Death Likes It Hot Read Free Page A

or maybe Dr. Freud but I listened while Mrs. Veering told me what a nice couple they made and how they traveled together and werepatrons of the arts together. I had heard of them dimly but I had no idea how old they were or what arts they patronized. Mrs. Veering assumed I knew everyone she did so she didn’t bother to fill me in on them … not that it made too much difference. I was assuming my duties would have nothing to do with this collection of guests.
    She was just about to tell me all about the last guest: Mary Western Lung, the penwoman, when the butler crossed the room silently, swiftly, without warning and whispered something in her ear. She nodded then she motioned for him to leave, without instructions.
    Whatever he had said to her had the effect of turning off the babble, to my relief. She was suddenly all business, in spite of the faintly alcoholic flush which burned now behind her white make-up.
    “I’ll come to the point, Mr. Sargeant. I need help. As to the main reason for my asking you here, I’ll give you the general details right now. I plan to give a Labor Day party which I want to be the sensation of the Hamptons. It can’t be cheap; it can’t be obvious. I don’t want anyone to know I’ve hired a press agent … assuming you will take the job. I’ll expect full coverage, though, in the press.”
    “My fee …” I began; even as a boy scout of eleven I’d discovered that it’s best to get that part of the business over first.
    “Will be met.” She was just as businesslike. “Write me a letter tonight saying how much you want, putting yourself on record, and I’ll give you what you need.” I was filled with admiration for her next few remarks which had to do with hiring me and also with her purpose.
    “The reason I’ve picked you is because it’s possible for me to have you here as a guest without people asking questions.” I was duly flattered and wished I’d worn my Brooks Brothers gabardine suit. “So don’t say anything about your profession; just pretend you’re a … writer.” She finished brightly enough.
    “I’ll do my best.”
    “Tomorrow I’ll go over the guest list with you. I think it’s in good shape but you might be able to advise me. Then we’ll discuss what publicity would be wisest. I shall want a very great deal.”
    I stopped myself just in time from asking why. That’s one question in my somewhat crooked business you never ask. Being a publicist is a little like being a lawyer: you take on a case without worrying too much about anything except putting it over. I figured Mrs. Veering would let me in on her game sooner or later. If not, considering the fee I was going to ask, it didn’t make a bit of difference.
    “Now you’ll probably want to go to your room. We dine at eight thirty.” She paused; then: “I must ask a favor of you.”
    “What’s that, Mrs. Veering?”
    “Don’t be disturbed by anything you might see or hear while you’re in this house … and be discreet.” Her rather silly face had grown solemn and pale while she spoke; I was alarmed by the expression in her eyes. It was almost as if she were frightened of something. I wondered what. I wondered if she might not be a little off her rocker.
    “Of course I won’t say anything but …”
    She looked about her suddenly, as though afraid of eavesdroppers. Then she gestured. “Do run along now, please.” I could hear footsteps in the main hall, approaching us.
    I was almost to the door of the drawing room when she said, in her usual voice. “Oh, Mr. Sargeant, may I call you Peter?”
    “Sure.…”
    “
You
must call me Rose.” It was like a command. Then I went out into hall, almost bumping into a pale youngish woman who murmured something I didn’t catch. She slipped into the drawing room while I went upstairs; a maid directed me to my room.
    I was uneasy to say the least. I wondered whether or notI should take my bag and head for one of the local inns, like