table alongside my bottle of Sterling.
'I'm a miserable bartender,' he confessed. 'Would you mix your own?'
'Certainly, sir,' I said.
'That's another thing,' he added. 'Your 'sir' and 'Mr. Gillsworth,' while appreciated, really aren't necessary. I've always addressed you as Archy. If you called me Rod, my ego would not be irretrievably damaged.'
'Force of habit,' I said. 'Or rather force of training. I may be the last son in America who addresses his father as 'sir.' '
'Your father's different.'
'Yes,' I said, sighing, 'he is that.'
I built my own drink: a little vodka, a lot of water. He mixed his own: a lot of vodka, a little water. I took the armchair again, and he lowered himself into a creaky swivel chair behind his desk.
'Rod,' I said, beginning to recite a short speech I had rehearsed, 'I haven't had a chance to express my condolences on the death of your wife. It was a terrible tragedy that saddened my parents and me. We shall always remember Lydia as a good neighbor and a gracious lady.'
'Yes,' he said, 'she was. Thank you.'
I sipped, but he gulped, and I wondered if he swilled in that fashion to make certain he'd sleep that night.
'It makes my poems seems so meaningless,' he mused, staring into his glass. 'So futile.'
'It shouldn't have that effect,' I said. 'Surely your wife's tragic death could provide inspiration for poetry in an elegiac mood.'
'Perhaps,' he said. 'In time. At the moment my mind is empty of everything but sorrow. I hope you're right. I hope that eventually I'll be able to express my bereavement and by writing about it exorcise my pain and regain some semblance of emotional tranquility.'
I thought that rather much. In fact it sounded like a speech he had rehearsed. But perhaps poets talked that way. Or at least this poet.
He took another heavy swallow of his drink and slumped in his chair. His eyes were reddened, as if from weeping, and his entire face seemed droopy. I fancied that even his long nose had sagged since I last saw him. He was now a very gloomy bird indeed.
'Archy,' he said, 'I understand that you will continue investigating the poison-pen letters.'
'That's correct.'
'You'll be working with Sergeant Rogoff?'
I nodded.
'What do you think of him? Is he competent?'
'More than competent,' I said. 'Al is a very expert and talented police officer.'
Gillsworth made a small sound I think he intended as a laugh. 'I believe he suspects me.'
'That's his job, Rod,' I explained. 'The investigation is just beginning. The sergeant must suspect everyone connected with Mrs. Gillsworth until their whereabouts at the time the crime was committed can definitely be established.'
'Well, my whereabouts have definitely been established. I was with you and your father.'
'Rogoff understands that,' I said as soothingly as
I could. 'But he can take nothing for granted. Every alibi must be verified.'
He finished his drink and poured himself another, as massive as the first.
'What angers me the most,' he said, 'is that he won't give me any information. I ask him what is being done to find the maniac who killed my wife, and he just mutters, 'We're working on it.' I don't consider that adequate.'
'At this stage I doubt if there is anything to tell you. And even when progress is made, the police are very cautious about revealing it. They don't want to risk raising false hopes, and they are wary about identifying any person as being under suspicion until his or her guilt can be proved.'
Gillsworth shook his head. 'It's maddening. Now I've got to accompany Lydia's casket up north for the funeral. Her family is sure to ask what is being done to find the killer, and all I'll be able to tell them is that the police are working on it.'
'I know it's frustrating,' I said sympathetically. 'It's difficult to be patient, but you must remember the police have had the case for only forty-eight hours.'
'How long do you think it will take to solve it?'
'Rod, there is absolutely no way to predict that. It could be days, weeks, months, years.'
He groaned.
'But there is no statute of limitations on homicide,' I said. 'The police will keep at it as long as it takes-and so will I.'
'Thank you for that,' he said. 'I see you need a refill. Please help yourself.' While I was doing exactly that, he said, 'Archy, will you be exchanging information with Rogoff?'
'I hope so.'
'While I'm up north for Lydia's funeral, may I phone you to ask if any progress has been made? I don't want to call Rogoff; he'll tell me nothing.'
'Of course you can phone me,' I said. I was about to add that naturally I'd be unable to reveal anything without Rogoff s permission. But Gillsworth's animus toward the sergeant seemed evident, and not wanting to exacerbate it, I said no more.
'I'll really appreciate it if you can keep me informed.'
'How long will you be gone, Rod?'
'Two or three days. I'd like to give you a set of house keys before you leave tonight. Would you be kind enough to look in once or twice while I'm gone?'
'I'd be glad to.'
'Thank you. Our cleaning lady, Marita, has been given two weeks off, so she won't be around. And I have handed over a set of keys to the police. I don't know why they wanted them, but that sergeant grunted something about security. Oh God, what a mess this whole thing is.'
'Rod, I hate to add to your burdens, but my father asked me to mention something to you. It is imperative that you make out a new will. Unfortunately, circumstances have changed, and your present will is simply inadequate.'
His head snapped up as if I had slapped him.
'I hope I haven't offended you by referring to it,' I said hastily.
'No, no,' he said. 'That's all right. I was just shocked that it hadn't even occurred to me. Your father is correct, as usual. As you probably know, Lydia inherited a great deal of money, and now I suppose it comes to me. What a filthy way to get rich.'
'It was her wish,' I reminded him.
'I know, but still.. Very well, you can tell your father that I'll certainly give it a lot of thought, and when I return from the funeral I'll get together with him.'
'Good,' I said. 'A will isn't something that should be delayed.'
He looked at me with a twisted smile. 'A legal acknowledgment of one's mortality,' he said. 'Isn't that what a will is?'
'I suppose so,' I said. 'But for a man in your position it's a necessity.'
He poured himself another drink with a hand that trembled slightly. I wondered how many more of those bombs he'd be able to gulp without falling on his face. I wanted to caution him but it wasn't my place.
He must have guessed what I was thinking because he grinned foolishly and said, 'I'll sleep tonight.'
'That you will.'
'You know, these are the first drinks I've had since Lydia died. I wanted a drink desperately while waiting for the police to arrive, but it seemed shameful to need alcohol to give me courage to see it through. But now I don't care. I need peace even if it comes from a bottle and even if it's only temporary. Can you understand that?'
'Of course,' I said. 'As long as you have no intention of leaving the house tonight.'
'No intention,' he mumbled, his voice beginning to slur. 'Positively no intention.'
'That's wise,' I said, finished my drink, and stood up. I had no desire to witness this stricken man's collapse.
