Ed Lacy - Breathe No More My Lady
“Talk to me? How do I know you're not a blooming reporter?”
Between her and Brown this was identify-yourself-week. I pulled out the office letters, let her see my name on the envelopes. She nodded as she said, “Excuse me. But I have been bothered with so many darn newsmen. Are you afraid of dogs?”
“I don't think so.”
“Clichy will jump at you, but only in play.” She straightened up. She must have been holding the dog behind the door, for suddenly this smartly clipped, large black French poodle came at me.
I suppose I held my hands up before my face. The dog had other aims: he landed on my left leg, got a good grip, and began jumping up and down like a puppet lover. I gave May an embarrassed smile as the damn dog worked away.
Her dark face sad, she said, “Don't blame the poor beast. Mr. Anthony taught him this disgusting habit. Matt thought it was quite a joke. That's enough, Clichy.” She pulled the poodle by his jeweled pink collar off my leg. I glanced down at my pants, expecting to see a spot or something. “Do come in, please, Mr. Connor.”
She showed me into a large living room filled with colorful modern bamboo furniture. It was all rather shockingly gaudy; the rough cinderblock walls painted a terrible red. I sat on a yellow chair with bright red cushions. May let go of the poodle who stretched out on the polished floor, still panting, watching my leg with hot little eyes. As she sat on a couch, curling slim legs under her cut basketball-bottom, I glanced around the room. It was expensive, with a number of oils on the walls like in a gallery. The rear wall was completely glass and looked out on a wide veranda that seemed to circle the back of the house. I told her about Longson reissuing one of Matt's books and the rest of my pitch.
May lit a cigarette. I shook my head, got my pipe working. “Yes, he needs money,” she said, with that odd slight clipped accent. On what wild adventure in the West Indies had Matt found her? “Matter of fact, I don't know what to do here. Whether I should close the house or not. There are daily bills, too, of course.”
“Hasn't his lawyer been in touch with you?”
“No one has been to see me except the bloody newspaper people. Tramped all over the place without as much as a by-your-leave. And I can only stay here a few more weeks. I'm returning to college in September. There's back wages due me, too.”
“I plan to see Mr. Anthony's lawyer in a day or so. I'll have him contact you. I'd like some general background information. Did you meet Mr. Anthony in the West Indies?”
Her face registered astonishment. “Oh no. An agency sent me out here from New York. You can save money on a sleep-in job. Oh, I see—my accent.” She smiled. “I was born in Atlantic City but did most of my growing up with my grandmother down in Trinidad.”
“Miss Fitzgerald, I want you to talk freely, and in strict confidence, so I'll be able to get the background material I need.”
“I'm one for talking. What is it you wish to know?”
“I don't know myself, exactly. Let's take the day of Mrs. Anthony's death. What happened—from the start of the day?”
“Well, the Hunters had been down for about a week. Always a lot of guests here and a lot of work for me. Mrs. Anthony was a penny-pincher, really should have at least two in help here. Let me see, that day. After breakfast they all went swimming. Of course breakfast wasn't until ten. The Hunters and Francine stayed around the house, reading and drinking. They were hung-over from the night before. Mr. Anthony drove off without saying where he was going. Francine was worried he'd gone to get a drink. His heart isn't strong, and the doctor had ordered him off liquor and exercise. I had finished the dishes and was—”
“Was Matt drinking the night before? You said they were all hung-over?”
“They had been doing a tot of talking and nibbling but Matt had stayed with a mild concoction he liked, cider and a dash of vermouth; simply vile. I had finished the breakfast dishes and was cleaning up downstairs. As I said, Francine was certain Matt had dashed off for a toot and she was upset Around noon Mr. Anthony returned with this friend he'd met in Hampton, a little old man with a strange face, Prof. Brown. Nobody wanted lunch so I went upstairs to make the beds. In a little while I saw Mr. Anthony drive off with this Professor, then return in about half an hour. I suppose he took him to the railroad station. I went on with my work. About three-thirty I was in the kitchen starting supper—you can never rest around here but to give Fran her due, the pay is very good. Well, Matt rang and they were out on the lawn, getting the sun. He told me to tell Mrs. Anthony to come in, that they were waiting to go swimming. Soon as I reached the dock, and saw her out there hanging over the side of the boat, I screamed. It was an awful sight. They all came on the run. Matt swam out and started to pull up anchor, but he left the boat and her oat there, told me to phone the police. He said she'd been in an accident, not to touch things.”
“Did he say Mrs.... Francine was dead?”
The maid stared at me over a perfect smoke ring. “You ask questions like a detective, Mr. Connor.”
“An amateur one. How could he be positive she was dead?”
“My goodness, we all were. A person only had to glance at her to know she was dead. Seemed like I had hardly put the phone down when the End Harbor police were here. Then a doctor drove up. They had us stay off the beach while they pulled the boat in. They said Fran had stood up to cast when her shoe lace caught on the duckboards, causing her to fall. She had hit her temple on the side of the boat. The doctor tested to see if there was water in her lungs: did some other things. After they asked us many questions, they took Fran's body into the Harbor with them. The Hunters started to get drunk. They were very upset.”
“Wasn't Matt?”
She nodded. “He cried a little—that was being upset for him.”
“Miss Fitzgerald, were the Anthonys happy?”
“I think yes, but I never understood their relationship. It was like... they were always testing each other, proving something. Francine was one of these very efficient women, she reminded me of an air line hostess. Matt, he—”
“She reminded you of what?”
I got a smile through another smoke ring. She was proud of those rings. “Hostess on an airplane. You know, nothing upsets them, they're always able to manage. That was Mrs. Anthony. Now, Matt, he was the opposite, always seemed to be playing, showing off. He'd think nothing of bringing five or six strangers he'd met fishing back for dinner, or going to the store for a newspaper and coming back with a new boat or an outboard. I know he makes big money but, believe you me, he can spend it faster than he makes it. Much faster. Sometimes our liquor bill was five or six hundred dollars a month. Well, let me finish with that dreadful day. About six, after the police had left, and the Hunters were watching TV and drinking steadily, Matt went to his den to work. I'll have to say this for him, no matter how many guests we had or what was going on, he'd take off for his room every day, including Sundays, and dictate for a few hours. Once or twice I've seen him go to work pretty drunk, but he never missed a day. Once a week he would mail the recording tape to a secretary in New York. She'd type it up and when he got it back, he'd go over the pages again, mail it back for a final typing.”
“And Mr. Anthony worked the same day his wife died?”
“I told you, he worked every day, even Sundays. I think it relaxed him. I've seen him come in from tuna fishing, dirty and tired, all smelly. While everybody else was washing up or having cocktails, he'd be locked in his room, working. Still, it's only an hour or two a day, which is a sweet work day, and think of the money he was making.”
“Have you read his books?”
“One—in manuscript form. He wanted my opinion—you know, as an average person. The book was... entertaining. It's amazing how many odd little things he knows about. Of course, he's constantly reading up on crimes to get ideas. But he also has an entire row of books devoted to locks, technical books on various aspects of the body, poisons, guns, and a slew of—” She coughed and crushed her cigarette. “I've been smoking too much. And talking too much is giving me a frog. I'm going for beer—can you use one?”
I said yes. When she jumped to her feet—a boyish movement—and went into the kitchen, the poodle whined. I walked over to study the paintings. There was a seascape that could have been an original Winslow Homer, a print of Bellows' famous fight scene, a bamboo-framed Gauguin I'd never seen before, a confusion of vivid colors which might be a Miro, and several crude nudes in oil—the work of an amateur.
The crazy poodle suddenly charged across the room and hugged my leg. When I reached for his collar he growled, so I had to stand there while he jumped up and down on his shaved paws, looking for all the world like a tiny man in baggy pants. I called out, “Miss Fitzgerald, lover-poodle is at work again. Are you certain he won't bite?”
She came in with two simply huge glasses of frothy black beer and a plate of cheese on a plastic tray. Putting the tray down, she grabbed the dog, shook him. “Now stop it, you bloody pest Here.” She threw a hunk of cheese up in the air. The dog caught it expertly, sat around waiting for more. “That's all you get, Clichy.”
“How do you spell the mutt's name?” I asked, taking a beer. It was thick as syrup and very rich tasting.
“C-1-I-c-h-y. After the street in Paris where they purchased him.”
I was a bit relieved, for some reason, Matt hadn't been obvious and named him Cliche. “Very unusual beer. Imported?”
“From Austria. I love it. I'm hoping it will add a few pounds on me. But it hasn't to date, and I've been really hitting it. I figure I might as well use it up; don't know what's going to happen to the house and no sense in leaving such fine food around. Try the cheese, it's from Norway.”
I took a piece and sat down. It tasted like pure smoke. The poodle came over, his mind on food this time, and I tossed the rest of the cheese to him.
Miss Fitzgerald asked, “Have I been helpful, Mr. Connor?”
“What happened after Matt went to his den?”
“Oh, my, thought I'd finished with that dreadful day. Now where was I? I was making supper when the bell rang. I opened the door and there was a local cop with a detective from Riverside—that's the county seat. Had a Polish name I still can't even say. Looked like a detective too, you know, burly and... well... evil looking. I mean, a man without any feelings. I called Matt and they went into the den and I went back to my work. I kept waiting for Matt to tell me to serve supper and then the Hunters, I think it was Mrs. Hunter, she's a very nice person, she came in crying something awful and said Matt had confessed he had killed Fran. I couldn't believe it. I saw him as this detective was taking him away. Matt looked dazed, kind of sickly. The police came and questioned us all over again. Then, in the middle of the night, mind you, reporters started coming. The Hunters left about midnight. No trains then, I don't know how they got back to New York.”
“Did you hear Matt threaten his wife?”
“No. Like I told the police, I was upstairs when all that happened.”
“Do you think Matt murdered his wife?”
She shrugged and ate another piece of cheese. “Murder is a strong word. I think he might have lost his temper and hit Fran. As he confessed. I know they had an argument before over his wanting to skin-dive. Fran said it would be bad for his heart Of course, they argued all the time, but I never saw him strike her, or even slap her. I think all this arguing was a form of... well, kind of fun for them. They enjoyed it.”
I took another sip of the thick beer. “Argued about what?”
“Anything. It was part of their testing each other. I've read someplace there's a thin line between hate and love— they were on that line most of the time. Well, like this: Matt was always putting on this big sexy act. I've seen him—” She hesitated, stared at me.
I stared back at her. “What's the matter?”
“Well, I'm a little confused. You see I never talked... I suppose dirty is the word, until I started working here. I know it's childish to call it dirty, and while I want to sound worldly and all that, if I say what I want... don't get the wrong impression of me. That's not exactly what I mean but...”
I smiled at her. “Please tell me—”
“Don't smile! You make me feel like a child.”
“Miss Fitzgerald, talk anyway you wish. I promise not to get any wrong impressions.”
“Then I shall talk boldly—as I really want to. What I mean, about the Anthonys, Matt's big act... I've seen Fran bending over, you know, doing something, and he would come up and slip his hand under her skirt, pinch her behind. When she'd object Matt would say, 'You want me to find another can to play with? Be easy enough.' Shocked me at first, but I got used to them acting like blasted children. I shouldn't even call it sexy, he did it merely to annoy her. Like once I heard him get Fran hysterical during a bridge game by insisting she was frigid. Of course, she got back at him.”
“How?”
“Matt has a great sense of humor. He was always telling dirty jokes... some of them very funny. But she would tell him all he could do was joke about it. Her favorite gag was that Matt had joined the... eh... once-a-month-club. I've heard her say this in front of company. She would also goad him about being a show-off or make fun of his writing. Oh, Fran had a sharp tongue. So has Matt.”
I said, “A charming couple.”
“But I never thought they meant any of this. In their own way, they enjoyed baiting each other, and they were happy. Of course, it wouldn't be my idea of a happy marriage, but for them... it worked. They enjoyed fishing together and he was proud of the way Fran could handle a boat. If she was after him for spending too much money, a good deal of what he spent was on her. Early in June he had to go to New York to see his agent. Fran gave him a list of things for the house: screen for the fire place, brandy glasses, lawn seed— things like that. Buy them cheaper in New York than oat here. I remember she figured they would save eleven dollars. When he returned he had brought the things she wanted, along with a stunning mink stole. Matt said one of the department stores had been running a 'mink sale.' Fran bawled him out, even returned the mink... still, it was a nice gesture on Mart's part. Despite his hard talk he wasn't a tough man. Maybe you'd best call him an overgrown child.”
“Did he ever make a pass at you?”
“Why do you ask that?” She didn't sound angry or coy.
“Part of the background picture I'm trying to get of Matt Anthony,” I said, and wondered if it was true or was I enjoying myself as a gossip?
“I guess I'm about the only female out here he didn't try to make. He thinks of himself as a great lover, but I believe that's an act with him. He never asked me because, I suppose, I don't count, being colored.”
I had a mouthful of beer and almost choked as I asked, “Don't tell me Matt was prejudiced?”
“I don't want you to get the wrong impression,” she said, lighting another cigarette. “I mean, I was never interested in Matt—you know, as a man. As for prejudice, it was the kind he didn't realize he had. Let's say he was patronizing—which in the long run is the same bloody thing. I told you at the start, or meant to, that I don't understand Matt Anthony. He would do funny things. Sometimes on a rainy day he would drive me to town to shop. I guess he was bored hanging around the house. We might go to Hampton, Riverside— wherever he felt like driving. He would always make a point of stopping at some swank bar or cafe, and we'd go in for lunch or a drink. Naturally, we would cause plenty of open mouths and stares. If for no other reason because we might be wearing shorts, or he'd be sporting a dirty sweat shirt. There never was any incident, but he'd walk in as if ready to slug anybody who said a word. That was his way of testing civil rights, I suppose. Or his insisting I call him Matt.”
