Escape the Night (27 page)

Sutton twisted his hands together. “To find out if it was real. She’d said it was just junk, you see. And that she’d had it for some time. But Leda insisted it was new. I saw her—Amanda, I mean, get it out of a drawer in her room and wrap paper around it. That was in the morning—the morning of the day when Luisa was killed. So I waited in my study, there in the house. Amanda thought I’d already gone up to the farmhouse, but I hadn’t. After Sissy came downstairs I went up to her room—you see, I’d watched and Amanda had gone to Sissy’s room and I thought she might have left the bracelet there. Well, I looked and it was in a drawer. And I—took it.”

The sun was hot. The patio and everyone in it was perfectly still. Quayle said finally: “You may as well tell us the whole story, Mr. Condit. What did you want to prove to yourself?”

“Why, whether or not it was real! Of course! And it—is.”

“It corresponds to the description of the bracelet Leda Blagden bought at Cartier’s,” said Quayle rather gently. “Doesn’t it, Mr. Condit?”

“I suppose so. Yes.” Sutton glanced at the bracelet and then turned quickly back to Quayle. “Yes, it does.”

Quayle looked at Johnny. And Johnny said: “I didn’t give Leda the money to buy a present for Amanda, if that’s what you mean!”

“Then how …”

Johnny looked at Sutton. “I didn’t know about the bracelet, Sutton,” he said. “I suppose Amanda asked Leda to bring it back with her. But I did know about …” he stopped. Sutton stared at the path.

Quayle said: “I thought probably you did, Mr. Blagden. I ought to say that Lossey gave me a report on your wife’s scarf this morning, Mr. Condit. According to laboratory tests, it does not appear to have been used as a lethal weapon. There are no sharp wrinkles, as would appear in the threads in that case, and no traces of Mrs. Blagden’s powder or perfume. It does seem to have been a false clue, left there deliberately by the murderer. But in the process of investigation Lossey discovered that Mrs. Condit had ordered the scarf herself …”

“She said someone gave it to her,” mumbled Sutton, staring at the path.

“She ordered it herself. It was an expensive trifle for anyone who was hard up for money to order. That occurred to Lossey and to us. Also, it began to seem that, if Mrs. Condit had
not
sent money to her sister, a rather large sum of money had disappeared somewhere.”

Jem had said that, too. Again no one spoke for a moment. And then Quayle asked very quietly: “Were you on good terms with your wife, Mr. Condit?”

Sutton seemed to control himself but with an effort. “Yes. I suppose so. Other people could tell you that.” He paused and added grimly. “Other people doubtless will.”

“Mr. Condit,” Quayle was very grave, “there’s a bullet hole in the railing of that stairway.… We’ve found a gun in your room and a gun that Ramon says belongs to you in the room Miss Luisa Condit used. I dug out a bullet from that railing. We haven’t had a chance yet to have a ballistics report on it, but it could have been fired, by the looks, from either of those guns, which are alike. And we did some telephoning just now. We found three bank deposit books in your wife’s desk. You’d better tell us the truth, Mr. Condit.”

Lossey opened the door of the house. His beady eyes took in the scene and he added himself to it quietly and unobtrusively, so they were scarcely aware of it. And Sutton put his head in his hands. The sun shone on his thinning blond hair. He said between his fingers: “Oh, all right, all right. I took the bracelet. They’ll tell you—somebody—that I quarreled with her yesterday. And I did. But I didn’t kill her. And that bullet was fired at Luisa the day Sissy came home.”

I
T WAS A QUEER
story that Sutton told, queer and distorted, sad, and in one way illuminating, for it explained much of Amanda that had been till then inexplicable. It did not, however, explain enough. For when he had finished they still did not know who had murdered her, or why.

He talked in snatches, his head in his hands. It was a long story as he told it and as it had happened; actually in substance it was brief.

Amanda had had money. She had taken from him, she had pressed him for more; she had saved and saved. She had spent for expensive clothing, but that was all. Sutton, never a business man, seemed bewildered as he talked. But to Serena, coupled with Amanda’s own statements, it was appallingly clear. So clear that, behind the disjointed, sometimes rambling fabric of Sutton’s words the main design, made by Amanda, could be seen in full broad strokes. Amanda was beautiful; Amanda was ambitious; her whole aim was to escape; to establish herself in a life which, she had thought, would provide more scope, more glamour, more power. Everything she had done was a means to that end. Money, because she must have money in order to give herself a setting; Jem, because she believed in his future. Her motive in buying the bracelet was more complex, yet Amanda-like and feminine; she loved jewelry, certainly, and the mere possession of it must have given her a great and real, if secret, satisfaction. But probably that satisfaction, however real it was, was strongly mixed with a purely practical desire to have a substantial sum of money done up, so to speak in one package—easily transportable, easily sold, if necessary. She couldn’t admit that the jewels were real. She had to claim they were false to protect herself. Yet below that pretense had been a secret glow and pleasure. Beautiful women were enhanced with real and beautiful jewels out in the great world where she, Amanda, intended to take her place, weren’t they? Well, then, she was so enhanced.

Beautiful, childish, play-acting Amanda; with her ruthlessness that was not childish. Her fear, her frantic efforts to save herself and the secret hoard she had assembled; her selfishness, her complete inability to see anything in the world except in its relationship to her were all tragically, fatally, typical of Amanda.

Sutton was talking bewilderedly and in confused phrases: “She took over the financial details of the ranch. I wasn’t good at that. She said that and it’s true. I had no sense of money; there’d always been enough—I’d do anything I wanted to do, loan, give it away, anything. She stopped all that. But we—we kept getting into debt and had less and less money. I never dreamed …” he gave Quayle a quick, nervous glance. “She’s borrowed, too,” he blurted. “From Luisa and …” he glanced at Jem. “And other people. I made her tell me everything yesterday. When I was sure the bracelet was real and that either she bought it or somebody gave it to her and I—I was pretty sure she bought it. I’d heard her talking to Serena and listened and—I made her tell me the truth. Amanda gave Leda the money to buy the bracelet. Told her to bring it home with her. You can check on cash withdrawals from Amanda’s account. It was like Amanda. Leda was furious with Amanda just then. She thought Amanda was—was leading Johnny on. But she brought Amanda the bracelet all the same. We—I know that seems odd; but we all …” he swallowed uncomfortably. “We
know
each other so well.”

“The Cartier man said cash was paid for it. That’s a lot of cash to trust anybody with,” said Lossey. Captain Quayle gave him an odd glance which had something disapproving in it, but said nothing.

Sutton shrugged. “Oh, it was all right with Leda.”

“Mrs. Condit admitted it then?”

“Oh, yes,” said Sutton again with a weary shrug. “She—she was very childish in a queer way, you know. Amanda, I mean. When I talked to her yesterday she said she’d drawn a check, given Leda the cash, talked over the telephone to a man at Cartier’s and selected it from his description but didn’t give her name. She …” he made a helpless gesture with his hands and put his head down again. “I tell you Amanda was like that. She’d decided to buy that bracelet; it was in New York. Leda was going there on a shopping trip and she simply had Leda get it and bring it to her.”

“She was trying to cover her purchase,” said Lossey. “She wanted to conceal the fact that she had saved so much money.”

“No,” said Sutton. “I think it was merely convenience. I—I guess I’m not very clear in what I say. But you see she—she didn’t want me to know. She’d asked Luisa for loans; Luisa had made substantial loans to us several times; she never even took a note for them; but the money always disappeared somehow without much to show for it. But I—naturally”—his mouth twisted—“naturally I didn’t suspect Amanda of that. How could I?”

He, too, thought Serena painfully, had loved the woman he thought was Amanda. And loved her still. “Go on, Mr. Condit,” said Quayle. “What about the attempt upon Luisa’s life?”

“Amanda told me that, too,” said Sutton. “Luisa came to her about noon—the day Sissy got home. Luisa insisted that somebody had fired at her. Somebody standing in the arch over there …” He jerked his blond head toward the doorway in the white patio wall. “She said she didn’t see who it was. But she accused Amanda of wanting to murder her because of the money she had and I would inherit. I suppose Luisa suspected something of the truth. Luisa was more of a—more of a business man than I am,” said Sutton vaguely. And Luisa, thought Serena with pity in her heart, hadn’t been a man in love with a beautiful woman.

“Luisa,” went on Sutton, “had taken one of my guns. She showed it to Amanda and threatened her. She said she’d telephoned the police and told them that somebody was trying to murder her; and she said she could protect herself. She”—he sighed—“she’d got the idea, too, that Jem Daly was here too much. So Amanda said. Luisa thought he was in love with Amanda. But she—I don’t know whether I can explain but—but Amanda was so beautiful, you see …”

Jem was very white. Johnny stroked his bald head again and stared at the bracelet.

“Go on, Mr. Condit,” said Quayle again but rather gently.

“Well, Amanda told me that just then the telephone rang and it was you, Sissy. And Luisa was in the room and asked her who it was and Luisa was waving the gun around excitedly. Amanda finished talking to Sissy and then she reasoned with Luisa. Finally Luisa agreed to call up the police and tell them to forget it. But Amanda—I’m telling everything backward but I”—he rubbed his reddened eyes and his forehead—“I’m confused. It’s all so horrible. I—where was I? Oh, you see, Amanda didn’t believe Luisa. She thought Luisa was only making a fuss. She told me yesterday that Luisa had demanded that she send Jem away, which of course was ridiculous, and that she—Amanda, I mean—had told Luisa that it was ridiculous and they had quarreled over it.”

It was coming out; a motive for murder—Amanda had quarreled with Luisa about Jem. Jem had been at Casa Madrone at about the time that Leda was murdered. And Sutton was talking, talking, as if he didn’t know what he was saying and there was nothing Serena could do to stop it. Nothing …

She saw the look Anderson and Quayle exchanged. Lossey said: “So Jem Daly was in love with your wife?”

Jem said suddenly and very clearly: “Yes. I was in love with Amanda—hopelessly—for a long time.”

Sutton gave Jem a queer look, half-sympathetic, half-grateful. He said quickly: “Jem thought he was in love with her. I don’t know whether or not I can make you see—he wasn’t really—I mean—oh, it really didn’t mean anything. Jem admired her; but everybody admired her.”

“Of course, of course …” said Lossey soothingly. “But did Mrs. Blagden know that he—admired her?” Something in the way he quoted Sutton’s own phrase made it stand out and seem false. Sutton, however, did not appear to notice it. He said vaguely: “Leda? Why, I don’t know. Perhaps. Amanda and she used to tell each other things—even when they’d quarreled.”

“Oh, did Mrs. Blagden and Mrs. Condit quarrel?” That was Lossey again.

“Not real quarrels,” said Sutton. “They knew each other so well, you see. Always. Lately Leda had been cross about Johnny, and Amanda—I think she liked to tease Leda a little. She didn’t ever mean to hurt her. It was only …” Sutton sighed and then said, in its way, a very wise and discerning thing. “Amanda had so much strength,” he said, “and so little—scope for it.”

Serena knew what he meant. There had always been some thing baffled and frustrated about Amanda with her sense of the dramatic, and her uneven, flashing temperament. Quayle said slowly: “Did she like jewels, Mr. Condit?”

“Why—no. I don’t think so. Not particularly.”

“What was her purpose in getting together such a substantial sum of money? Secretly.”

A flush came up into Sutton’s face. But he lifted his eyes to Quayle. “She was going to leave me. She said she was bored here. She … I suppose it was dull. I’m not a very brilliant or entertaining person. She was so lovely and wanted to—oh, get out in the world. She had to have money first, of course.” His voice wavered. He repeated helplessly: “She was so lovely—why should anyone …?”

Captain Quayle said quickly: “Why do you think someone shot at Luisa?”

“I don’t know. Amanda said she thought Luisa was only making up a story. She didn’t believe her—not then, at least. Not until later when Luisa fell over the rocks and even then she was in doubt. She thought it may have been an accident.”

“Why didn’t she tell us about it?” asked Lossey. “Did she explain that to you?”

Sutton’s red-rimmed eyes went to the detective in surprise. “Why, of course she couldn’t tell you that!” he exclaimed. “Then you’d be sure to think it was murder.”

“But, my God, Condit,” cried Lossey in sudden anger and Quayle lifted his hand. “Just a minute. I feel sure that this is exactly the way Mrs. Condit would reason. You see,” his voice was firm, “I’ve known most of these people, in a way, for some time.” He turned to Sutton. “Mr. Condit, why would Luisa Condit tell your wife that someone shot at her if it wasn’t true?”

Again Sutton shrugged. “But it was true,” he said. “Obviously. Even Amanda thought that, when Leda was murdered. But she didn’t know who attacked Luisa. Or why.”

Lossey said eagerly, in spite of Quayle’s reproof: “She—your wife, I mean, didn’t take a shot at Luisa herself?”

Sutton only looked at him wearily and shook his head: “No,” he said in a flat voice. “No. She wouldn’t have done that. And if she had, I think Amanda would have told me. You see she really depended upon me when it came to anything important.” An odd—and pathetic—note of pride came into his voice.