To love and to honor (21 page)

So this is what a police court is like, really, she thought. The movies I've seen didn't make it sordid or smelly enough. A male derelict, head down, shabby, pitiably thin, was being admonished and dismissed. His place was taken by a boy, who answered questions in a scared whisper before he was led away and a door clanged behind him.

"Me next," a woman with disheveled tarnished-gilt hair beside Cindy proclaimed shrilly. Her eyes were bleary, her make-up had been applied with a prodigal

hand; her gay blue and red print dress glittered with cheap jewelry; she reeked of liquor.

"What you here for, dearie? In that red skirt, you look's if you'd been picked up at a gipsy camp."

Before Cindy could think of an answer to the hoarse whisper she rose and switched toward the desk.

"Here's your old friend, Judge," she said with such ingratiating humor that the man she addressed quickly covered a broadening grin with a red, hairy hand. It seemed as if the clock ticked away hours before the woman followed the boy. She turned, winked, and waved a friendly hand to the room at large before she made her unsteady exit "Next."

Did that mean her? Cindy looked around. It must. She was the only person present beside the policeman who had brought her here. The man at the desk leaned forward as if puzzled by her fantastic costume, as if trying to decide in which criminal pigeonhole she belonged. The dark plush robe trailed from her shoulders as she stepped forward. I must remember to return this to the owner, she thought irrelevantly. ''What's the charge?" the presiding official demanded. "I'm interested to hear that myself, sir," Cindy answered defiantly unmindful of the fact that the question had not been addressed to her.

"Silence, Miss, till you're spoken to." The policeman beside her added the nudge of an elbow to the gruff reminder of his superior. "Go ahead, Sergeant."

"Yes, sir. We got a teletype that a black seven-passenger limousine, deluxe model, stolen from an Inn, was racing this way, had just missed bein' smashed by the early freight from Boston, that a Town and Country convertible, that's what they call them new models that look like a station wagon—"

"I know. You don't have to explain models to me. Go on. Sergeant."

"Which they think was chasin' the limousine, busted a tire and crashed."

"No. No!" Cindy's broken protest followed a vision of

Tom Slade, unconscious, perhaps dying by the side of the road.

"Silencel Go on, Sergeant."

"They told us they suspected the guy who was running away with the h'mousine was the brains of a gang which had stolen eight cars along this shore the last month, that they had thrown out roadblocks. We started after him in a cruiser."

"And lost him. Were you sitting on your hands?"

*'No, sir." The sergeant's voice registered resentment at his superior's sarcasm. "When the limousine crashed into a roadblock he made his getaway. I don't know how he done it unless with mirrors, but," he cast a venomous glance at the girl beside him, "we got this dame hiding all wrapped up in a rug on the floor in back."

The dignitary behind the desk leaned forward. Cindy faced his scowling appraisal unflinchingly.

"What had the girl to do with the thief?"

"We were alerted he had a dame working with him. We figured she was the finger girl who located the unlocked limousine for him to snitch."

There was a sudden influx of men armed with notebooks and cameras. They looked as if they had been routed out to answer a hurry-up call and hadn't waited to shave or brush their hair. Only three? At first she had thought there were a dozen. ReportersI Had they been notified by phone of her arrest? Her heart went into a nose dive. She remembered her laughing boast to Sary:

"Something tells me I am about to spring a colossal sensation. The next time you see me I bet I will have made front-page headlines." I've made them, plus, she thought.

The man at the desk nodded to the group by the door before he commanded:

"Tell your story."

Cindy flinched at the report of the first flash bulb, held herself tense as three more followed.

"I refuse to answer, Captain—for fear what I say may tend to incriminate me." It was certainly educational to be a confirmed newspaper reader, she thought as the phrase, which had been used again and again by witnesses

at the trial of a man alleged to have conspired to make United States defense secrets available to a foreign power, surged to the top of her mind. "I shall not talk until I can be represented by counsel."

"You'd better talk if you know what is good for you.*'

"That threat is a mistake, Chief."

Cindy's mind whirled and steadied. Bill Damon's voice. She must think of him by his right name—Ken Stewart in a well-worn aviator's greatcoat was standing beside her. The relief. The unbelievable relief. This time her knees had turned to water, not jelly. She caught at his sleeve to steady herself. He stood frigid as a deep-freeze and about as responsive to the clutch of her hand on his arm.

"Who are you to come into this police court and tell me what I can do?"

"Take a look at this, sir."

He stepped forward and laid an open billfold on the desk. Bulbs flashed. The light revealed shadows like smudges on his face; haggard lines between nose and lips; little white patches in his dark hair at the temples, as if someone with floury fingers had brushed it back. He must have looked like this when fighting.

The official studied the identification offered. His scowl changed to incredible surprise.

"Goramighty, it was you. Col—" He stopped at the command of a raised hand. His face burned red. He cleared his throat. "Sorry. I take it you're a friend of this—this young lady. Will you advise her to tell how she come to be picked up in that stolen limousine?"

Stewart slipped the billfold into his pocket and stepped back from the desk.

"Go ahead, Miss Clinton," he said formally.

For a moment she thought her voice had dried in her contracted throat. There was not a sound in the room save the loud ticking of the clock. It must be old-fashioned, she thought irrelevantly, modem clocks are electrified, they don't tick.

"Take your time," Ken Stewart encouraged.

She told of the Bal Masque, of running along the Inn drive in search of a friend's convertible; of being

coatless and cold; of thinkinpj she mi^ht find a rug in the black limousine beside which she was standing to put over her shoulders until her friend arrived.

"Why didn't you find your friend's car?"

"There were three in the drive like his, and he had told me his was locked."

She told of the clown's stealthy entrance into the limousine; her recognition of him; her attempt to escape as the car swooped into the drive.

"You are sure he was the man who cut in on your dances at the masquerade?"

"Yes, sir."

"Would you recognize him if you saw his picture?"

"No, sir, his clown make-up was perfect. The only thing I would recognize would be his slicked-back black hair and hundreds of men have hair like that."

She went on without further interruption to the moment when she had been roused from semiconsciousness by a glare of light, followed by a voice shouting:

"Heyl See what I've found, fellas. Come here."

As she talked she had been aware of the sound of scribbling pens and pencils; of an occasional off-stage phone ring; of the assenting nods of the presiding dignitary, of his twirling thumbs as he listened. He pulled a big book toward him.

"You have told a convincing story. Your name."

The pencils stopped scribbling. It seemed to Cindy as if the walls had closed in to listen. She looked up at Ken Stewart.

"Cinderella Clinton," she acknowledged in response to his affirmative nod. One of the reporters gave vent to a surprised whistle.

Now he will have something to write home about, she thought. He has me all tied up with that "marriage by proxy" which was publicized from coast to coast. Ken Stewart approached the desk.

"Doesn't that fill the bill for tonight. Chief? Miss Clinton was dragged here, suspected of being a person she must have convinced you she isn't, a mistake for which we will seek redress later. She is minus a shoe, is shaking with cold." His voice was as frigid as she felt.

"Certainly, certainly. Don't blame my men too much. They were working under orders. We've got to nab those auto thieves. They are thumbing their noses at us. You'll have to admit it isn't customary for a young lady like Miss Clinton to ride round the country rolled up in a rug in the back seat of a limousine. Case dismissed."

When they reached the roadster Ken Stewart pulled a coat from the front seat and held it.

"Put this on. Sarah gave it to me. Drop that rug."

"It should be returned to the owner."

"I'll attend to that. Sit in front. I have something to say to you." As she hesitated he added, "Not about what you think. Get in. Stick out your feet while I put on your shoes."

"How did you know I needed them?" she asked from the seat beside the wheel.

"We heard that Cinderella lost a slipper while racing away from the ball. There you are, shod again. All set? Let's go."

Dawn was breaking in a sky intensely blue, clear except for a low cloud bank on the eastern horizon. A rim of gold crowned its entire length. Above that a pink glow rose and slowly spread. One by one stars faded and disappeared. A lonely crow cawed in the distance. A frog croaked hoarsely from the faint glimmer of a pond. A breeze touched her hair lightly and sped on. Cindy put her hand to her head.

"I hadn't realized it was gone. Somewhere I lost my white cap," she explained, not that she cared, but to break a silence which was becoming unbearable.

"You wore it when you were on the porch with Slade and me."

The porch. Skiddy ground.

"How did you know where to find me?" she asked hurriedly.

"We had a phone message from Slade. That is what I have to tell you."

"TomI I remember now. That sergeant said a convertible crashed. Was it his? He isn't dead? That isn't what you have to say to me, is it?" Her breath caught in a frightened sob.

"No. He isn't dead. He isn't seriously hurt. He was following a car in which he thought you had been kidnaped. A tire burst. He was going so fast that the convertible crashed off the road. When he roused from unconsciousness at the hospital he insisted upon getting in touch with Sarah Ann Parker. I happened to be at The Castle when the call came through. She was too frightened to speak. I took the message. The nurse relayed to me as he talked, he was too weak for his voice to carry."

Cindy listened breathlessly as he repeated Tom Slade's story. The sun rose from behind the cloud bank, a sudden dazzle of light, and touched the dark crouching tops of hills; cool, limpid surfaces of ponds shone like mirrors.

Shafts of sunrise sifting through the foliage of tall willows and stocky alders, sprinkled glinting pink sapphires on the purling water of a brook on its way to join a river. Glistening silver wires hummed as they swung from pole to pole. Heavy dew coating fields, trees and roadside shrubs sparkled like diamond dust. An oriole perched on his nest swinging from the tip of an oak branch poured out his heart in song.

"That is the story," he concluded.

"Tom smashed up and I responsible. I just can't bear it," Cindy declared brokenly.

"Don't blame yourself. The guy who stole the limousine is responsible." He slowed the roadster to look up at a sign. "This is the road."

"Not to The Castle. You've made the wrong turn."

"I'm not going to The Castle—yet. This is the road to the hospital."

"The hospital? You haven't deceived me? Tom isn't dy-"

"He is not dying. I told you he is not seriously injured, but he is so sure you are in danger, I thought if he could see you for a moment, hear your voice, his intolerable anxiety would be eased. Ready to be a good girl now and stop worrying?"

The tenderness of his voice sent a surge of tears to her

eyes. Maddening when she detested the man. She couldn't speak. She nodded.

"That being decided we'll go on. Don't stay but a moment. Remember that I am waiting for you."

In the corridor of the hospital redolent of disinfectant, she explained her presence to a white capped nurse.

"I am glad you have come, Miss Clinton. It has been difficult to keep Mr. Slade in bed, he has fought sleep, deliriously determined to start out to find you. He's quiet at present. He finally let us take a red satin slipper he had been clutching. This way. Don't stay but a few minutes. I will be outside the door."

Cindy cleared her eyes of tears as she looked down at the man in the narrow bed. She touched his hand which lay like a model in red-bronze against the white sheet. His eyes opened. A flash of recognition irradiated his face. His fingers closed over hers.

"You're safe, Cindy I"

"Safe and absolutely unhurt, Tom. I came so you would stop worrying about me and sleep."

"I found that—" he moved his head in the direction of a stand beside the bed. "See it? Cinderella's slipper-not glass—red satin. I'll fit it to her foot—you remember about the Prince—" His eyes closed.

The nurse touched her sleeve.

"He'll sleep now that he has seen you,'* she said softly, "You'd better slip away."

TWENTY-FOUR

" 'Faith, the substance of things hoped for.

The evidence of things to come.' "

Sonorously the blond young clergyman in his black robe announced his text from the high pulpit in the old church. The same pulpit from which countless men of God had proclaimed their belief in the invincibility of the Divine Spirit in man for decade after decade as the universe continued on its eternal rounds,

'Taith." Cindy repeated the word to herself and lost the preacher's elaboration of the quotation and his acknowledgment of its source. Faith. Without knowing anything of his past she had had unbounded faith in the man who had called himself Bill Damon and where had it landed her? Certainly there was no evidence of things she had hoped for from him. She had hoped, why not be honest with herself and admit it, she had hoped he would love her as she loved him. Now, in this aching sense of loss she was paying the inevitable purchase price of loving with heart and soul a man who didn't love her, hadn't wanted her—she must keep reminding herself—otherwise would he have allowed the annulment of the written contract marriage to go through without a protest? Love, how it tore at one's heart.