Marcia spat one word: “Why?”
“Well, it’s really none of your b-business,” Benedict said, “but I’m getting married again.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Audrey cried. “You catch a case of marriage every spring, Johnny, like a cold. What’s getting remarried got to do with anything?”
“You couldn’t be that mean,” Alice wailed. “A million dollars is no joking matter.”
“So you’ll be hitched to this broad for a few months,” Marcia growled, “and then—”
“This time it’s d-different,” Benedict said, smiling. “This time,” and he stopped smiling, “I’m in love.”
It was Audrey, the blonde, who shrieked, “Love? You?” but the incredulity might have been sounded by any of them. Then they all burst into laughter.
“Al, get him to a shrink presto,” the redhead said, “before he drops what’s left of his marbles. Listen, bubby, the last thing you were in love with was your mama’s titty. What do you know about love?”
Benedict shrugged. “Whatever it’s called, I’ve c-caught it. I want to settle down — go ahead and snicker! — breed a flock of kids, lead a normal l-life. No more chick-chasing or marriage quickies. My next wife is going to be the last woman in my life.” They were roosting there like three birds on a perch, bills gaping. “That’s the m-main reason behind this move. If I’m going to be the f-father of children, I want to secure their future. And their mother’s. I’m n-not going to change my mind about that.”
“I still say it’s fraud,” the blonde snapped. “Or was that will you showed me prior to the divorce proceeding, leaving me a million dollars — was that another con?”
“If it was, he conned me, too,” Marcia barked. “And I say it again. It’s plain murder to cut us off after we’ve given you—”
“I know, Marcia — the b-best months of your life.” Benedict grinned. “You three never would let me finish a sentence. I was about to announce that this isn’t going to be a total l-loss to you. What’s m-more, you’ll have till tomorrow noon to decide. How f-fair can a fairy god-husband get? Al, d’ye mind? A Black Russian.”
It was a new one to Ellery, and he watched Marsh busy himself at the bar. Marsh blended what appeared to be vodka and some coffee liqueur over ice.
“Decide what, Johnny?” Alice asked in a defeated voice.
“Tell you in a minute. The point is, if you three do agree, Al makes out my new w-will and that will be that.”
“What — is — the — deal?” Audrey as Audrey. No stagey nonsense now.
“A thousand a week as at p-present, with the usual hedge in case of remarriage, and on my death each of you receives one hundred thousand dollars. And that’s the end of the g-game as far as our foursome is concerned. Granted a hundred th-thousand isn’t a million — thank you, Al — but it’s not exactly b-birdseed, either. Even for three rare birds like you.
“So think it over, ladies. If you decide to make a court fight of it, I tell you now before w-witnesses: the new w-will tomorrow won’t leave you a red c-cent! I might even change my mind about the thousand a week. Nighty night.”
And John Levering Benedict III drained his Black Russian, waved it in their general direction, set the empty glass down, and went upstairs to bed as if he had had an active but rewarding day.
Benedict left behind him an atmosphere of anger, frustration, and curiosity, with curiosity dominant on a field of gold.
“Who is this babe Johnny’s going to marry?”
“Do you know? You know, goddam it!”
“Tell us, Al! Come on...”
The Amazons surrounded Marsh, pushing their soft plenitude at him.
“Please, girls, not before Miss Smith. We run a proper ship in the home waters, don’t we, Miss Smith? That’s it for tonight, by the way. You’re on your own. Perfectly free to raid the kitchen if you want a snack.”
“I’m on a diet,” Miss Smith said unexpectedly, and the lawyer looked surprised. Ellery gathered that the personal remark was not characteristic of Miss Smith’s professional behavior. She shut her stenographic book over the pencil with a little snap. “Good night, Mr. Marsh,” she said emphatically, and marched upstairs as if the ex-wives had gone back into a bottle. She had taken down every word uttered in the room during Ellery’s surveillance.
“I know you know who she is, Al,” Audrey said, shaking him playfully.
“Is it that hatcheck broad they say he’s been giving the treatment to lately?” big Marcia wanted to know.
“He wouldn’t dream of making a mistake like that again, dear,” Alice said sincerely.
“At least I never sucked blood like you did when he picked you up in this outhouse they call a town,” the redhead retorted. “Bat Girl! Is there anything lower than a bloodsucker?”
“Look who’s talking!”
“Come on, Al,” the blonde whinnied, “stop hogging the sauce. I want a drink, dahling. And shovel us the dirt.”
Marsh shook them off and walked back to the bar with his glass. “Mine not to shovel, mine but to do as I’m told. My advice to you, offered absolutely free, is to accept Johnny’s offer and be damned to him. Turn it down and you’ll wind up like the call girl in the gay bar — I mean to say, girls, with a handful of nothing. That hundred thousand per ex is the most you’ll ever get out of Johnny, and you’ve got about twelve hours to grab for it. Think it over. You can verbalize your pretty little decisions to me in the morning.”
“You go to hell, dahling,” Audrey said. “What about my drink?”
“Why don’t you go to bed?”
“I’m not desperate enough. Oh, all right, I’ll get it myself.” The blonde actress got up and sauntered to the bar.
“You know what you are?” Marcia said to the lawyer in an even voice. “You’re a lousy brown-nose. Mix me a gibson, will you, Audrey?”
“Mix it yourself.”
“You’re a charmer. Don’t think I won’t.” The redhead joined the blonde at the bar.
“Al...,” the brunette from Wrightsville began.
“You won’t get any more out of me than they did, Alice. Good night.”
“You can’t dismiss me as if I were Miss Smith! Or a child.” Alice gave him a cold and thoughtful look on her way to the bar.
Ellery was more intent on observing Marsh. Marsh had evidently had enough alcohol for the moment; the glass he set down was more than half full. But he was continuing to smoke full blast. He had been chainsmoking menthol cigarets ever since Ellery began to eavesdrop, and he was chainsmoking them still. Well, Ellery thought, being legal eagle as well as companion and confidant to a man like Johnny-B did not exactly make for an untroubled existence. The Marlboro man sitting his faithful steed might well develop, along with calluses, a neurosis or two. Even agoraphobia.
Ellery studied the heavy male features and the big and sensitive hands, and he wondered if Marsh had any notion of the can of peas his friend and client had so blithely opened. Marsh’s intelligence had been systematized by his legal training; surely he must be able to analyze the possibilities. Well, perhaps not surely. He hasn’t had my conditioning in murder, Ellery thought. It takes experience and a soiled mind to think of a thing like that.
He slid off the terrace, and on his way back to the cottage — using the flashlight sparingly — Ellery let conditioning take charge. His thoughts did not provoke, amuse, or engross him. The exercise, as usual, was futile. The trouble with foreseeing homicide on the sole ground of past performances was that there was no profit in it. The victim was never convinced before it was too late for convincing, and warning off the potential murderers either spurred them to a more cunning crime or planted an unsocial thought where none had been. The victim, like all mortals, assumed that he was immortal, and the murderer, like most murderers, that he was infallible. Against these diseases there was no specific.