musing gloomily on the strangeness of human nature when my phone rang. It was then almost midnight, and a call at that hour was not calculated to lift the McNally spirits. My first thought was: Now who's died?