“It’s too late!” screamed Sheila. “No — no — don’t shoot—!”
At the sound of the shot Sergeant Tumelty automatically jotted down the time, 10:23 P.M., and said sharply, “Miss Grey? Was that a shot, or...?”
He recognized the next sound. It was the snick of a receiver being set down on its cradle.
The sergeant got busy.
Just after midnight Dane, seeing the lighted windows in his parents’ apartment, went up and found his mother alone in the music room, watching an old film on television, Quality Street, from James Barrie’s 1901 drama of manners. No buckets of blood for Lutetia. In spite of Dane’s protest she turned off the set.
She kissed him on the brow. “Wouldn’t you like something to eat, dear? Or some cold lemonade?”
“No, thanks, Mother. Father’s not back?”
“No. I suppose he got through too late in Washington. After all, he did take an overnight bag.”
“And what have you been doing with yourself?” Dane wandered idly about the music room.
“Being just too wickedly slothful. The servants left at eight, and I’ve been sitting here ever since watching the television.”
“Mother?”
“Yes, dear,” smiled Lutetia.
“I’ve got something to ask you. Something very personal.”
“Oh?” She looked puzzled. The specific area of his question would never occur to her even as a speculation.
“I hope you understand that I wouldn’t ask such a thing if it weren’t very important for me to know.” He was casting about for some “nice” way to phrase the question.
“Of course, dear.” She laughed uncertainly. “You do make it sound... well...”
The way occurred to him. “Do you recall the annulment of the Van Der Broekyns marriage?” She immediately turned pink; she remembered. “His second marriage?” Lutetia nodded reluctantly. “What I have to ask you is this: Has it been, well, that same way with Dad?”
“Dane! How dare you!”
“I’m sorry, Mother. I must know. Has it?”
She refused to meet his eyes; sitting there, she was actually wringing her hands.
“Has it?”
He could barely hear her “Yes.”
And he was astounded. It was true. Sheila had told him the literal truth. He had never been so bewildered in his life.
“But Mother, I don’t understand. Why didn’t you tell me this before, when we were discussing...?”
“There are some things one simply doesn’t reveal,” Lutetia said stiffly, “even to one’s children. Especially to one’s children.”
“Mother, I’m not a child any more. I’ve known the facts of life for a long time, although my upbringing in that respect has been more like that of a tulip.” His bitterness was beginning to well up. He bit his lips, and the pain calmed down. “If Dad’s had this, well, condition, you tell me how he could have been unfaithful to you, as you said.”
“Infidelity is not just... physical.” Her lips were drawn up in a snarl of tension. “There’s infidelity of the spirit as well. Your father’s father and mother lived together for fifty-one years without having to find another woman or man.”
“Mother, Mother.”
He studied her, at a loss. How could he have arrived at his age knowing so little about his parents? His father, with problems both physical and psychological Dane could now only begin to guess at, going through his elaborate monkeyshines — drawn car shades, changed clothes, disguise, like some character out of E. Phillips Oppenheim or Conan Doyle — merely to visit another woman he could not even sleep with; his mother, tormented with such cloudy concepts as “infidelity of the spirit” to cover her outraged Victorian feelings...
“Mother.” He went over to her, stooped, took her hands. “I’m just beginning to realize how awful this must be for you. Would you like me to stay overnight?”
She busied herself preparing his old room with the zest of a woman welcoming back one of her menfolk after a three-year whaling cruise. They kissed and parted for the night. He lay in bed staring at the college banners on the wall. His mother, he knew, was on her knees in her room, praying; he envied her. His thoughts ranged afield, but kept coming back to Sheila Grey. What was he feeling so persistently and profoundly? Uncleanliness? Indecency? Revulsion?
For his actions of the evening, search as he might, he could find no trace of justification.
The next morning, dressing, thinking it would soon be fall and that he had hoped to have his book finished by the end of the year — a goal that now seemed parsecs away — Dane hunted for a cigaret. The box on the bed table was empty, and he went through his coat pockets.
He found a crumpled pack of cigarets, but no cigaret case. His silver cigaret case was missing. With a thump of his heart he realized that he could not recall having seen it or felt it after visiting Sheila’s the night before.
He found his lighter and lit one of the out-of-shape cigarets — one sock on, the other off — telling himself: Forget her. Forget her.
After a while, hands shaking badly, he finished dressing.
He almost cried out when he walked into the dining room. His father was seated at the table drinking coffee. When had he come in? And with what story? The elder McKell looked haggard, as if he had not slept; his clothes were wrinkled. This was unprecedented.
“Morning, Dad. How was your trip?”
“All right.” Ashton’s voice seemed stifled. His eyes, Dane noted now, were bloodshot. He raised his coffee cup, set it down, moved the saucer, fiddled with the sugar tongs. Dane was relieved when his mother joined them.
She was paler than usual this morning. It was evident that she had already talked to her husband. Dane wondered what he had told her, what she had said to him.
But beyond brief, almost formal, exchanges, breakfast was consumed in silence. Looking up from his eggs from time to time, Dane would catch his father’s eye; the eye would immediately move elsewhere. Dane tried to interpret the look. Baleful? Reproachful? Secretive? Frightened? He grew uneasy. It’s time the curtain came down on this whole thing, Dane thought, feeling his temper rise, pushing it back down, sitting on it. Not that again.
“Well!” Ashton McKell said abruptly. “This table is about as lively as Wall Street on Sunday morning.” His whole demeanor had changed. “And it’s my fault. I’ve been working too hard. I’m worn out. Lutetia, what would you say to a trip somewhere? Just the two of us? A pleasure trip?”
“Ashton!”
“Now that the tourists are coming home, we could go to Europe. No business — just sightseeing with the rest of the rubbernecks from the States. I promise I wouldn’t visit a single branch office or customer.”
“Oh, Ashton, that would be simply lovely. When would you plan to go?”
“Why not now?” The tycoon’s lips were taut. “We can leave as soon as we get a good boat. One of the Queens. I’ll arrange for passage this morning. No flying this time — a leisurely sea crossing—”
“Let’s go to Paris first!” cried Lutetia. “Where shall we stay?”
They chattered away about plans like newlyweds. So Sheila had been telling the truth about that, too. She had been tapering him off, letting him down gently, and at last he had got the message. Or was it something else—?
“We’ve never been to Luxembourg,” Ashton said enthusiastically. “—Yes, Ramon?”
“The car is ready, Mr. McKell,” the chauffeur said.
“Wait for me.”
“What is it, Margaret?” asked Lutetia. Ramon withdrew, and old Margaret, the senior maid, had come in.