The Dishonest Murderer Read Free Page B

“How’s Johnny Jump-up?”
    It was always odd to hear her father called that. The theory was that they had called him that in the Pacific: “Old Johnny Jump-up.” There had been a time when Admiral Satterbee’s task force had jumped apparently out of nowhere, disconcerting the Japanese. Freddie, with the best will in the world, had never been able to believe that her father was, widely, known by so irreverent a nickname. As Uncle William used it, she noticed that the term was invisibly bracketed by marks of quotation.
    Admiral Satterbee came out of the library, greeted his wife’s sister and Admiral William Fensley and, firmly, led everybody to Watkins and the scotch. With glasses filled, Admiral Satterbee drew Admiral Fensley out of the feminine and into the professional circle.
    â€œThis new flat-top, Bill,” Freddie heard him say. “What d’y think?”
    â€œHell of a big target,” Bill, a battleship man to the end, assured him. “Wait till—”
    â€œâ€”of course,” Aunt Flo said, “there’s always the question of the reviews. You remember, dear, when the League took over that play that looked so good before it opened, and then all those critics said—”
    It was ten minutes before the buzzer sounded again and Freddie, still being invited to worry about the reviews of the play the League was planning to use as a benefit, brought back her wandering mind and—found she was listening again for, but again not hearing, the voice of Bruce Kirkhill.
    They came with some rapidity, thereafter, since Navy people are habitually punctual and these were, for the most part, Navy people. They came, they took drinks; the Navy men tended to coagulate and were, by her as hostess, gently, not too obviously, redistributed. There was enough to do as the big living room filled slowly; there were enough small things to think about, details to keep an eye on. But now, as time passed, as tennish became elevenish, it was increasingly difficult to keep her mind on pleasant chat, to shape her lips into a welcoming smile, keep interest in her voice. Because, still, Bruce did not come.
    It was a few minutes after eleven when a couple she did not know appeared at the door of the living room and paused there, with the slightly bewildered, rather anxiously amiable expressions of people who know no one present and wait to be, as it were, adopted. That was, at any rate, the expression on the face of the man, who wore glasses and who, as he stood there, absently ran the fingers of his right hand through short hair already faintly pawed. The expression on the face of the slight, trim woman beside him was more difficult to analyze. She appeared to be, above everything else, interested in the room—in the people, in all of the scene—and to have a bright intensity in her interest, as if it were all new, freshly seen and to be taken in gulps. There was nothing appraising about the slight young woman’s expression. She merely seemed pleased to see so many things, so many of them alive.
    Half smiling, Freddie Haven turned from the group she was hostessing and began to move toward the couple which was waiting to be adopted. Then she realized her father, who was tall enough to see over most people, had seen over a good many, noticed the couple at the door, and was moving toward them. He moved with purpose, as he always moved; he caught his daughter’s eyes and, with a movement of his head, asked her to join him. They converged on the couple at the door and the man of the couple began a smile of greeting.
    â€œâ€™Evening, North,” Admiral Satterbee said, in what was inevitably a voice of command, while he was still a stride or two away. He held out his hand. “Glad y’could make it.”
    The man with the slightly ruffled hair took the admiral’s hand, and Freddie, approaching, hoped he would have no cause to wince. The admiral’s