She said she was getting ready to come. I crossed the street and stood on the curb until she came, and we went home.
At something like seven, or thereabouts, we were out on the back terrace in a couple of sling chairs. The cicadas were up there in the trees, and under the trees the shadows had a kind of blue transparency.
“Sugar,” Sid said, “hasn’t it been a pleasant evening?”
“Yes, it has. It has been an evening to remember.”
“It makes me happy when I am able to show you a good time.”
“You show me the best time of anybody. Nobody could possibly make a time half so good as you.”
“I wonder, though, if I have been entirely successful.”
“Why should you wonder?”
“For the past half-hour you’ve been silent and sad-looking. Are you becoming depressed about something?”
“I’m a little depressed, but not excessively under the circumstances.”
“It may become worse, however, if you just continue keeping everything to yourself. The psychological consequences of something like that can sometimes be quite bad. What happens is, you break out with all sorts of nasty traits that nobody can understand but that are really the results of whatever it is you’re keeping to yourself.”
“I surely wouldn’t want that to happen to me.”
“Neither would I. A certain number of nasty traits are natural and expected in anyone, but it would be difficult, to say the least, to keep on being in love with someone who kept breaking out with more than his share.”
“I promise that I’ll try to avoid anything of the sort.”
“Well, there’s very little you can do about it, once you have repressed something long enough to do the damage. Besides. I’m dying of curiosity to know if anything special has developed. Has there?”
“I don’t know how special it is. Cotton McBride came to see me in the office this afternoon.”
“Cotton McBride? Isn’t he that faded-looking little man who is some kind of policeman?”
“Yes. He’s a detective, and that’s a kind of policeman.”
“Why on earth did he come to see you?”
“He thought maybe I could tell him something that would help him find whoever killed Beth.”
“Why should he assume that you could tell him anything of the sort?”
“Oh, he’s simply working in the dark, I think. As a matter of fact, I was able to tell him something that may help, although it wasn’t from any farther in the past than yesterday.”
“What were you able to tell him?”
“Beth was broke. She came to town to ask Wilson Thatcher for money. She didn’t see anything unreasonable in this, even though Wilson’s married again, but Beth was always assured that anyone would be happy to give her anything she wanted whenever she wanted it.”
“How do you know she was broke? Did she tell you so?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to know if Wilson did give her money. In my opinion, he wouldn’t have been such a fool.”
“You’re right. Anyhow, he said he didn’t. He said he refused to see her. That’s according to Cotton McBride. Cotton wasn’t so sure about it, though.”
“Not so sure? Why not?”
“Because, as it turned out, Beth had five thousand dollars in her room at the hotel.”
“That’s quite a lot of money for someone to have suddenly just after being broke.”
“Not so much for someone who liked to live well in places where living well was expensive.”
“Nevertheless, it’s quite a lot of money to most people, including Wilson Thatcher. He may have more money than is decent, which he does, but I’ve never known him to display exceptional generosity in giving any of it away, and I’m willing to bet that he didn’t voluntarily give any to an ex-wife for nothing more than the asking.”
“I’m inclined to agree. So is Cotton.”
“Do you think he gave it to her because she forced him in one way or another?”
“This is one line of reasoning that seems indicated.”
“It’s absolutely fascinating, isn’t it? What do you suppose Wilson could have done to make him susceptible?”
“I can’t imagine. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that he cheats on his income tax, but I can’t see him doing anything really juicy.”
“You never can tell, however. Some people are deceptive in such matters. Wilson Thatcher may not have always acted like a deacon just because he looks like one. Suppose he did something once that he doesn’t want known, and your precious Beth tried to blackmail him because of it. Wouldn’t that be an acceptable reason for his killing her if it could be proved?”
“Acceptable, indeed. I can detect a couple of flaws in the supposition, though. In the first place, why pay her five grand and kill her afterward? Why not kill her before and keep the five grand in the bank?”
“Perhaps he had to give her the money as a kind of down payment until he could get her in a position to kill her.”
“I concede the possibility, but I have no faith in it. Flaw number two, in my judgment, is even more critical. I consider it extremely unlikely that Wilson deviated from propriety enough to make him a subject for blackmail. Having known him and Beth both from away back. I’m satisfied that the deviations, whatever they may have been, were on the distaff side. This view is supported by the nature of their divorce. Wilson, as you pointed out, is only slightly poorer than Croesus and could have been tapped for a steady increment of magnificent proportions if he had been vulnerable. Nothing like this happened, however. A settlement was made quietly, and Beth went off quietly for her divorce. A few years later, she turns up broke. I submit that any major diversion by Wilson, felonious or merely scandalous, would have kept her living well in Miami and Rio and Acapulco and places like that indefinitely.”
“At any rate, you clearly admit that she was not above blackmailing him, which is very enlightening, to say the least.”
How can you possibly hope to explain someone who could surely have made blackmail seem like an amiable and reasonable negotiation, conducted without malice in the friendliest fashion with the most sincere wish for no hard feelings? I was silent for quite a while, having nothing convincing or even safe to say, and finally Sid said something more.
“Never mind, sugar,” she said. “I’m only interested in protecting you from the consequences of your foolishness, whether it was seven years ago or last night. Did Cotton McBride have any notion that you went to Dreamer’s Park?”
“I don’t think so. Why should he?”
“Do you think it would make things difficult for you if he found out?”
“I think it would.”
“In that case, we must be prepared to lie about it convincingly if necessary, and we had better agree at once on the lies we will tell.”
“I’m wondering if it might not be better to tell the truth.”
“Certainly not. Put any such nonsense right out of your head. The truth is so ridiculous that even I, as you will recall, had difficulty in believing it, and I have no doubt that the police would find it absolutely impossible. You could hardly avoid an effect of duplicity, to say nothing of positive imbecility.”
“Thanks.”
“We have to be realistic, sugar. I’m bound to say that you haven’t been especially brilliant in this matter. You had better consider my opinions carefully if you want to escape some unpleasant consequences, and it’s my opinion that we must lie if necessary.”