Any Shape or Form (23 page)

“I stood there and looked at the rifle, and I thought: I'll leave it to the gods. If it's loaded, I'm meant to be free. If it isn't, I'm meant to pay for that five thousand a year I spent on myself. But I thought it was loaded, because the gods had given me those gloves and that spud.

“I loosened the turf and piled it, no use letting them know the rifle had been fired by a tall woman or a shortish man. I got the rifle, and I sighted through the vines. And there she still was, the horror of a woman, with her arms spread out, looking at me! Only she didn't know it.”

Redfield made that helpless gesture with both hands. He said: “I've killed a hundred crows.”

“Well,” he resumed, “I got out of there, and the moment I was out I was safe; I had only to turn and be coming back through the wicket. And that's all of that. Oh—one thing more. For a long time—I had all summer—I thought about that signed document. The more I thought about it, the surer I was that she had it with her; she wouldn't let me put my nose into her room, even to bring flowers, and she kept it locked when I wasn't under her eye. After the medical examiner finished with her they let me go up and put away the jewelry—why not? I hung up the yellow robe with a couple of the country men right there with me, and I felt the paper in the hem. I had it out and in my pocket in twenty seconds. You missed those few loose stitches, Gamadge.”

“I hadn't the data to imagine a document, Johnny, and I wasn't looking for one. I was checking on the clothes and shoes. I did go through the pockets, hoping for a sign of Gouch's identity, but I didn't find one.”

“But when I found that document I thought I was safe. And then—” all Redfield's sang froid fell away. He looked wildly about him. “Then that other woman came. I'd never seen her, I never dreamed she'd gone out to Pasadena and seen Aunt Josephine. Aunt didn't mention it, and I'm sure Gouch didn't know. She'd never have risked the game if she had known. I suppose the woman was there after my visit, and Aunt decided not to put it in a letter.”

“It was obvious you'd never met her,” said Gamadge.

“The moment Blanche left us, after we went upstairs, she sprung it on me. Blackmail again, and just when I'd gone through—no. I couldn't stand it. We had just come into the bedroom, and I stopped to see if the reading light was working. It didn't seem to go on; I took off the shade to unscrew the bulb. She walked back past me and shut the door, and she stood there and came right out with it; ‘Mr. Redfield, I dropped in on Mrs. Archibald Malcolm last spring in Pasadena.' Just like that, and by the grin on her face I knew what the game was going to be.

“After what I'd been through it was too much. My brain gave. She strutted past me, never thought of the lamp. A lamp's a lamp, bedside ones usually have short cords; but this one had a long cord—there used to be twin beds, with the night table between.

“And I'm such a harmless-looking little man. But I snatched up the bedspread and held it in front of me, and I snatched up the lamp, and I—” He made a furious gesture with his clenched hand.

“There wasn't a spot on my fingers.” He lifted his hands, looked at them, and let them fall at his sides. “There wasn't a spot on me anywhere. But I went to my room and washed, and afterwards I came down to the studio and talked to Griggs. I felt quite calm. I didn't think she'd be found until morning. You weren't any more startled than I was, Gamadge, either of you, when Blanche screamed. And I never thought until afterwards what it would mean to David Malcolm.”

Gamadge stood looking down at him. Then, when he said no more, but sat as if exhausted by the memory of what he had described for them, Gamadge turned to the others. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he said, “the defense evidently rests.”

D
RUMMOND SLOWLY
and deliberately lighted his pipe, got it going well, and then spoke: “Don't know what we're supposed to do about it. Even if we all decided to let him run for it, how is he to get away, and where would he go, and what would happen to us afterwards? What would happen to you?”

“I have some ideas on the subject,” replied Gamadge. “The police don't suspect Redfield; he could walk out of this place and up to the house without being stopped or questioned. He could see Griggs, and tell him the conference hadn't come to anything—I'm afraid Griggs wouldn't be surprised to hear it—and ask if he might drive down to Old Bridge for supplies. Griggs would understand the necessity. He'd find out that we were still safely boxed up in here, and I think he'd let Johnny go.

“I was careful to set the conference early, and the inquest doesn't come off until two o'clock. Johnny could drive to Old Bridge and draw his balance out of the bank. He has a good balance there—he gave us that impression yesterday. If he said he needed plenty of cash for expenses connected with his aunt's funeral, and all the rest of it—no; they'd ask no questions at Old Bridge.

“And they'd ask none at his bank in New York. He could be in New York, drawing his balance there, before he was even missed at Idlers. Shopping takes a long time in these days, I dare say Redfield shops all over the country for one thing or another. Griggs would understand that.

“Redfield could get rid of his car, take a bus or train, and lose himself.”

“Yes,” said Drummond dryly, “he could. And we'd all go to jail as accessories after the fact to a double murder.”

“Oh, no; nothing would happen to us at all. When he didn't appear for the inquest we'd all show horror and surprise—it needn't be hard for us, it's pretty much what we feel now—and then I'd get busy thinking. I'd think of Gouch again, Griggs knows I was interested in her from the start. I'd explain that I never had been able to understand why she stayed on doing all that work for Mrs. Malcolm after she was under dismissal and in disgrace. That was a weak point in Redfield's story, and I should simply imply that it hadn't struck me forcibly until now.

“Then I'd insist on a call to Los Angeles and one to Pasadena, and Griggs would have a description of both women. Then I'd begin to construct the theory that you all heard just now. I'd trot out the Regard pin—Griggs would suppose that it had been in Miss Malcolm's possession ever since the impostor gave it to her—and I'd bring up the matter of the tea gowns that weren't long enough, and the sandals that would stay on larger feet than they were bought for, and the sun cult, and everything else. I'd remember that there was a watering trough; but perhaps when I called Griggs' attention to the propped statue, and the loose underbrush behind it I wouldn't have to say anything about the watering trough at all.

“Griggs would have the whole case against Redfield, motive would probably build up later, and we'd all leave the inquest without a stain on our characters. “

Blanche asked anxiously: “Yes, but where would Johnny go?”

Cora Malcolm was looking down at her brother; remorse was on her face, but a great relief too. She said: “Mightn't he stay at our apartment until he made some plans? It's a walk-up; and nobody'd think of looking for him there.”

“No,” said Gamadge, smiling at her. “Nobody'd think of looking for him there. Am I to understand that you are all ready to face these risks—for in all illegal operations there must be risk—and let Redfield go?” He looked from one to another of them. “Is that the verdict of you all? Extenuating circumstances and recommendation to mercy?”

Blanche said: “Poor Johnny; poor Johnny. Let him go.”

“You realize that if he killed twice when cornered he might kill again? That your life mightn't have been worth much, Blanche, if you'd happened to face him alone in this place, with my theory, and he'd been armed?
I
shouldn't have risked it!”

“He was driven to killing those women. He was desperate.”

“It might have been your earring that he dropped here, instead of Miss Malcolm's pin.”

“It wasn't, though. We don't know what he'd have done if it had been my earring.”

“You feel no resentment towards him on account of his attack on your character?”

“My character? What do you mean?”

“His comments on your feeling about money.”

“Johnny understands. He only talked like that because he was desperate. When people are desperate they say things they don't mean at all. It wasn't as bad as thinking I'd committed the murders!”

“Well: your reasons for clemency are personal, Blanche. But we must accept them. Miss Malcolm, you have already implied that you would like Redfield to escape.”

“Yes. I should.”

“No remark of mine is required here. Mr. Malcolm?”

“Cora remembers, as I do, that Mr. Redfield was kind to us and that my mother liked him.”

“As devil's advocate I ought to remind you that his interest in you all may not have been altruistic. Some day you would be very well off. He may have thought that day would come soon; your father's second marriage adjourned it.”

“I don't think that friendliness such as Mr. Redfield showed us all in Switzerland can be assumed. I think he is normally considerate and kind.”

“He was leaving you and perhaps your sister to the gods.”

“I must echo Mrs. Drummond: we don't know what he would have done in the end.”

“You think we should be dealing fairly with society in letting him go?”

“Yes; I do. But even if I didn't, I couldn't personally hand him over to the police.”

“Thanks. Drummond?”

Drummond took his pipe out of his mouth. “For God's sake get him started.”

Gamadge turned and looked down at Redfield. “I must say, Johnny, that your friends are behaving towards you in a manner that if not technically civilized is certainly humane.”

Redfield managed to smile. “They are indeed. But”—he got slowly to his feet—“I don't think I shall take advantage of their magnanimity, or of yours.” He slightly lifted his shoulders, and dropped them. “I don't see the future. Too much suspense, too little relaxation, too little ease for a quiet man of my age. But thank you all very much.”

He walked to the archway without another glance at anyone, and through it. They heard his voice raised outside: “Hi, Officer. What's-your-name—in the rockery, there…Come and get me. I'm giving myself up.”

Gamadge said, looking after him, “I knew he would.”

Drummond got up and gestured with a clenched hand. “I'd have shot myself. Gone off somewhere and bought a gun and shot myself.”

“Redfield could never do that.”

Blanche Drummond burst out crying, and left the rose garden. Drummond groaned: “I have no right to follow her.”

“She'll go to Abby, Walter.”

Malcolm, his head lowered and all his spirit in eclipse, slowly pulled up blades of grass. Cora said, her eyes turned from them all: “It will take a long time for us to get over this. A long time.”

M
ISS ABIGAIL RYDER'S
living room was a pleasant place on an October afternoon at tea time. Apple wood, living up to its reputation, sang in the white fireplace. Firelight shone on old brasses and copper, and on the gilt of gold mirrors. Purple and white asters in the copper pots matched the fading chintzes and window curtains.

It was the twelfth, a holiday, and Gamadge had stayed over. He sat opposite his cousin and drank tea from a mauve-and-gilt cup.

“Blanche called me from New York this morning,” said Abby.

“She'll be better off there. She'll find somebody,” said Gamadge.

“Henry, you are so vulgar.”

“Do
you
think she won't?”

“No matter how badly she may have behaved, I shouldn't blame her if she never did forgive Walter for thinking she committed the murders.”

“She was very much wrought up, Abby. She wasn't herself at all. She was behaving so madly that I can excuse Drummond for thinking she'd gone quite off her base.”

“That Malcolm boy behaved shockingly. Shockingly at first in having the affair with her at all, and then shockingly to her.”

“He was shocked himself at the way she was reacting. He was rather young to have a grand passion on his hands. I'm very glad,” said Gamadge, passing his cup for more tea, “that Drummond can presently pursue his beautiful friendship with Miss Malcolm.”

Miss Ryder said crossly, putting less sugar into his cup than he liked, “I keep telling you that it was a friendship. They were friends long before the brother almost broke it up by entering into this wretched affair with Blanche.”

“I know it was a friendship,” said Gamadge, taking his cup from her and helping himself to a lump from the sugar bowl. “The most beautiful kind. They love each other. I suppose they had a pretty tragic time of it down there in the garden on Sunday afternoon behind the cosmos. She'd be saying that she and her brother must never come up here again, and he'd be begging her to let him try to work out a divorce with Blanche, scrape up enough money to give Blanche enough alimony to suit her. And she'd reply that while Blanche felt as she did about Malcolm the whole thing was too ugly, a horrid quadrangle. Then she left him forever, and went up to grieve in the tool house. No wonder he didn't see people going or coming from the orchard, no wonder it took time for her to remember that game of croquet. But when I nab my favorite mallet I nab the ball too. Well, they'll be all right now. Where are the Malcolms, by the way?”

“They're at that inn at Old Bridge where you never get anything to eat but creamed canned chicken and make-believe fruit jelly.”

Gamadge craned forward in his chair as steps sounded on the porch. “
He
isn't.”