Death in the Fifth Position (11 page)

“I’m afraid I didn’t catch it. I was at the office most of the night, before I came here.”

She rallied bravely. “You … 
didn’t
see me tonight?”

“No, I had to get some pictures off to the papers … the new ones of you, by the way,” I added.

“I got eight curtain calls.”

“That’s my girl.”

“And three bouquets … from strangers.”

“Never take candy from strange men, little girl,” I chanted as we moved toward a tall French window which looked out on an eighteenth-century garden, all of five years old.

“I wish you’d seen it. Tonight was the first night I really
danced
, that I forgot all about the variations and the audience and that damned cable … that I really let go. Oh, it was wonderful!”

“You think you’re pretty good, huh?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that!” She was anxious: nowadays in the theater good form (or actors’ notion of good form) is everything. Everyone dresses carefully and quietly, no practical jokes, no loud voices and, above all, no reference to self … just smile and blush if you are congratulated for having won a Donaldson Award, look blank when someone mentions the spread on you in
Life
, murmuring something about not having seen it yet. In a way, I prefer
the grand old egotists like Eglanova: she hardly admits that there is another ballerina in all the world … and even Louis has been known to ask reviewers: “Who is this Youskevitch you talk to me about?” But anyway Jane had a storm of modesty which quickly passed and then, the Dance taken care of for the rest of the evening, we cruised the party.

About one o’clock we separated with an agreement to meet back at her apartment at two-thirty on the dot. Neither of us is very jealous … at least not in theory, and I wandered about the drawing room, saying hello to the few people I knew. I was pretty much lost in this crowd. It’s not the gang I went to school with, the sons of those dull rich families who seldom entertain and who traipse off to Newport, Southampton, Bar Harbor and similar giddy places this time of year; nor is it the professional newspaper and theater world wherein I sing for my supper … rather, it is the world of unfixed money: obscure Europeans, refugees from various unnamed countries, the new-rich, the wilder old-rich, the celebrated figures in the arts who have time for parties and finally the climbers, mysterious and charming and busy, of all ages, sexes, nationalities, shapes and sizes. It takes a long time to straighten everybody out. I haven’t even begun to see my way clear yet but I probably will in a few more years. Some people of course never do add things up right. Lady Edderdale is still among the more confused, after thirty years of high life.

Beneath a portrait of the lady of the house (the work of Dali) stood Elmer Bush with whom I have a nodding acquaintance … through no fault of mine I am not his
bosom buddy: his column, “America’s New York,” is syndicated in seventy-two newspapers as well as being the
New York Globe’s
biggest draw on the subway circuit. He was of course too important ever to visit the office, so the only time I met him was at first nights when he would always come up to Milton Haddock and say: “It looks like a bomb from where I sit. What do
you
think, boy?” and Milton would grumble a little and sometimes I would be introduced and sometimes not.

“Hello there, Mr. Bush,” I said with more authority than usual since I was, after all, sitting in the middle of the best piece of news in town.

“Why if it isn’t old Pete Sargeant himself,” said Mr. Bush, his face lighting up as he saw his next column practically composed already. He gave a polite but firm chill shoulder to a blond middle-aged star of yesteryear who had obviously got the Gloria Swanson bug; then we were alone together in the middle of the party.

“Haven’t seen you in a coon’s age!” said Elmer Bush, showing a row of capped teeth: he has the seventh highest Hooper in television with a program called “New York’s America” which is, they tell me, a combination of gossip and interviews with theater people … I never look at television myself because it hurts my eyes. Anyway, Elmer is big league, bald and ulcerous, the perfect symbol of metropolitan success for an earnest hard-working boy like me trying to get ahead in “the game.”

“Well, I’ve been pretty busy,” I allowed in my best bumpkin manner.

“Say, what about that murder you got in your company?” and the benign features of Elmer Bush (“just
a friend of the family in your own living room giving you some
real
stories about
real
people in the news,” … just old horse-shit Bush, I thought) shone with friendship and interest.

“Some mess,” I said, because that’s exactly what he would have said had our roles been reversed.

“Well, it keeps the show in the news … that’s one thing. Hear my broadcast about it Wednesday night?”

“I certainly did,” I lied. “Just about the best analysis I’ve seen so far.”

“Well, I didn’t really try to analyze it … just straight reporting.”

Had I blundered? “I mean the way you put it, well, that was some job …”

“Get the facts,” said Mr. Bush, smiling mechanically. “When are they going to arrest the husband?”

“I don’t know.”

“He
did
do it?”

“Everyone thinks so. He certainly had a good enough reason.”

“Bitch?”

“Very much so.”

“I saw the man who’s on that case yesterday. What’s his name? Gleason? Yes. Used to know him years ago when I was covering the police courts. He was mixed up in the Albemarle business … but that was before your time. Anyway, he made it pretty clear to me, unofficially of course, that Sutton would be arrested in the next twenty-four hours and indicted as quick as possible … while public interest is high. That’s the way they work.” And he chuckled. “Politicians, police … the worst hams
of all. But I still don’t know why they’ve held off so long.”

“Pressure,” I said smoothly, as though I knew.

He pursed his lips and nodded, everything just a bit more deliberate than life, made sharp for the television camera. “I thought as much. Not a bad idea to string it out as long as possible either … for the good of all concerned. Are you sold out? I thought so. Take a tip from me!
This
will put ballet on the map.” And with that message he left me for a dazzling lady who looked like Gloria Swanson and who, upon close inspection, turned out to be Gloria Swanson.

“How’re you doing, Baby?” inquired a familiar voice behind me … needless to say I gave a bit of a jump and executed a fairly professional pirouette … never turn your back on the likes of Louis, as Mother used to say.

“I’m doing just fine, killer,” I said, showing my upper teeth.

“Such good boy,” said Louis, holding my arm for a minute in a vise-like grip. “Some muscle!”

“I got it from beating up faggots in Central Park,” I said slowly; he doesn’t understand if you talk fast.

Louis roared. “You kill me, Baby.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Come on out on that balcony … just you and me. We look at moon.”

“Not on your life, killer.”

“Why’re you so afraid of me?”

“Just two guesses.”

“But I tell you you won’t feel nothing. You’ll like it fine.”

“I’m a virgin.”

“I know, Baby, that’s what I go for. Last night …” But before he could tell me some lewd story concerning his unnatural vice, Jed Wilbur approached us, pale and harried-looking, like the White Rabbit in
Alice in Wonderland.
He too was got up in a dinner jacket … it was the first time, I think, that I had ever seen him in a suit, wearing a tie. I was not able to continue my sartorial investigation, however, for Louis broke off what had promised to be our big balcony scene and rushed off in the direction of the main hall, as though he had to get to the john real fast. I could see that Wilbur was in some doubt as to whether to chase his beloved and corner him in some barricaded lavatory or to tarry a bit with me instead. He chose the latter course.

“I wonder where Louis is off to?” he asked.

“Call of the wild, I guess.”

“What was he talking to you about?”

This was abrupt and I was almost tempted to remind Jed Wilbur that it was none of his business. But then he is the leading choreographer of the minute and I am, for this minute at least, a minion of the ballet and so I swallowed my thimble-sized pride and said, “Just idle chatter.”

“In other words making a pass.” Wilbur sounded bitter.

“But that’s natural. I mean for him it is. He has to get into everything he sees.”

“Male and under thirty.” Wilbur sighed and I felt sorry for him … unrequited love and all that. He fidgeted with his ready-tied bow tie.

“Well, that’s the way he gets his kicks,” I said, idly dropping into an Army attitude; while I talked to Jed I
looked over his shoulder at the room, recognizing several famous faces, one of whom, belonging to a Senator, was talking very seriously to Jane who obviously had no notion of who he was. I smiled to myself as I recalled the day before when she asked me, very tenderly and shyly, whether Truman was a Democrat or Republican.

“Why does everyone at parties look over everyone else’s shoulder?” asked Wilbur suddenly, capturing my attention with a bang.

“Oh.…” I blushed. “Bad manners, I guess.”

“
Some
commentary on our society,” said Wilbur, in a voice which smacked a little of the soapbox. “Everyone trying to get ahead every minute of the day … rushing, rushing, rushing, afraid of missing a trick.”

“This is a competitive town,” I said with my usual profundity, sneaking a glimpse over
his
shoulder at Eglanova who was surrounded by some rich-looking bucks, laughing as though she was quite prepared to slip off a shoe and guzzle champagne from it.

“You’re telling me,” said Wilbur and he looked over his own shoulder in the direction that Louis had taken … but our Don Juan was nowhere in sight. No doubt he was having his way with one of the busboys behind a potted palm downstairs. Thinking of Louis always puts me into a good mood … that is when he’s not around to make me nervous … he just makes me laugh, for no particular reason. But then Lady Edderdale, surrounded by outriders, rode down on us, diamonds whispering against green satin.

“Mr. Wilbur? We haven’t met. I must have been in the other room when you arrived. I’ve so much wanted to meet you.”

Jed took her outstretched hand, bewildered. “Yes …”

“I am Alma Edderdale,” she said, smiling a blinding smile, like sun on a glacier; she withdrew her hand.

“We’ve met,” I said quickly, to cover the moment’s confusion. “With Mr. Washburn.’

“Of course. Can I ever tell you in words, Mr. Wilbur, my reaction to
Eclipse
?”

Wilbur suggested in a confused voice that she give it a try … stated more politely of course.

“It was my one wonderful,
mystical
experience in the ballet … not including the classics which I have seen so long that I can no longer remember how they first affected me. But in
modern
ballet … ah!” Words failed her. They failed Jed, too.

“It’s generally thought to be Mr. Wilbur’s best work,” I gabbled.

“And of course what happened that first night! Mr. Wilbur, I was there. I saw.” She opened her eyes very wide, great golden orbs, swimming in jaundiced tears.

“Very awful,” mumbled Wilbur.

“And to have had it happen then … at that wonderful moment! Ah, Mr. Wilbur …” The passage of several boisterous guests made escape possible; I slipped through them and wandered off to find Jane. But she had vanished … the Senator, too. I settled for Eglanova who was seated on a love seat with an old man and surrounded by younger ones, all rather sensitive I noted with my shrewd and merciless eyes … I can tell one of our feathered friends at twenty paces: a certain type anyway. The Louis kind nobody can spot until they’re coming at you … then flight is in order, if they’re bigger than you.

“My darling Peter!” Eglanova was mildly lit, not yet
weepy and Czarist the way she gets when she is really gone on vodka … twice a year: at Russian New Year and backstage the last night of every season in New York … her
last
season, she always moans, so they say. She gave me her hand to kiss and, feeling good on all the Pommery I had drunk, I kissed it soulfully.

“I have had such good time with young men.” She waved to include them all. They giggled. “I never go home now.”

“It’s late, Anna,” said Alyosha, suddenly joining us.

“Tyrant! Tomorrow I do one
pas de deux …
no more.”

“Even so.” Then he spoke in Russian and she answered in Russian, both speaking rapidly, seriously, the good humor of the party-mood gone. I thought Eglanova’s face went quite pale though it was impossible to tell since her make-up was like spar varnish … perhaps, it was the way her eyes opened very wide and her face fell, literally sagged, as though whatever force had been holding it tight across the bone suddenly gave way. Then, with a stage gesture, she got up, swept a half-curtsy to her admirers and, without saying a word to any of us, left the room on Alyosha’s arm. I saw them at the door saying good night to Lady Edderdale.

I looked about the room for Jane but she was gone. I wondered if she had gone home early … or perhaps had decided in a puckish mood to have a Senatorial fling. Well, she could look out for herself, I decided, and went downstairs to the bathroom. I was just about to go in when I saw Mr. Washburn come trotting across the black and white marble floor.

“I was looking for you,” he said, stopping short, breathing hard. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

“Why? What’s the matter?”

“I’ll tell you outside. Come on.” He looked furtively about as though afraid the footmen were eavesdropping. They were not. Even so, as we went out the door, he looked back over his shoulder, like a man fearing pursuers; I looked, too, and saw no one except Louis coming out of the head with a blond footman, both looking pleased as hell. They did not see us.

We headed east on Seventy-fifth Street, toward Lexington Avenue.

“What’s going on? What’s up? Where’re we walking to?”