Weep No More, My Lady

Memory. A word that haunted him. Bits and pieces. Going back up in the elevator. Being in the hall. Swaying. He'd been so goddamn drunk. And then what? Why had he blotted it out? Because he didn't want to remember what he had done?

Prison. Confinement in a cell. It might be better to…

There was no one in his bungalow. That, at least, was a break. He'd expected to find them again around the library table. He should have given Bartlett this unit and taken the smaller one himself. At least then he'd have more peace. The odds were they'd be back for lunch.

Craig. He was a good detail man. The company wouldn't grow with him at the helm, but he might be able to keep it on a holding course. He should be grateful for Craig. Craig had stepped in when the plane with eight top company executives had crashed in Paris. Craig had been indispensable when Kathy and Teddy died. Craig was indispensable now. And to think…

How many years would he have to serve? Seven? Ten? Fifteen?

There was one more job he needed to do. He took personal stationery from his briefcase and began to write. When he had finished he sealed the envelope, rang for a maid and asked her to deliver it to Elizabeth 's bungalow.

He would have preferred to wait until just before he left tomorrow; but perhaps if she knew there wouldn't be any trial, she might stay here a little longer.

When she returned to her bungalow at noon, Elizabeth found the note propped on the table. The sight of the envelope, white bordered in cerise, the flag colors of Winters Enterprises, with her name written in the firm, straight hand that was so familiar, made her mouth go dry. How many times in her dressing room had a note on that paper, in that handwriting, been delivered between acts? "Hi, Elizabeth. Just got into town. How about late supper-unless you're tied up? First act was great. Love, Ted." They'd have supper and call Leila from the restaurant. "Watch my guy for me, Sparrow. Don't let some painted bitch try to stake him out."

They'd both have their ears pressed to the phone. "You staked me out, Star," Ted would say.

And she would be aware of his nearness, of his cheek grazing hers, and dig her fingers into the phone, always wishing she'd had the courage not to see him.

She opened the envelope. She read two sentences before she let out a stifled cry and then had to wait before she could force herself to go back to finishing Ted's letter.

Dear Elizabeth,

I can only tell you that I am sorry, and that word is meaningless. You were right. The Baron heard me struggling with Leila that night. Syd saw me on the street. I told him Leila was dead. There's no use any longer in trying to pretend I wasn't there. Believe me, I have absolutely no memory of those moments, but in light of all the facts, I am going to enter a plea of guilty to manslaughter when I return to New York.

At least, this will bring this terrible affair to a conclusion and spare you the agony of testifying at my trial and being forced to relive the circumstances of Leila's death.

God bless and keep you. Long ago Leila told me that when you were a little girl and leaving Kentucky to come to New York, you were frightened and she sang that lovely song to you… "Weep no more, my lady."

Think of her as singing that song to you now, and try to begin a new and happier chapter in your life.

Ted

For the next two hours Elizabeth sat hunched up on the couch, her arms locked around her knees, her eyes staring ahead unseeingly. This was what you wanted, she tried to tell herself. He's going to pay for what he did to Leila. But the pain was so intense it gradually retreated into numbness.

When she got up, her legs were stiff, and she moved with the cautious hesitancy of the old. There was still the matter of the anonymous letters.

Now she would not rest until she had found out who had sent them and precipitated this tragedy.

It was past one o'clock when Bartlett phoned Ted. "We have to talk right away," Henry said shortly. "Get over as soon as you can."

"Is there any reason we can't meet here?"

"I've got some calls from New York coming in. I don't want to risk missing them."

When Craig opened the door for him, Ted did not waste time on preliminaries. "What's up?"

"Something you won't like."

Bartlett was not at the oval dinette table he used as a desk in this suite. Instead, he was leaning back in an armchair, one hand on the phone as though expecting it to leap into his hand. He had a meditative expression, Ted decided, not unlike that of a philosopher confronted with a problem too difficult to solve.

"How bad is it?" Ted asked. "Ten years? Fifteen years?"

"Worse. They won't take a plea. A new eyewitness has come forward."

Briefly, even brusquely, he explained. "As you know, we put private investigators on Sally Ross. We wanted to discredit her in every way possible. One of the investigators was in her apartment building night before last. A thief was caught red-handed trying to rob the apartment one floor above Mrs. Ross's. He's been making a deal of his own with the district attorney. He was in that apartment once before. The night of March twenty-ninth. He claims he saw you push Leila off the terrace!"

He watched the sickly pallor that stole over Ted's face change his deep tan to a muddy beige. "No plea bargain," Ted whispered. His voice was so low that Henry had to lean forward to catch the words.

"Why should they, with a witness like that? From what my people tell me, there's no question that his view was unobstructed. Sally Ross had that eucalyptus tree on the terrace, obscuring her line of vision. One floor higher up, and the tree wasn't in the way."

"I don't care how many people saw Ted that night," Craig blurted. "He was drunk. He didn't know what he was doing. I'll perjure myself. I'll say he was on the phone with me at nine thirty."

"You can't perjure yourself," Bartlett snapped. "You're already on record as saying you heard the phone ring and didn't pick it up. Don't even think of it."

Ted jammed clenched fists into his pockets. "Forget the goddamned phone. What exactly does this witness claim he saw?"

"So far the district attorney has refused to take my calls. I've got a few inside co

"Then I could be facing the maximum?"

"The judge assigned to this case is an imbecile. He'll let a throat-slasher from the ghetto off with a slap on the wrist, but he likes to show how tough he is when he deals with important people. And you're important."

The phone rang. Bartlett had it at his ear before the second ring. Ted and Craig watched as his frown deepened; he moistened his lips with his tongue, then bit his lower lip. They listened as he barked out instructions: "I want a rap sheet on that guy. I want to know what kind of deal he was offered. I want pictures taken from that woman's terrace on a rainy night. Get on with it."

When he put down the receiver, he studied Ted and Craig, noticing how Ted had slumped in his chair and Craig had straightened in his. "We go to trial," he said. "That new eyewitness has been in the apartment before. He described the inside of several of the closets. This time they caught him when he barely got his feet in the entrance hall. He says he saw you, Teddy. Leila was clawing at you, trying to save herself. You picked her up, you held her over that railing and you shook her until she let go of your arms. It won't be a pretty scene when it's described in court."