“I thought Mr. Rosenberg would ring the police or the doctor,” he said. “And then the next thing I know, all these men showed up. I don’t like them disturbing Mr. Tyler’s things, Miss Elizabeth, but what can I do? Maybe they’ll listen to you.”
Elizabeth sat down at the table and didn’t answer. It occurred to me—as it must have to her—that there were certain things she might want removed. “Where is he, Willy? I need to see him.”
“I’m not sure you want to do that, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Please, Willy.” And after considering a moment, he said, “All right, then. Let’s go upstairs. He’s in his room, right where I found him.”
We walked past the men in the living room, who continued to ignore us. Willy led us up the staircase to the second floor, and as Elizabeth’s breathing grew more labored, I thought I smelled a faint trace of liquor. There were two doors on each side of a long, lit hallway, and Willy led us to the second one on the left.
Tyler was lying faceup on the carpet, just at the foot of the bed. His body was perfectly straight, hands at his sides, legs and heels together. He looked, as always, unfailingly proper, as if he’d observed his sense of decorum even into his death. He was wearing a heavy crimson robe, the top half of which was open, revealing a triangle of pale white flesh. His eyes were open and he appeared startled; it was hard to know if this had been his final expression or if it was part of the mask of death. The sight of him was like a blow to the stomach. Beside me, Elizabeth let out a small cry.
“Oh, Ashley,” she said. She kneeled down beside him and took one of his hands. “I didn’t know he was ill. I didn’t know there was anything wrong with him.”
“Neither did I, Miss Elizabeth,” said Willy. “He always seemed like he was in such good health to me.”
I stood there suspended, not knowing what to do. It was real, the body was real, the man was truly deceased. And yet what I felt more strongly than the shock of his death was jealousy at the sight of Elizabeth kneeling beside him, caressing his lifeless hand. I did not wish to look at Tyler anymore, so I raised my eyes to watch the studio men. There were two of them working in the bedroom as well, going quickly through Tyler’s closet.
“What are they doing? What are all these men doing?” asked Elizabeth, as if she had just then noticed them.
We heard the sound of someone mounting the stairs, and then David Rosenberg appeared. From his face it was clear he was surprised to find us there. He nodded at the studio men, who kept working. Then he walked over to Tyler’s body.
“Jesus. This is terrible!”
Willy faded back against the wall, making himself invisible, and Rosenberg kneeled down to question Elizabeth. “When did you last see him?”
“Last night. I came to visit him about 7 o’clock, and left about 9. He walked me out to my car and gave me a book and kissed me goodnight. I had no idea that …” And now the tears began again.
“Did anyone see you?”
“My driver,” she said. “And anyone who was near their windows in the evening.”
David nodded. When he used a handkerchief to wipe off his face, I saw that his hands were shaking.
“Sir,” said Willy from the back of the room. “Sir, has anybody called an ambulance? Or the police?”
“Yes, we called the police,” said David. And then a statement I found very odd: “They’re giving us another ten minutes.”
David got up slowly, his large frame filling the space of the bedroom. He moved around, looking at a picture here and touching a book there, as if he were an anxious visitor examining the furnishings while waiting for his host to appear.
Elizabeth continued to kneel with Tyler, and I almost felt sorry for her. “Oh, Willy,” she said. “He was such a good man. What am I going to do?”
It was not a frivolous question. His friendship had been critical—for keeping her fading career alive and, apparently, for her efforts to curtail her drinking.
The stairs creaked again as someone walked heavily up them, and then several policemen appeared, wearing high-laced boots and mackinaw jackets. As they entered, I realized that I’d seen one of them before—at the studio, on sets, sometimes as security, sometimes filling in as an extra when the script required a police officer. “I’m Captain Mills,” he said to Elizabeth, and I saw that she recognized him too. Then he glanced over at me and lifted his eyebrows. “What’s the Jap doing here?”
Elizabeth stood up. “He came with me,” she said defiantly. This did not address, of course, the question of what she was doing there, but that question remained unasked. Instead, the police went right to work.
They all fanned out around the body and Elizabeth moved back, looking like she wanted to protect him; it seemed so odd, so improper, even to me, that all these strangers should see Tyler in this state. Captain Mills kneeled down beside his left shoulder and held his ear to the dead man’s nostrils. “Cold as ice. Been dead for a while, I think.” He stood again, and had just turned toward the other men when Elizabeth clutched my arm and made a sound. She gripped me so hard her fingernails broke through my skin, and I looked where she was pointing: at the floor, where Captain Mills’ black leather shoes were leaving marks in dark horseshoe shapes all over the wood.
“Uh, Mr. Rosenberg, sir,” said Willy. “Look, sir. Look at the floor.”
Everyone stared, Mills twisting around to see the marks his shoes had left. Then he took a white handkerchief
