The Girl Who Had To Die

by Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

  “Find Jocelyn!” said Sibyl in Killian's ear.

  She and her husband joined Elly, it was their duty to stand by her. And it's my duty, is it, to find Jocelyn? He went into the house; and there was a parlourmaid standing in the hall with an eager air, which she quickly banished. “D'you know where Miss Frey is?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. Miss Frey's in her room, sir, resting.”

  “Show me which room is hers, please,” he said; and the girl went briskly and neatly up the stairs, and along the carpeted corridor.

  “This is Miss Frey's room, sir,” she said; trained not to say “her” or “she”; trained not to ask any questions, and not to show any curiosity. Only she lingered.

  “Thank you,” said Killian, and she went away.

  He knocked on the door, and there was no answer. Quite natural, he thought. She wouldn't be in any room where you'd expect her; and if she was, she wouldn't answer. He knocked again. “Jocelyn?” he said. Then he tried the knob, and the door opened. It was dusk in there, and a chilly breeze blew in at the open window. He felt for the switch and two lights came on: one over a dressing-table; and a little lamp on a desk. In that mild, rosy light he saw Jocelyn lying on the bed in her blouse and skirt, her shoes and her hat on the floor. Her eyes were closed and she did not stir.

  He went over to her; when he saw that she was breathing, he gave a profound sigh. So you're not dead, he thought. You're a nuisance and a pest, but God knows I don't want you to be dead. You're lovely, and gentle, and young—when you're asleep. You look nice now when you're peaceful.

  No use waking her up just to tell her to keep quiet. Maybe shell wake up in a minute, he thought: and he lit a cigarette and sat down in a chair where he could look at her. I'll watch over your slumbers, lady. Maybe we can be different, Starry Eyes. Maybe we can be a Young Couple. A nice, pleasant young couple. I wouldn't know.

  She stirred, and opened her eyes. “Jocko?”

  He went over to her and sat on the bed beside her; he took her hand.

  “I'm tired,” she said.

  “Then take it easy,” he said.

  “Do you care if I don't come down to dinner?” she asked.

  “No,” he said, “I don't care.”

  “Jocko,” she said, after a moment, “you couldn't stop loving me now. No matter what happened.”

  “Yes, I could,” he said.

  “No!” she said, gripping his hand. “Tell me you couldn't stop!”

  “I won't tell you that,” he said. “I'm not that type. Not the knightly type that suffers gladly.”

  “You can't get away from me,” she said. “No matter what happens.”

  He rose, still holding her hand. “Take it easy!” he said. “I'll stop in to see you after dinner.” He let her hand go, and she turned on her side again and closed her eyes.

  I'm not that type, he thought. I would not love thee, whatever thou didst. I could get away. He went to his room; he took a cold shower, and dressed in his dinner jacket. Six o'clock, and time for a cocktail, he thought. I'm timid about going down. Sibyl and Mr. Bell and Harriet all know now about Jocelyn being murdered. Elly wouldn't tell them that I was the murderer, but it might come into their heads. Maybe I look like that. It's going to be in the newspapers now. The victim, that guy called her.

  As he descended the stairs, he heard a pleasant sound of voices from below; and he heard Sibyl laugh, a loud and hearty laugh that didn't go with her manner. She wasn't born Mrs. Luther Bell, he thought. She's been around. She's a little battered. And her child's a tough little guy. He followed the sound of voices to the library. The real McCoy, he thought, shelves of books on three sides, thousands of books, an air of dignity and rather shabby comfort. Not Luther's doing. He must have had ancestors.

  He was surprised to see Chauverney's neat, slender back, in a grey suit. I'd forgotten Chauverney, he thought. Here we all are, boys and girls.

  “Martini or a Manhattan?” asked Sibyl, and Chauverney turned at the sound of her voice; he gave Killian his quick, vivid smile, only it turned into a grimace.

  He looks shot to pieces, thought Killian. He looks ill. “Oh, Martini, thanks,” Killian answered. He felt unreasonably concerned about Chauverney. I never saw anyone look like that before, he thought. He looks like a ham actor registering mental anguish. Overdone.

  Harriet was sitting in a chair, and Ponievsky on the arm of it. Elly was standing beside Luther Bell, talking to him, looking up at him with that artificial but very effectual charm of hers. So I talk to Sibyl, thought Killian.

  She looked him up and down, smiling, as if to cover her secret calculations. “We're beginning to think about the Flower Show,” she said, instantly. “In July. You must try to come. We got two prizes last year.” She went on, talking about flowers, and she doesn't, thought Killian, give a damn about flowers. She was wearing a black dinner dress with floating sleeves that now and then fell away from her muscular arms; her black hair was done high on her head in glossy curls. “We're hoping for great things from this Angelo,” she said.

  The name checked Killian's wandering thoughts. “Angelo?” he repeated.

  “Jocelyn found him somewhere,” said Sibyl. “She asked us to give him a job. Apparently he can do anything—gardening, cooking, anything.”

  “That's nice,” said Killian.

  “Isn't it?” said she.

  There was Jocelyn, in a room upstairs, sleeping because she had taken something. Yet she ruled everything, as the moon rules the tides of the sea. She had brought them all here; she drew some people together, and others apart. Does she know what she's doing? he thought. Why Angelo? It's mysterious; I don't like it. Tough luck to be in love with the moon.

  The butler announced dinner, and they went into the dining room. It was a good dinner, a very good dinner, with superb service. Sibyl knows her job, he thought. The talk, too, was well handled; they all knew the right things to say. They talked about the theater, about books—best sellers— about how nice Maine was in the summer.

  They had coffee in the library, and Bell suggested bridge. Killian didn't know how to play, and Sibyl took charge; she put him on a sofa with Ponievsky, and she showed them rare books. She knew all the points, like a dealer, but she wasn't interested; neither were they. It was a long evening, very long.

  At the end of the first rubber, Chauverney excused himself. “I brought along some work,” he said. “We're sailing again on Wednesday.”

  Ponievsky took his place, and the game went on.

  Sibyl brought another book for Killian to examine. Yawns rose in his throat; he could choke them down, but his eyes filled with tears.

  “Why don't you go to bed?” she said.

  “But I—” he began.

  “Luther will keep on playing until somebody faints from exhaustion,” she said. “Come into the dining room, and I'll give you a nightcap.” He pretended no more; he rose gladly and went with her, and she poured him a drink from a decanter on the sideboard. “I'll join you,” she said, and sat on the edge of the table. With the floating sleeves thrown back, she looked, Killian thought, like a big, solid bird a formidable bird.

  “That's a queer story about Jocelyn, isn't it?” she said.

  “Isn't it?” he said.

  “She fainted, and fell overboard,” Sibyl went on. “She didn't mention it. Nobody mentioned it to anyone. The reporters picked up the story from the other passengers.”

  “Well,” said Killian, “you know how it is. You don't feel like talking about a thing of that sort.” His reasonable and confidential tone did not seem effective. Her pale eyes were fixed upon him steadily.

  “It's a queer story,” she said again.

  “A distressing experience for Jocelyn,” he said. “But why queer?”

  “Damn queer,” said Sibyl.

  A furious impatience rose in him. He resented her calculating glance, her tone of mysterious significance. “And after that letter Mr. Bell got?” he said. “That makes it all very sinister, do
esn't it?”

  She sipped her drink, which was a big one. “There's only one thing on earth I'm really afraid of,” she said, “and that's newspapers. I don't give a hoot what happened on the ship—”

  “I do, though,” he interrupted. “I'd like very much to know what you're thinking about that accident.”

  “I don't think about it,” she said. “I don't care what happened. I don't care what's going to happen, either, as long as it doesn't happen here.”

  The butler had come to the doorway; and there he stood, a heavy-shouldered man, with arms that hung in a helpless-looking way and dry black hair, parted in the middle. It's dyed, Killian thought, or it's a wig.

  “What is it, Moffatt?” asked Sibyl.

  “Drinks are required in the library, madam.”

  She got up from the table. “Good night, John!” she said. “Sleep well.”

  There's one comfort, thought Killian, as he went up the stairs. I'm having a nightmare now. Maybe when I'm asleep, it will be nicer. The hall upstairs was perfectly quiet; he stopped and listened, and then went hastily to Jocelyn's room. He knocked lightly; no answer. He tried the knob, and the door opened into windy darkness. He closed it and went to his own room. This is a nightmare, he thought, and I have no one to talk to about it.

  No importa. What d' you want to talk for? Go to bed and go to sleep. It's now eleven p.m., courtesy of my own watch. Tomorrow we will resume the adventures of our persecuted hero, John Killian, falsely accused of murder by practically everyone on earth. In the end the truth will triumph.

  The bed was turned down; pajamas, dressing gown, and slippers laid out; there were two brand-new books on the bedside table, a thermos jug of ice water, an ash tray, a cedarwood box of cigarettes. Sibyl knew her job, all right. A comfortable bed; a fresh wind blowing in at the open window. Tomorrow will be another day.

  He waked with a jerk; he sat up with his heart thudding. The curtains were streaming out into the room; there was a curious sort of stir in the dark; something flapped. And something was breathing. There was a pale rectangle before him. That's the door, he thought. The door is open. And there's something in here. If I move, it will move.

  Face it. He reached out and turned on the lamp. And he saw Chauverney standing just inside the door, leaning against the wall, and staring at him with enormous dark eyes.

  “What's wrong?” he asked. Chauverney didn't answer. He looked amazed. “What are you doing here?” asked Killian. “What d' you want?”

  Chauverney raised his left arm a little, and his hand was red with blood. “A burglar,” he said. Killian got up and went toward him. “A burglar,” Chauverney said again. “I thought Ponievsky... Get Ponievsky. Don't tell.”

  He slipped down on the floor and lay there, graceful and limp in his light grey suit, his eyes closed. Killian shut the door into the room, and went through the bathroom to Ponievsky's room. “Ponievsky!” he said, not loudly.

  He got an answer at once. “Yes?” The light came on, and the big man sat up in bed.

  “Come and take a look at Chauverney,” said Killian, in a low, disagreeable voice. The great thing was for everyone to be quiet. He had a feeling that someone might suddenly yell, and that would be horrible.

  Ponievsky got up and came along, barefoot, in red and white striped pajamas. He knelt beside Chauverney, he lifted that bloody hand; he rose with effortless ease, went back to his room, and returned with a little black bag and a wooden shoe tree. “I will raise him, and you will take off the jacket,” he said.

  He took Chauverney under the arms and held him up, and his head lolled forward on his chest, his face as white as paper and very tranquil. Killian got the jacket off, and the shirt sleeve beneath was soaked in blood. Ponievsky laid him down again, rolled up the sodden sleeve, and made a tourniquet with the shoe tree just above the wrist.

  “We will take him on the bed,” he said, and together they lifted Chauverney and carried him across the room.

  “Is he dead?” asked Killian.

  “He must go at once to the hospital,” said Ponievsky.

  “A transfusion is necessary. Will you telephone for an ambulance?” He was getting things out of his bag, a hypodermic of some sort.

  Killian took up the French telephone from the table, but nothing happened. “The wire's dead,” he said.

  “That telephone's only for the house,” said Ponievsky. “You must go down to the library for an outside wire. Dial the operator and say you want an ambulance.”

  “No!” said Chauverney unexpectedly. “No, thank you.”

  “Take it easy,” said Ponievsky with great gentleness.

  “No hospital,” said Chauverney. “No—talk....” He was crying out of a ghastly weakness; his eyes were a little open. “An accident,” he said. “My razor—” Ponievsky wiped away the tears that ran down his face. “Razor slipped,” said Chauverney. “Accident.”

  Ponievsky raised him again and looked over his shoulder at Killian, raising his brows and forming the word “telephone” with his lips. Chauverney's eyes were closed now; his head rested against Ponievsky's broad chest as if in supreme trust. Killian crossed the room, opened the door, and came face to face with Sibyl in a scarlet chiffon negligee.

  “What's going on here?” she asked in a low, furious voice.

  “A little accident,” said Killian. “I want to telephone.”

  “What's going on?” she repeated. She tried to push past him; and when he barred her way, she rose on tiptoe like a big, angry bird. She tried to look over his shoulder, but she was not tall enough. “I insist!” she said, raising her voice.

  Killian went into the hall, and closed the door, and stood against it. “Chauverney's had an accident,” he said. “I want to get an ambulance.”

  “No, you don't!” she said. “I'll see for myself first, before you do anything of the sort. Let me in!”

  “No!” said Killian, growing angry himself. “There's no time to lose.”

  She stood facing him, her pale eyes blinking; you might expect her to flap her wings and peck at him. “Now, see here!” she said. “Before you make all this trouble and scandal, I'm going to see if it's necessary. You let me in.”

  “Ponievsky's there. He says it's necessary—”

  “Eric!” she said with a laugh. “If you leave Chauverney alone with Eric, he won't need any ambulance. He'll need a coffin.”

  The door opened and Ponievsky looked out. “You telephoned?” he asked.

  “I'll telephone,” said Sibyl. “For my own doctor.”

  “For an ambulance,” said Ponievsky. “It must be quick, too!”

  “All right!” she said curtly, and turned away.

  Ponievsky withdrew, closing the door. Killian stood where he was for a moment, and then an idea came into his head. He went after Sibyl. She was halfway down the stairs when she heard him; she glanced back and began to run. He ran, too; but she had a good start. She went into the library and locked the door. He could hear the little clicking of the telephone dial; he heard her voice. “Doctor Jacobs? This is Sibyl Bell. Can you come at once, please?... Yes. Yes, an accident. Yes...”

  She came out; she had the key in her hand, and she locked the library door. She went by Killian with a glare, and up the stairs again. Again he went after her, and into the bedroom. Ponievsky was smoking a cigarette, standing at the bedside; there was an odd look on his face. A noble look, was it?

  “She didn't send for an ambulance,” said Killian. “Only for a doctor, and she locked the library.”

  “Give me the key, madam!” said Ponievsky.

  “No!” said she.

  With no appearance of effort he opened her fingers and took the key. “Please wait here, Killian,” he said, and he and Sibyl disappeared.

  There was a dark patch on the brown rug where Chauverney had lain. Dark, not red, a very large patch. Everything was perfectly quiet. Here I stand, thought Killian, with my two hands as long as each other, and the man on the bed dying; or maybe i
t's dead he is already. What's the idea of talking to myself like a stage Irishman? Well, because it's like a play. A high-brow play, done with masterly restraint. A burglar, Chauverney said at first. And then said an accident. What if it's murder?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I'VE GOT murder on the brain, he thought. Murders aren't like this. They're done in the dark, with a scream, chairs and tables upset. People start running around. Not quiet, like this. Chauverney looked astonished when he came in. Surprised to find himself murdered? Well, who wouldn't be? Jocelyn wouldn't. She expected it. Maybe she wants to be.

  Perhaps there's a name for that. Desire-to-get-murdered neurosis. Ponievsky was smoking. I could smoke.

  He looked at Chauverney to see if he would object to smoking. He looked very comfortable now, very graceful. He also looked dead. I'm sorry, old man. I'm damn sorry. This is sad. This is the saddest thing I ever saw.

  “No need for you to stay here,” said Ponievsky.

  “Is he dead?”

  “No. An ambulance is coming.”

  “A knife wound?” said Killian.

  “Exactly,” said Ponievsky, and paused. “The wound had been bleeding for quite some time before you called me.”

  “So what?” asked Killian.

  Ponievsky shrugged his big shoulders. “Another doctor is coming. He will give his opinion.”

  “I suppose we'll be asked questions.”

  “Then we shall answer them,” said Ponievsky.

  He sat down near the bed, and Killian wandered out of the room. It was dim and quiet in the hall, all the doors closed. That wasn't right. People ought to be running around, up and down the stairs, bringing up hot water, being agitated.

  The library door was unlocked now, the lights were on; it looked bright and comfortable in there. He lay flat on the divan, with no pillow, his knees drawn up, hands clasped above his head. I want to think this out. It's important....

  Sibyl was shaking him in a rough way that made him furious. “Stop that!” he said. He wanted to kill her.

  “You must get to bed,” she said. “You can't stay here.”

  “Yes, I can!” he said.