IT WAS nearly six when Scott returned to the schooner and as he stepped into the cockpit he saw the note pinned to the edge of the hatch. Its penciled message read: Come out to my place for a drink. We’ll go some place for dinner. Be there until nine anyway. It was signed: Howard.
Scott went below, undressed and pulled on his trunks. When he came on deck the sun was almost down in the west, its light reflecting from the water to outline the point of land which jutted out beyond the Aquatic Club and adding a soft brilliance to the casuarina trees which bordered it. This was the time of day to sit on deck with a drink and gloat at one’s good fortune, to marvel at the softness of the air and wonder why the colors seemed more vivid just before they faded into the deepening dusk, to feel a little sorry for those who must battle the rawness of spring in the north.
Such thoughts had come to him before in moments of self indulgence but tonight they lingered only briefly before he went over the side. As always the clear warm water refreshed him and when he rolled over on his back to watch a puffy sunlit cloud break up to the southward he found himself wondering who would be at Crane’s for a drink. Not that it mattered. He could do nothing about Luther for some time and after a day of abstention a drink would be welcome; so would a word with Sally if he were lucky.
The Crane house stood high on a bluff overlooking the golf course and the south coast. Built of stone by slave labor in early times, it was of massive construction, gray and vine-covered now, with cellar walls six feet thick and broad, high-ceilinged rooms. It was dark when Scott drove past the high steps leading to the veranda and parked in the paved court. Light poured from front Windows but when he climbed the steps he saw that it was the veranda which was in use.
Crane stepped up to greet him but because of the shadows it took a while to count the roll. Voices said hello and he answered as Crane led him to a table which was serving as a bar. Here, with the light behind him, he could see Vivian in the wicker chair by the railing, Farrow and Freddie Gardner sitting with their backs to the wall, Sally and Lambert on the settee at one side.
“I’m mv own butler this evening,” Crane said. “What’llitbe?”
Scott said Scotch and water would be fine. He said it was nice of Crane to leave the note of invitation.
“It seemed like a good idea to have a quiet drink,” Crane said. “Tomorrow the whole messy business will be all over the Advocate and everyone we ever knew will be clamoring for details.”
“You’re overlooking the important point, aren’t you?” Vivian said.
“What’s that?”
“Just that unless the police decide to call Julia’s death accidental and blame it on Sally—”
“They can’t,” Sally said, tension showing in her voice. “Because I couldn’t have done it. I’ll never believe it and—”
“I know, darling,” Vivian said. “That’s what I mean. When we rule out the accident what we have left is murder, which seems to mean that one of us is guilty, which also means our friends will have a grand time wondering which one of us did the job. Won’t that be just lovely, watching their faces, trying to find out what they’re thinking—”
“Oh, stop it!” Farrow’s tone was blunt and irritable.
“Well, it’s the truth, isn’t it?”
“Do we have to discuss it now?” Lambert said in his odd tenor voice.
“There should be some subject less morbid,” Freddie commented.
“I thought,” said Sally, “that the purpose of this gathering was to relax and have a pleasant drink.” She rose and moved away from the settee. “Wasn’t it, Howard?”
“What?” Crane glanced round. “Oh, yes. Quite. Yes, consider the subject closed. Any further discussion will be ruled out of order.”
“Hear, hear,” said Freddie, and giggled.
All of this sounded forced and unconvincing to Scott. The tension was still there, touching all of them, building again in the silence that followed. If, as seemed likely, one of them was guilty, he knew the tension must be almost unbearable to that person, faced as he was with the task of watching every word and presenting always a show of innocence and unconcern.
Then they were talking again, Farrow moving over to sit next to Lambert, Crane looking about for drinks to refresh and urging his guests to drink up. Scott moved over and leaned against the railing beside Vivian’s chair. When he asked if he could fix her drink she said no; she was fine, thank you.
“I understand Tom Waldron was down to see Major Briggs,” she added presently.
Scott said yes, and explained why Waldron had been summoned.
“I knew he was rather friendly with Julia last summer,” Vivian said.
“What else do you know about him?”
“Very little actually.” She hesitated. “About the only thing I know for sure is that he’s a very good dancer.”
“You never knew him in New York?”
“No.”
“Somehow he doesn’t look much like the retired-businessman type.”
“No, he doesn’t, does he?”
“But he has money.”
“Some.”
“Not a lot?”
“I don’t think so. Mark talked to him about the island once on the off chance that he might be interested. I guess he was in a way but when it came to the matter of investing he said his money was pretty well tied up . . . I believe I will let you fix this,” she said and offered her glass.
Scott fixed a fresh drink and when he came back he asked about the island. She asked if he knew Cat Cay and he said no but he’d read about it.
“Well, we hope ours will be like that some day. It’s coral, of course, and close to some of the best fishing in the world. We have a jetty up and some boat slips, a sort of marina, with a comfortable camp, and we hope to put up some cottages this summer. . .”
She went on with her description of the project and Scott listened with part of his mind while the other part strayed in patternless fashion. Freddie had gone over to talk to Sally, and Lambert and Farrow seemed to be arguing on the settee. Then, without warning, there came one of those unexpected and often embarrassing silences that occur from time to time in any social gathering. One instant the air was filled with the buzz of conversation; the next there was only silence, and into this gap there came a statement from Lambert that he was unable to check.
He did not speak loudly but the silence made it seem so. There was pique in the phrasing of his adolescent-sounding voice and his words were distinct and unmistakable, though the last one faltered as he tried to lower his tone.
“—never said I would invest.”
That was what Scott heard and now the silence struck again. Lambert looked round, the darkness hiding his embarrassment. Everyone looked back at him. Scott could almost feel Vivian stiffen in her chair. Then, slowly, she sat up.
“Sorry,” Farrow said stiffly. “Perhaps I misunderstood you.”
“It’s all right.” Lambert was still truculent. “It’s just that I don’t like to be badgered.”
“Badgered?” Vivian waited until she had Lambert’s attention. “Surely not by Mark. He’s not the badgering kind.”
“I’m sorry,” Lambert said. “It’s just that, well—I haven’t made up my mind.”
Freddie tried to smooth things over. “I move and second that all business conversation be ruled out of order.”
“So ordered,” Crane said.
“We’re all a little nervy,” Freddie continued. “Good God who wouldn’t be? Twenty-four hours ago everything was fine. We were going to Morgan’s for dinner and have a nightcap aboard and then this morning we were going on our cruise. Then she came.”
“Now you’re out of order,” Crane said. “Look. Let me make a motion. What we need, when we finish our drinks, is some food. A good steak.”
“Yes,” Vivian said. “But please, not at Morgan s. By now he’ll have the news—he always manages to know everything that happens—and I’m not sure I could face it tonight.”
“We’ll eat at the Surf Club,” Crane said. “I’ll phone for a table while you’re finishing your drinks. “Let’s see, seven of us, right?”
“Six,” Scott said. “I have to see a fellow a little later.”
He had a chance to talk to Sally when Crane went inside. “Still mad at me?” he asked.
“When was I mad at you?”
“This afternoon.”
“I wasn’t mad.”
“Miffed?”
“Maybe a little.”
Her eyes, as she looked up at him, were in shadow but the soft curve of her mouth told him she was no longer annoyed with him. He pressed her hand and let it go. He said he was sorry.
“I talk too much,” he said. “Also I was jealous. I didn’t mean to be but—”
“And you’re not any longer?”
“Well, maybe a little.”
“Good. Just so it’s only a little. I like it that way. It’s flattering . . . And you really can’t eat with us?”
Scott said he was sorry and then Lambert came up to ask if she was ready. He was all right now, smiling, affable, attentive. Yet when Scott followed them down the steps he could not help wondering what had happened to this rich young man. Something had changed him; that much was certain. The brief scene with Farrow was proof that something was bothering him but Scott could not tell whether this had come as the natural result of the strain which had been working on all of them or whether the answer lay in something more important
There was a brief argument when they gathered around the cars as to who was to ride with whom. In the end it was decided that Freddie would drive his car round back and leave it to be picked up later. It was when he turned on his lights and started the motor that Scott noticed the cracked lens with the missing piece. He waited somber-eyed and serious as the ancient car swung out of sight, aware that he had noticed a cracked lens like that before but not knowing just where. As he drove away the impression remained that he had seen that car somewhere the night before. Eventually the answer would come to him, though he did not expect it to matter much.