The Dishonest Murderer Read Free Page A

premonition of disappointment, but this, for all its shapelessness, had a center—Bruce. Bruce whom she could not have seen shabby on the lower East Side; Bruce about whom her father’s half formed hint, half finished sentences, could mean nothing.
    Freddie Haven took the telephone up, found the telephone number of the Waldorf-Astoria in her memory, and dialed. She asked for Senator Bruce Kirkhill and waited.
    â€œSenator Kirkhill is not registered, modom,” a young woman’s voice said.
    That was wrong; that was merely inefficiency. Freddie said as much, courteously, without emphasis. There was a mistake; Senator Kirkhill was unquestionably registered.
    She was passed along. A man’s voice was less detached. The man recognized the possibility of error. He went and, after a minute or two, returned. He was sorry; Senator Kirkhill was not registered. A suite was reserved for him, however. He was expected. A message for him would be happily accepted.
    â€œNo,” Freddie said. “Thank you. Is there a Mr. Phipps? Howard Phipps?”
    The assistant manager checked again. A Mr. Phipps there was. She was asked to wait. A young woman’s voice said, “I’m ringing Mr. Phipps.” There was the sound of ringing, continued over-long.
    â€œI’m sorry, modom,” the girl said. “Mr. Phipps’s room does not answer. Would you wish—”
    â€œThanks,” Freddie said. “Don’t bother.” She hung up.
    What it all amounts to is that he took a later train, she assured herself. There’s nothing strange about it. There can’t be anything strange.
    Her desk clock told her it was almost ten. “Tennish” would not mean ten o’clock to anyone, except possibly Aunt Flo. Still—She looked at herself in a long mirror, nodded, and went out of the room and down the stairs to the lower floor of the duplex. Marta and the new maid were in the foyer, sitting side by side on straight chairs. They stood up as Freddie came down and she grinned at them.
    â€œCarry on,” she said. “As you were.”
    Marta giggled without making a sound, her shoulders shaking slightly. The new maid looked politely puzzled.
    â€œYes’m,” Marta said, and sat down. She pulled at the sleeve of the other maid. “Carry on,” she said. She giggled again, soundlessly. “You’re in the Navy now.”
    Freddie went on into the living room. Marta, she suspected, would tell the new maid that it was all right to joke with Mrs. Haven; that Admiral Satterbee was another matter. “The admiral don’t notice lessen it’s wrong,” Freddie once had overheard Marta tell another new maid. It was true enough, Freddie had thought; it applied to the lower ranks, as well as to those who might be identified with the enlisted personnel.
    She said good evening to Watkins, who was supervising a waitress, who was polishing already polished glasses. She went on into the kitchen and told cook that everything looked wonderful, and filched a shrimp from an iced plate of shrimps. “Now Miss Freddie,” cook said. “Leaves an empty space.” Freddie shuffled shrimps, filling in the space. Cook had been around a long time; she had been known to be stern, within reason, with the admiral himself. A buzzer sounded faintly.
    â€œThere’s people, Miss Freddie,” the cook said, and Freddie went out to meet people. She went rather quickly, and only when she heard Aunt Flo’s voice did she realize that she had hoped the voice would be Bruce’s. She greeted Aunt Flo and Uncle William, not showing that she had wanted them to be Bruce Kirkhill. Tactfully, after the greeting, she enquired about the driver. Uncle William sometimes forgot. “The boy’s all right,” Uncle William assured her. “Told him he could take in a movie.” He beamed at his niece by marriage. “You look fine, Freddie,” he said.