The Amber Eyes Page 3

  “Now we’ll be rid of her, too,” Audrey said, languidly taking another cigarette. She put it between her lips and tilted it at Pat, who walked over and gave her a light. “I’ve always been on to her. What in God’s name happened to my father? He was a sucker to marry her. Funny thing about doctors. They’re all so naive.” She patted the sofa beside her. “Sit, darling.”

  “Thanks,” Pat said. He didn’t sit.

  Aunt Sophia came back from the kitchen. She was also in gray this evening, pearl-gray, a chiffon dinner gown, with a discreet neckline and elbow-length sleeves. Diamonds sparkled on her wrists, along with the little ones in her pierced ears and on her ring finger. She wore gold-rimmed specs. The rims were slender but wide enough for more brilliants. Her low-heeled gray suede shoes had bows studded with brilliants. She carried a gray suede bag with brilliants in its frame.

  She said, “I’m sorry to say it, Mr. Abbott, but you owe us an apology.”

  “Why?” Pat asked, lighting a cigarette himself and stepping back to the fireless fireplace.

  “You brought those policemen into this house,” Aunt Sophia said.

  “I think that was rather fun,” Audrey said, making eyes at Pat. Her eyes were a colorless gray, her hair, touched up, was blond. Her skin was coarse. Her mouth was thin, but her teeth were good and her nose was short and shapely. Her wrists and ankles, long legs and flat body would help her to get a model’s job. I’d bet anything she wore falsies. Her outfit was a suit-dress in beige, the jacket lined with self-color taffeta, which rustled, and her perfume was distinctive and, though not as discreet as Aunt Sophia’s, certainly in good taste. Her brown pumps had slim, very high spike heels. She wore no hat. Her big sloppy hairdo was one of those new jobs.

  Patrick said, “The police had to be called, Mrs. Quayle.”

  “You could have taken our word,” Mrs. Quayle said. “We all know who gave the poor little thing that medicine. We could have told the police, privately, and not have had them nosing around here like that.”

  “Inspector Sam Bradish is very considerate, Mrs. Quayle.”

  “Policemen are all cheap crooks. They all have rackets. Before we’re through with this, my poor brother will pay through the nose. We’ll be blackmailed. I know. I know. I feel desolate about that poor helpless Lisa. It is shocking, absolutely shocking, but it is much more shocking to have policemen prowling around your home. Don said there were some even parked out in front, Audrey, and that awful one who looks Chinese was upstairs after the other one left.”

  “Sergeant Ching Cohen has squinchy eyes, Mrs. Quayle,” Pat said. “But he is not Chinese.”

  “There’s some in him somewhere,” Aunt Sophia declared. “I know about San Francisco. It’s full of Chinese and Negroes and everything else. Audrey, when you and Don are married you must come back to Denver. I’ll never feel safe with you here. Safe for you, I mean.”

  “That’s sweet of you, Auntie,” Audrey said. “We’ll make out. Don already has a house picked out in Marin County, and of course there’s his new business … there I go putting my big foot in. Where is he, anyway?”

  “He’s been having coffee in the kitchen. It’s a sight. Rona never did get the dishes washed.” To us, “I haven’t been able to find decent servants. There are refugees from a lot of places available, but I’ve had enough of refugees.”

  “Well, the dishes can wait,” Audrey said. “Rona will be leaving now, won’t she? You’d better look around for a couple, Aunt Sophia. Chinese or Filipinos.” She yawned. “Oh, what a bore. Why can’t we go, Aunt Sophia? You and your propriety!”

  Donald Quayle came in by way of the dining room. All eyes went to him and stayed there. Including mine.

  Four

  How can I describe Donald Quayle so that you can see him as I did? Donald Quayle. What a name for a lady-killer, I was thinking, as he entered, and Aunt Sophia’s pale eyes bathed him with adoration, mine with surprised astonishment, Audrey’s with a kind of amusement, and Patrick’s with a detachment which I was sure even he could not possibly feel.

  Quayle paused in the archway between the hall and the living room. He was tall, as tall as Patrick. His hair was ash-blond, his eyes a dark velvety brown, his head and face and nose and hands and feet were slender and shapely. His legs were long. He had a slight stoop, the kind that makes an English tailor rave. He wore a charcoal-gray suit, a narrow black-and-brown striped necktie, a white shirt, black polished shoes. He had none of Pat’s rugged tan or Pat’s sun lines about his eyes and in his cheeks, but his cheeks were perfectly modeled on good bones, and he certainly didn’t have the black shadow that was beginning to show on Pat because it was eighteen hours since he’d shaved. (Pat, I mean.) I think Pat’s looks are timeless, they will always be fine. If Don Quayle had had any gray in his ash hair, as Pat had in his black, it would not show.

  Anyway, I liked Pat’s face better. Which is what counts most.

  Quayle entered with a faint look of surprise, as if he hadn’t expected to find us here. His stepmother popped up—Mrs. Quayle always rose with a kind of jack-in-the-box spring—to her feet and cried, in her really elegant voice, “Donnie, darling, I was afraid you had gone.”

  “Of course not, dear.” The brown eyes rested on me and I must say I felt them. But the glance was nice. He was no obvious wolf. “Present me, Sophia, dear.”

  “Oh. I’m so sorry. Mrs. Abbott, my son Donald Quayle. And Mr. Abbott.”

  We said our howdydos and Donald took out a gold cigarette case and offered it, first to his mother, who shook her head, then to me, and I shook my head because he offered a kind I do not care for, then to Audrey, who reminded him she was already smoking, last to Pat, who took one, though they weren’t his kind, either. I thought he wanted to keep Quayle moving about, so he could observe him. He even let Quayle light his cigarette. Aunt Sophia was fluttering beside me. Audrey was cool as they come.

  Quayle, as Pat intended, spoke first. “I’ve heard of you, Mr. Abbott. It’s a pleasant surprise to meet you, and Mrs. Abbott,” he said, turning those dark eyes on me.

  This place was full of striking eyes. Rona’s amber eyes. Aunt Sophia’s, so pale, so adoring. Audrey’s, so calculating. Caroline’s, so blue, and the little late Lisa’s also deeply and beautifully blue.

  If Quayle had smudged Rona’s lipstick by kissing her, it didn’t show. His handsome mouth was all his own color, and his teeth, which didn’t show too much, were very fine.

  “Caroline brought the Abbotts here, Donnie. Of course, it is all right, but I do mind their calling in those policemen.”

  “That’s necessary, darling,” Quayle said. “The police here are most efficient, and when there is a sudden death, unwitnessed, they have to be called in. They should be.”

  “Not in Denver, dear. Not when people are like us.”

  “Oh, yes, Sophia. In Denver, too.” He paused. He looked away. Sophia looked down. Don said, “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Abbott?”

  “Thank you,” Pat said. He didn’t take the chair next to Audrey. He took a chair near the fireplace, a straight chair. Don Quayle sat down between his stepmother and Audrey.

  Quayle said, “We feel very sad about the accident that brought you here.”

  Sophia frowned and shook her head.

  “Don’t be a hypocrite, Don,” Audrey said.

  “I’m not, darling. I loved that little girl. Dearly.”

  “Because she looked like Caroline?” Audrey asked, with a light touch of malice.

  “Of course not, darling. The things you say!”

  Aunt Sophia said, “She’s joking, Donnie. Audrey has a mad sense of humor, as you ought to know.”

  Don picked up one of Aunt Sophia’s clean plump hands. His were clean and cared for, too. In fact he always looked, each time I saw him, as if he had just stepped out of the tub. I imagined he’d learned cleanliness from Sophia. His stepmother had seen to it that he was scrubbed as often or oftener than he really needed it.

  He lifted Aunt
Sophia’s hand to his nose. He sniffed the perfume. “Nice,” he said. “Look, please don’t fret about the police, Sophia. It’s necessary. Please do believe that. You’re not fretting, are you, Audrey?”

  “Not for that reason, but I’d like them to get the hell out of this morgue so we could go some place for a drink.”

  “Let me make you one here?”

  “No, thanks. Rona bought the bourbon they’ve got here. It’s a positively rancid brand. There’s no Scotch. There’s no gin. What a desert! Oh, God! What a night!”

  Sophia said, “Mr. Abbott, is that Chinese policeman still in this house?”

  “No. Sergeant Cohen left by the back stairs. He is not Chinese,” Pat said, again.

  “I suppose my poor brother is all alone?”

  Pat said, “Martin Kent and Caroline are with the doctor, Mrs. Quayle.”

  “The almost-Doctor Martin Kent. The already twirp,” Audrey said.

  Don regarded her with a twist of his lips.

  “Where is Rona?” Sophia asked.

  “I don’t know. I think she went to her room,” Pat said.

  “Why don’t you go up and make sure?” Sophia asked.

  “Because that’s not for me to do, Mrs. Quayle.”

  “Then what is? Why are you staying on here? This is a time for the family to be here and nobody else.”

  “Really, darling, don’t be rude,” Quayle said to Sophia. “I doubt if Mr. And Mrs. Abbott are finding this pleasant. Mayn’t I bring you both a bourbon? Audrey is quite right. It’s a cheap kind, but …”

  Pat said, “Not for me.” Donald gave me a second chance, his eyes now openly doing their stuff. He hadn’t waited long. They ripened like black figs. I shook my head. Pat said, “I am here because Caroline Alby asked me here, Mrs. Quayle. My wife was alone so I asked her to come with me. When Caroline wishes us to leave, we’ll go.”

  “Are you afraid of vandals?” Mrs. Quayle asked me, changing the subject. “This city is dangerous. Not at all like Denver. I pray that you children, you, Audrey and Donald, will leave as soon as you’re married. Come back home.”

  “You pray in vain, Auntie,” Audrey said. “I’m marrying Don partly so I won’t have to live in Denver.”

  “You’re joking again, Audrey.” Mrs. Quayle sighed.

  “Sure she is, Sophia.” Quayle picked up Audrey’s left hand with his right, his left hanging onto his stepmother’s. He kissed Audrey’s palm. He hadn’t kissed Sophia’s. Did she mind?

  “I’m not worried about vandals,” Pat said. “But when I’m on a murder case I don’t like to have my wife alone in our house.”

  “Murder case?” Quayle asked, his fine brows up.

  “Now my favorite detective Patrick Abbott is joking,” Audrey said. “Are there no senses of humor in anybody but me tonight? Oh, Don, sweetie, let’s sneak out. There must be a way. Rona got out of here some way or other a while ago.”

  “There is nothing to keep you now,” Pat said.

  “Of course there is,” Aunt Sophia said. “There’s a death in the family, darlings.”

  Audrey said, “Really, Sophia, you are out of this world. When they made you they broke the mold. Don, let’s go upstairs and say good night to Dad. I’ve got an appointment at Magnin’s at ten in the morning. This morning, dammit.”

  “You poor child. You have to work …” Sophia began.

  “Work? God, no. A fitting.”

  Sophia said, “You should both stay here, Audrey. I mean, a death in the house, and all. It won’t look at all proper to go to a night club or anything.”

  “She kills me,” Audrey said. “Don, give me a cigarette. I’ll take a chance on that bourbon. I’ve got to have something.”

  “Wait just a bit, sweetie.”

  Patrick got up suddenly and went upstairs. I felt embarrassed. Our being here was infuriating Aunt Sophia more each moment. Even her darling Donnie couldn’t hold her down much longer. As for Audrey, I simply could not make her out. She was either cold as a fish or almost too clever. Did she love Quayle? Did she really dislike Sophia? Was she jealous of Rona?

  Rona was out of it. That was certain. These two were getting married.

  In six or seven minutes Pat came back downstairs and said, “With Dr. Alby’s permission, Inspector Bradish left the door to Lisa’s room on the third floor locked.”

  “Why?” Sophia demanded.

  “He didn’t say. Let’s go, Jean.”

  Mrs. Quayle said, “Is the bathroom door from Rona’s room locked? I mean, is she locked out of that bath?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “See here, I’m not going to have that woman using one of the guest-room baths on the second floor. She can’t use Dr. Alby’s. It’s private. Will you go up and tell her she has to use that little bath off the kitchen?”

  “I’m afraid one of you must talk to Rona, Mrs. Quayle.”

  Five

  Patrick linked his arm in mine. We walked slowly up the hill to our house. Upstairs he had talked to Caroline and had been told more vital things about the family. He was silent. My head was awhirl with all sorts of unhappy conjectures. I knew if I got verbal he simply would not answer. So he kept silent and I kept my trap shut and I was very baffled and troubled.

  Aunt Sophia Quayle was, unfortunately, a type all of us run in to all the time. When people say there are many murders in our first families that are never found out, I think of greedy men, and women like Sophia Quayle.

  As we soon knew, she was selfish, venal, grasping, disappointed in not having enough money of her own to carry on in the style to which she felt she had a right, and aside from her immediate family, in her case Donald Quayle and to some extent the Albys, she in her own mind would allow no one else the human rights she demanded for herself. She would refuse to pay anyone who worked for her a decent wage. I could hear her telling dependents, such as Rona, to keep their place. She had fastened her possessive affection on her stepson. He was all in the world who really counted. In my book, she was mean, perhaps desperate, and she would do almost anything and face the consequences, trusting she wouldn’t get found out. If she did, she would try to carry it off with false graciousness and that really beautiful voice and probably get away with it.

  She was decent to Audrey for one reason only—her money. Audrey was not her choice for Don. She was merely opportune. These were my opinions, not facts.

  We had seen Sophia Quayle with her hair down for a few minutes. But how quickly she had regained her self-possession. How swiftly her demeanor had changed when she found she couldn’t kick us and Sam Bradish around like Rona. Rona, temporarily bowed, had gone to her room when Sophia ordered it.

  Now, probably, perhaps alone in a bathroom she had forbidden Rona to use, Aunt Sophia was mentally assigning us and the police to our own lower class. We, too, were servants. From Inspector Bradish she expected the privilege she endowed herself with in what she chose to call Denver society. She felt above being questioned about a sordid thing like the death of a retarded child. She must have hated its being known in Denver that there was such a child in the family. Her own niece. Her brother William’s youngest daughter. Retarded.

  We learned soon that she had sacrificed herself for her stepson, in the way of money and perhaps to some extent social prestige. How much would she expect of Don now?

  If there was still a thing between Rona and Don Quayle, Aunt Sophia would insist that it stop. If she wanted him to marry Audrey Alby, she probably had this or that up her sleeve to force Rona to keep away from Don Quayle. Suppose Rona had really killed little Lisa and Sophia knew it? Suppose that was true? Sophia would have exactly what she wanted.

  Audrey. She was puzzle number one. I wondered what Pat made of Audrey. Did she care anything about Quayle? Or was she just pleasing her cold eyes? He was handsome, he had attentive manners, he might be nice to have around the house. Women fell for his kind all the time. Even I had had a little flutter when he looked at me. What was it? Oh, shucks, sex, of
course. Even if sex hadn’t come in such a good-looking package as Quayle, it was the real lure.

  Pat opened the gate and I walked in and stopped on the terrace. He asked if I wanted to turn in. On such a night? Certainly not. I sat down. Pat went inside for a stole for me. The air had chilled a little. He came out with my stole around his neck and in his hands bourbon for me and Scotch for himself. The moonlight was fantastic for July. The air was heavy with the scent of roses. The night was so bright the white fuchsias among the others in the hedge at the foot of the garden looked like bridal veils. On the Bay there was still that stir of ships and boats, which seemed muted because there were no warning bells or foghorns; not even the mutter of late traffic sounded as loud as usual on the through street a long block below us. It was late, and it must be the night itself that inspired such quiet.

  Pat pulled up a chair and sat down with his feet on the terrace railing. This was our back terrace but it had always been our favorite because of its view.

  “What time is it, dear?”

  “One-twenty,” he said.

  “The police were pretty fast, weren’t they?”

  “Yes. So far.”

  “You think they’ll go on with this?”

  “Sam left the child’s room locked up. He also sealed that bathroom on Rona’s side. That means he’s not yet satisfied. He’s got no real case. The family could insist on his leaving both rooms accessible, I think.”

  “He didn’t have the technical squad in.”

  “Not yet.”

  “I don’t get it, Pat.”

  “Jeanie, Dr. Alby might have died tonight. Dr. Evans put his foot down on any kind of police questioning, and since there is no real proof that the little girl was murdered, Sam is just waiting. But he’s not finished. You’ll see.”

  “What will he do?”

  “Among other things question Dr. Evans about Dr. Alby’s health.”

  “Whom does he suspect?”

  “He didn’t say.”