The Oxford Book of American Det (43 page)

“Frightened!
With the house full of police? Why?”

“I don’t know,” said Susan again. “It’s nothing I can explain. It’s just—a queer kind of menace. Somewhere—somehow—in this house. It’s like Marie—only Marie is dead and this is alive. Horribly alive.” Susan knew she was incoherent and that Jim was staring at her worriedly, and suddenly the swinging door behind her opened, and Susan’s heart leaped to her throat before the policeman spoke.

“The lieutenant wants you both, please,” he said.

As they passed through the hall, the clock struck a single note that vibrated long afterward. It had been, then, eight hours and more since she had entered that wide door and been met by Jessica.

Lights were on everywhere now, and there were policemen, and the old-fashioned sliding doors between the hall and the drawing room had been closed, and they shut in the sound of voices.

“In there,” said the policeman and drew back one of the doors.

It was entirely silent in the heavily furnished room. Lights were on in the chandelier above and it was eerily, dreadfully bright. The streaks showed in the faded brown-velvet curtains at the windows, and the wavery lines in the mantelpiece mirror, and the worn spots in the old Turkish rug. And every gray shadow on Jessica’s face was darker, and the fine, sharp lines around Caroline’s mouth and her haunted eyes showed terribly clear, and there were two bright-scarlet spots in David’s cheeks. Lieutenant Mohrn had lost his look of youth and freshness and looked the weary, graying forty that he was. A detective in plain clothes was sitting on the small of his back in one of the slippery plush chairs.

The door slid together again behind them, and still no one spoke, although Jessica turned to look at them. And, oddly, Susan had a feeling that everything in that household had changed. Yet Jessica had not actually changed; her eyes met Susan’s with exactly the same cold, remote command. Then what was it that was different?

Caroline—Susan’s eyes went to the thin bent figure, hunched tragically on the edge of her chair. Her fine hair was in wisps about her face; her mouth tremulous.

Why, of course! It was not a change. It was merely that both Jessica and Caroline had become somehow intensified. They were both etched more sharply. The shadows were deeper, the lines blacker.

Lieutenant Mohrn turned to Caroline. “This is the young woman you refer to, isn’t it, Miss Caroline?”

Caroline’s eyes fluttered to Susan, avoided Jessica, and returned fascinated to Lieutenant Mohrn. “Yes—yes.”

David whirled from the window and crossed to stand directly above Caroline.

“Look here, Aunt Caroline, you realise that whatever you tell Miss Dare she’ll be bound to tell the police? It’s just the same thing—you know that, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes, David. That’s what—
he
—said.”

Lieutenant Mohrn cleared his throat abruptly and a bit uncomfortably.

“She understands that, Wray. I don’t know why she won’t tell me. But she won’t. And she says she will talk to Miss Dare.”

“Caroline,” said Jessica, “is a fool.” She moved rigidly to look at Caroline, who refused to meet her eyes, and said: “You’ll find Caroline’s got nothing to tell.” Caroline’s eyes went wildly to the floor, to the curtains, to David, and both her hands fluttered to her trembling mouth.

“I’d rather talk to her,” she said.

“Caroline,” said Jessica, “you are behaving irrationally. You have been like this for days. You brought this—this Susan Dare into the house. You lied to me about her—

told me it was a daughter of a school friend. I might have known you had no such intimate friend!” She shot a dark look at Susan and swept back to Caroline. “Now you’ve told the police that you were afraid and that you telephoned to a perfect stranger—“

“Jim Byrne,” fluttered Caroline. “His father and my father—“

“That means nothing,” said Jessica harshly. “Don’t interrupt me. And then this young woman comes into our house. Why? Answer me, Caroline. Why?”

“I—was afraid—“

“Of what?”

“I—I—“ Caroline stood, motioning frantically with her hands—“I’ll tell. I’ll tell Miss Dare. She’ll know what to do.”

“This is the situation, Miss Dare,” said Lieutenant Mohrn patiently. “Miss Caroline has admitted that she was alarmed about something and why you are here. She has also admitted that there was an urgent and pressing problem that was causing dissension in the household. But she’s—very tired, as you see—a little nervous, perhaps. And she says she is willing to tell, but that she prefers talking to you.” He smiled wearily. “At any rate—it’s asking a great deal of you, but will you hear what she has to tell? It’s—a whim, of course.” There was something friendly and kind in the look he gave Caroline.

“But we’ll humour her. And she understands—“

“I understand,” said Caroline with a flash of decision. “But I don’t want—anyone but Susan Dare.”

“Nonsense, Caroline,” said Jessica, “I have a right to hear. So has David.” Caroline’s eyes, glancing this way and that to avoid Jessica, actually met Jessica’s gaze, and she succumbed at once.

“Yes, Jessica,” she said obediently.

“All right, then. Now, we are going outside, Miss Caroline. You can say anything you want to say. And remember we are here only to help.” Lieutenant Mohrn paused at the sliding door, and Susan saw a look flash between him and Jim Byrne. She also saw Jim Byrne’s hand go to his pocket and the brief little nod he gave the lieutenant.

“Do you mind if I stay in the room but out of earshot, Miss Jessica?” Jim asked.

“No,” Jessica agreed grudgingly.

“We’ll be just outside,” said Lieutenant Mohrn, speaking to Jim. Something in his voice added: “Ready for any kind of trouble.” She saw, too, the look in Jim’s eyes as he glanced at her and then back to the lieutenant, and all at once she understood the meaning of that look and the meaning of his gesture toward his pocket. He had a revolver there, then. And the lieutenant was promising protection. But that meant that they were going to leave her alone with the Wrays. Alone with three people one of whom was a murderer.

But she was not entirely alone. Jim Byrne was there, in the far corner, his eyes wary and alert and his smile unperturbed.

“Very well now, Caroline,” said Jessica. “Let’s hear your precious story.”

“It’s about the house,” began Caroline, looking at Susan as if she dared not permit her glance to swerve. “The police dragged it out of me—“ Jessica laughed harshly and interrupted.

“So that’s your important evidence. I can tell it with less foolishness. It is simply that we have had an offer of a considerable sum of money for the purchase of this house.

We happen to hold this house—all four of us—with equal interest. Thus it is necessary for us to agree before we can sell or otherwise dispose of the property. That’s really all there is to it. Caroline and David wanted to sell. I didn’t care.”

“But Marie didn’t want to sell,” cried Caroline. “And Marie was stronger than any of us.”

“Miss Caroline,” said Susan softly. “Why were you afraid?” For a dreadful second or two there was utter silence.

Then, as dreadfully, Caroline collapsed into her chair again and put her hands over her mouth and moaned.

But Jessica was ready to speak.

“She had nothing to be afraid of. She’s merely nervous—very nervous. I know, Caroline, what you have been doing with every cent of money you could get your silly hands upon. But I intended to do nothing about it.” Caroline had given up her effort to avoid Jessica. She was staring at her like a terrified, panting bird.

“You—know” she gasped in a thin, high voice.

“Of course, I know. You are completely transparent, Caroline. I know that you were gambling away your inheritance—or at least what you could touch—“

“Gambling!” cried David. “What do you mean?”

“Stocks,” said Jessica harshly. “Speculative stocks. It got her like a fever. Caroline has always been susceptible. So you have no money at all left, Caroline? Is that why you were so anxious to sell the house? You surely haven’t been fool enough to buy on margin.”

Caroline’s distraught hands confessed what her trembling lips could not speak.

David was suddenly standing beside her, his hand on her thin shoulder.

“Don’t worry, Aunt Carrie,” he said. “It’ll be all right. You’ve got enough in trust to take care of you.”

Over Caroline’s head he looked at Jessica. The look or the tenderness in his voice when he spoke to Caroline seemed to infuriate Jessica, and she arose amid a rustling of silk and stood there tall and rigid, facing him.

“Why don’t you offer to take care of her yourself, David?” she said gratingly.

David was white, and his eyes brilliant with pain, but he replied steadily: “You know why, Aunt Jessica. And you know why she gambled, too. We were both trying to make enough money to get away. To get away from this house. To get away from—“ He stopped.

“From what, David?” said Jessica.

“From Marie,” said David desperately. “And from you.” Jessica did not move. Her face did not change. There was only a queer luminous flash in her eyes. After a horribly long moment she said:

“I loved you far better than Marie loved you, David. You feared her. I intended to give you money when you came to me. You had to come to me. You would have begged me for help—me, Jessica! Why did you or Caroline kill Marie? Was it because she refused to sell the house? I know why she refused. She pretended that it was sentiment; that she, the adopted daughter, was more a Wray than any of us. But it wasn’t that, really. She hated us. And we wanted to sell. That is, you and Caroline wanted to sell for your own selfish interests. I—it made no difference to me.” Caroline sobbed and cried jerkily:

“But you did care, Jessica. You wanted the money. You—you love money.” There was a strangely incredulous wail in her thin voice
. “Money—money!
Not the things it will buy. Not the freedom it might give you. But money—bonds, mortgages, gold.

You love money first, Jessica, and you—“

“Caroline,”
said Jessica in a terrible voice. Caroline babbled and sobbed into silence.

“Caroline, you are not responsible. You forget that there are strangers here. That Marie has been murdered. Try to collect yourself. At once. You are making a disgusting exhibition.”

All three looked at Susan.

And as suddenly as they had been diverted from each other they were, for a moment, united in their feeling against Susan. She was the intruder, the instrument of the police, placed there by the law for the purpose of discovering evidence.

Their eyes were not pleasant.

Susan smoothed back her hair, and she was acutely aware of the small telegram of warning that ran along her nerves. One of them had murdered. She turned to Caroline.

“Then were you afraid that Marie would discover what you had been doing with your money?” she asked gently.

Caroline blinked and was immediately ready to reply, her momentary feeling against Susan disseminated by the small touch of kindness in Susan’s manner.

“No,” she said in a confidential way. “That wasn’t what I was afraid of.”

“Then was there something unusual about the house? Something that troubled you?”

“Oh, yes, yes,” said Caroline.

“What was it?” asked Susan, scarcely daring to breathe. If only Jessica would remain silent for another moment.

But Caroline was fluttering again.

“I don’t know. I don’t know. You see, it was all so queer, Marie holding out against us all, and we all—except Jessica sometimes—obeyed Marie. We’ve always obeyed Marie. Everything in the house has done that. Even Spider—the—the monkey, you know.”

Susan permitted her eyes to flicker toward Jessica. She stood immovable, watching David. Susan could not interpret that dark look, and she did not try. Instead she leaned over to Caroline, took her fluttering, ineffectual hands, and said, still gently: “Tell me exactly why you telephoned to Jim Byrne. What was it that happened in the morning—

or maybe the night before—that made you afraid?”

“How did you know?” said Caroline. “It happened that night.”

“What was it?” said Susan so softly that it was scarcely more than a whisper.

But Caroline quite suddenly swerved.

“I wasn’t afraid of Marie,” she said. “But everyone obeyed Marie. Even the house always seemed more Marie’s house than—than Jessica’s. But I didn’t kill Marie.”

“Tell me,” repeated Susan. “What happened last night that was—queer?”

“Caroline,” said Jessica harshly, dragging herself back from some deep brooding gulf,

“you’ve said enough.”

Susan ignored her and held Caroline’s feverishly bright eyes with her own.
“Tell me—

“

“It was—Marie—“ gasped Caroline.

“Marie—what did she do?” said Susan.

“She didn’t do anything,” said Caroline. “It was what she said. No, it wasn’t that exactly. It was—“

“If you insist upon talking, Caroline, you might at least try to be intelligible,” said Jessica coldly.

Could she get Jessica out of the room? thought Susan; probably not. And it was all too obvious that she was standing by, permitting Caroline to talk only so long as Caroline said nothing that she, Jessica, did not want her to say. Susan said quietly: “Did you hear Marie speak?”

“Yes, that was just it,” cried Caroline eagerly. “And it was so very queer. That is, of course we—that is, I—have often thought that Marie must be about the house much more than she pretended to be, in order to know all the things she knew. That is, she always knew everything that happened in the house. It—sometimes it was queer, you know, because it was like—like magic or something. It was quite,” said Caroline with an unexpected burst of imagery, “as if she had one of those astral-body things, and it walked all around the house while Marie just sat there in her room.”

“Astral—body—things,” said Jessica deliberately. Caroline crimsoned and Jessica’s hands gestured outward as much as to say: “You see for yourself what a state she’s in.”

The old room was silent again. Susan’s heart was pounding, and again those small tocsins of warning were sounding in some subconscious realm. All those forces were silently, invisibly combating—struggling against each other. And somewhere amid them was the truth—quite tangible—altogether real.