The Girl Who Had To Die

by Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

  “My dear,” she said, using the society voice. “I've got a nice comfy room ready for you, and all your things moved into it. You must get to bed.”

  “I'm very comfy here.”

  They looked squarely at each other.

  “Has Chauverney... Is Chauverney...” he asked.

  “He's fine!” she said, a little shrill. “Doctor Jacobs is upstairs now. He's a marvelous doctor.”

  He lay flat on his back, and she stood over him like a big, angry bird.

  “For God's sake, get up and go to bed,” she said. “Why?”

  “I don't want the servants to find you lying here. It's getting on for five o'clock.”

  “I don't want to go to bed at five o'clock.”

  “I ask you as a favour to get out of here—go upstairs where you belong.”

  “I'll get out of here,” he said.

  “And go upstairs.”

  “No,” he said. “No, thanks.”

  She sat down on the divan near his feet. “You're plenty hard, my lad,” she said.

  His eyes narrowed; he lay still, thinking about that, in wonder and something like fear. What makes her say that? I've never been quarrelsome. I'm quiet. Orderly. Excellent sense of discipline. They wrote that to my father when I was in boarding school. Sure. All right. But you know about that other one. That crazy Irishman you could be. You haven't been like that yet, but you could be. Maybe you will be. Maybe it's coming on you now. Jocelyn said I tried to kill her. She said I had “that look” on my face. “Well, I haven't any grudge against you,” he said.

  “Then couldn't you cooperate a little?” she asked.

  “Just by going upstairs?”

  She gave a one-sided smile, curiously tough. A tough baby, she was. That soft, red chiffon negligee didn't suit her. The whole house was full of emotion, grief, pity, fear. The great motif—Love and Death—kept coming up now and again. Like a Wagner opera. Liebestod. And the only one who seemed undisturbed by love or pity was this Sibyl.

  “All right!” he said. “I'll cooperate.”

  As he sat up straight, he saw her stiffen; she sprang up and went toward the door with a slightly rolling gait. A little bow-legged, he thought.

  “Well doctor?” she said in a brisk tone. “How's the patient?”

  “There's no immediate danger,” said a deep, deep grave voice. “But I should advise a nurse.”

  “Oh, of course! If it's necessary!” said Sibyl. “But you know how a nurse upsets a household. Harriet and I are both good at looking after sick people. Don't you think we might manage, doctor?”

  “Possibly,” said the deep, deep voice. “Possibly. I'd like to know where she got that stuff.”

  “She?” Killian said to himself.

  “I know she's in the habit of taking some sort of sleeping medicine,” said Sibyl. “I've always thought it was dangerous to keep that stuff beside you. You might take a dose, and then forget you'd taken it and take another. That must happen sometimes.”

  There was a pause.

  “I have an operation at the hospital at eight,” the deep voice resumed. “I'll come back here as soon after that as I can. And possibly Miss Frey will be able to answer a few questions then.”

  “Oh, I'm sure she will,” said Sibyl.

  “I trust so,” said the deep voice. “In the meantime, your daughter has full instructions.”

  “Harriet is wonderful with sick people,” said Sibyl.

  “She seems level-headed,” said the deep voice. “Well, I'll be back, Mrs. Bell.”

  The front door closed, and Killian came out into the hall. “New developments,” he observed.

  “Yes,” she said. “Jocelyn was sleeping too soundly. We couldn't rouse her, and sent for the doctor.”

  “What about the other patient?”

  “There isn't any other patient,” said she.

  “I thought Chauverney was a little indisposed?”

  “He rallied,” she said, with a one-sided smile. “He's gone.”

  “What d' you mean by 'gone?'”

  “He's left the house,” she said. “He was in a temper, and he left.”

  “Well, no,” said Killian, “I don't think it was like that.”

  “You think too much,” said Sibyl, and turned away and went up the stairs. Killian went after her.

  “I want to see Jocelyn,” he said.

  “Come right along!” said Sibyl, and opened the door of Jocelyn's room.

  In the little circle of lamplight Harriet had turned into a blonde, fair-haired, fair-skinned, in a white terry robe over white pajamas. She sat in an armchair facing the bed, her knees crossed, hands clasped behind her head, in an attitude of quiet, unshakable patience. She looked at Killian out of the corners of her long, narrowed eyes and didn't stir.

  He went to look down at Jocelyn. There was a change in her. She looked flat, sunken into the mattress, as if crushed. Her breathing was shallow; she was white as paper, with dark rings under her eyes and a reddish stain about her mouth. “What's that?” he asked, in a whisper. “What's happened to her mouth?”

  “Doctor Jacobs gave her an emetic,” said Harriet, in an ordinary tone. “And then a stimulant.”

  “Has she been like this—been unconscious long?” he asked, and he would keep on whispering. Harriet would keep on using a normal tone.

  “She was conscious while the doctor was working on her,” said Harriet. “Very much so. Now she's supposed to be resting.”

  “How would you know if she got worse?”

  “By her pulse,” said Harriet.

  “I'd like a nurse for her,” said Killian.

  “My dear,” said Sibyl, “don't be a fool. You ought to be just as anxious as we are to keep this quiet.”

  He meditated upon that for a moment.

  “Doctor Jacobs will be coming back before long,” said Harriet. “He'd” be almost sure to notice if we murdered Jocelyn.”

  “And we hate publicity,” said Sibyl.

  There was an unholy humor in these two women, and a complete understanding. I probably am a joke, thought Killian. Doctor Jacobs said she wasn't in any immediate danger. He was willing to leave her in their charge. Of course, he doesn't know all I know. I'm a sort of expert on murders that aren't murders. But even at that... “I'll stop in later,” he said.

  Harriet smiled a drowsy, tigerish smile. It irritated him and he wanted to say something about it, but that was not practical. He went away, with a curious sense of defeat. It was unbelievably quiet on the upper floor. All the doors were closed except one. He went to that one, found a neat, well-lighted room, bed turned down, his pajamas laid out for him. He surveyed this for a moment and then went to that other room. It was in darkness, and the window wide open; he turned on the switch, and there was the dark patch on the rug. They can't get away with this, he thought. This is too much.

  Chauverney had been dying. Maybe he was dead now. They couldn't hide him permanently, dead or alive. Who's “they?” Who wants to do this? What did they do with the poor devil? Throw him out the window? Well, questions will be asked. If not by anyone else, then by me.

  The sky outside the windows was pale, a strange filmy grey; he stared at it, disturbed. Hal It's the dawn! I've got to make enquiries. I must be kindhearted because I care. I care a hell of a lot about what's happened to Chauverney. I didn't like to see him lying there, dying. Ponievsky seemed to be kind. But he's a dark horse. Sibyl said if you leave Chauverney alone with Eric, hell need a coffin. What did she mean by that? She's a dark horse, too. Veneer of grande dame on top of something very different.

  The air had a piercing chill in it. The dawn wind, he thought, if there is such a thing. So Jocelyn had taken a drug, had she? Took it herself, or did someone give it to her? Trying to murder her? She's so fond of murder. This thing is certainly developing. Drugs and knife wounds. Steps ought to be taken. By me? Certainly. By you. Do something. Find out what's happened to that poor devil. Find Ponievsky. I am a good citizen. Law-a
biding. I will not countenance murders.

  The dawn wind was very cold. That, or something else, made him shiver. He went through the bathroom and knocked on Ponievsky's door. No answer, and it was locked on the other side. He went back and then into the room got ready for him, and Sibyl came in there after him.

  “For God's sake, what a pest you are!” she said. “Why don't you go to bed?”

  “I want to find Chauverney,” he said.

  “My dear, I told you he went away. He packed his bag, and telephoned for a taxi.”

  “Well, no. He couldn't pack a bag. He couldn't telephone.”

  “You don't want to make trouble, do you?” she asked.

  “I don't care much about that,” he said. This room faced east, and from the window he saw rosy clouds coming up softly above the horizon, beautiful and amazing. The moon is beautiful, but it is not amazing. You wait for it calmly. But the sunrise takes your breath away.

  “Come back to earth!” said Sibyl.

  You bird of ill omen, he thought. “I'm going to find Chauverney,” he said. “If I have to tear everything wide open.”

  “He's probably gone back to his ship. You can call him up on Monday.”

  “Let's not be funny. The man was dying.”

  “My dear, be sensible. Yon wouldn't know if a man was dying or not. I tell you he went away in a taxi.”

  “Alone?”

  “With a driver.”

  “I'll get hold of the driver then. What's the name of the garage he got the taxi from?”

  She didn't answer.

  “I'm going through with this,” said Killian.

  She looked ugly, with deep lines from her nostrils to the corners of her mouth; she looked weary and miserable. “Be sensible,” she said in a half-hearted way.

  “I will be,” said Killian. “I just want a few words with the driver who took Chauverney—somewhere.”

  The sun was sliding up, bright gold; the rosy clouds were vanishing in the flood of light; everything was growing clear in outline but still without colour. A man was walking over the lawn, far away, looking all black and grey, like a figure on the screen; he was slender and straight, and slanting backward a little. “That's Angelo,” Killian said to himself. “I'd think it was queer, seeing him here, if I had any standards of queerness left.”

  “Charlie Chauverney didn't go in a taxi,” said Sibyl.

  “And didn't pack a bag.”

  “Elly packed a bag for him. She and Eric Ponievsky took him in one of our cars.”

  “Took him where?”

  “To a hospital, a good long way off.”

  “Like a rat,” said Killian thoughtfully. “Will not, must not, die in the house.”

  “He'll be lucky if he dies,” she said. “He tried to die.”

  “Suicide?”

  “What do you think?” she asked. “Do you believe in the burglar—cutting his wrist with a knife? Or do you think it was an accident?”

  “Well, how about murder?”

  “Be sensible,” she said. “Would he just stand still and let somebody cut his wrist? And not even complain about it?”

  “I've got more imagination than you,” said Killian. “How do you like this? Someone creeps up on him with a knife. There's a struggle, in which Chauverney gets hurt. He dies without mentioning the name of his assailant, because it's someone he loves.”

  “Elly?” said she. “Do you see Elly creeping up on anyone with a knife?”

  “Doesn't have to be Elly.”

  “Well, he didn't love me,” she said. “So I'm out of it. And Jocelyn was sleeping off a dose of something. There's nobody else in the house he would have loved—except Harriet, and he didn't love Harriet. No, you'd better keep out of this.”

  “The hospital's going to make enquiries. The steamship company, too.”

  “I know that,” she said. “There's going to be plenty of trouble. You needn't make it worse.”

  “D' you think it's making things better, to do this?” asked Killian. “To hustle a dying man out of your house? By the way, what happened to the ambulance?”

  “Eric sent for it, and I countermanded it the moment he was out of the way. I'll do more than that,” she said. “You'd be surprised how much I'd do to avoid a scandal.”

  “I don't think much of your technique.”

  “I took a chance,” she said. “I've taken a lot of chances in my lifetime.”

  “Are you lucky?” asked Killian.

  She looked very ugly and very tired now. “Yes,” she said, “I'm a damn sight luckier than I deserve.” She gave a sigh. “Be sensible, will you?” she said once more, and left him.

  Maybe I will be sensible, he thought. Ponievsky I don't know about. But I'd bet on Elly. If she's had a hand in this, it can't be what it looks like. Perhaps it's not complicated. Just a plain honest suicide. He slashed a vein, like a woman. But when the end comes, you want someone else around. Why was it me, I wonder? No reason, maybe. He just opened the first door that was handy. Motive? That's outside my field. I don't know enough about him.

  The suit he had worn ashore was hanging up in the closet; he changed into that, taking plenty of time about dressing. “This is Sunday morning,” he said to himself. “I'll have to go back to New York tonight, so that I can be at the office bright and early Monday morning.” But I'm not going until I've talked to Jocelyn, he thought. Not until I know she's all right. Maybe I could take her with me. And what would I do with her? Put her in a pumpkin shell. And there he kept her very well. Ancient wisdom in that nursery rhyme. Poor guy who had a wife and couldn't keep her. Even in those days that happened.

  There was a knock at the door. “Come in!” he called; and in came Harriet, in a neat, clean, rust-coloured linen dress. This time her hair was red.

  “Would you like to come and have breakfast on the boat?” she asked.

  “No, thanks,” Killian answered. “I'm waiting until the doctor comes back.”

  “I'd like to tell you something before the doctor comes back,” said Harriet. “We can be back here when he comes. It's something you'd better hear.”

  “Something I'll like to hear?” he asked, warily.

  “No,” she said. “Something pretty bad for you to hear.”

  “Then suppose we skip it?”

  “And just let it come down on you like a ton of bricks?” asked Harriet.

  “All right!” said Killian, after a moment. “Let's go.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THERE was a car waiting outside the house, and they got into it.

  “Give!” said Killian.

  “Wait till we get on the boat,” said Harriet.

  “That's a good technique,” he said, approvingly. That's the way to make bad news worse.”

  “Oh, don't be such a clown!” she said. This isn't any fun for me.”

  “Then why are you doing it?”

  “I've got to.”

  “I know why you're going to tell me this bad news,” Killian said. “Because it's right. It's the Decent Thing to do. It's playing the game. It's—”

  “Oh, shut up!” she said, and that made him laugh.

  He liked her to say that. She narrowed her eyes so that her ginger-coloured lashes were meshed; she looked like a cross little yellow cat, and he liked that. He liked her to be cross and vigorous and young.

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “Twenty-two,” she answered.

  Three years older than Jocelyn, are you? he thought. Only Jocelyn hasn't any age. She's like the Lorelei, or one of those things. This Harriet is young. “Do you go to college?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, “I'm a teacher.”

  “What kind of teacher?”

  “I teach art,” she said. “Want to make something of it?”

  “Well, are you an artist?”

  “Very talented,” she said.

  He was delighted; that was the only word. He was pleased by everything she said, pleased by her looks and by her voice
that was a little rough. He admired the way she handled the car.

  “Do you like me?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  She turned into a lane, with high rocky banks; they came out of this on to the shore road and, abruptly, upon a miserable little settlement of tumble-down houses, wired chicken yards, a clothesline strung between two pine trees, and then a strange blank space, with a shack, a pier, and a signboard. Boats for Hire. A motorboat was tied up to the pier, very smart, white and yellow paint, and a dark blue awning. As Harriet was locking the car, a man came out of the cabin, stepped on to the pier, and came toward them. A big, gaunt man, burnt brick red, with fair hair rather long and parted on the side, a string of fair moustache. He was in shirt sleeves and braces, with a white covered yachting cap on the back of his head.

  “Well, good morning, Captain,” said Harriet.

  He touched the visor of his cap. “'Morning,” he said. “Where's Miss Jocelyn?”

  “Sound asleep,” said Harriet. “I've brought Mr. Killian.”

  He touched his cap again, and turned back to the boat. There were wicker armchairs on the afterdeck, and a table. Harriet and Killian sat here, and the Captain brought them an excellent breakfast: coffee, toast, bacon and eggs, melon. Nobody said a word. When he had set everything before them, he went inside and started the engine, and off they went. There was a good breeze, the awning slatted, the white tablecloth fluttered.

  “Swede?” Killian asked.

  “Scandinavian of some sort,” she answered. “Anderson, or Peterson, or Larsen—I've forgotten, because he's always called Captain. He was a ship's captain once, but something happened to him.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “It's a mystery,” said Harriet.

  “Do you know it?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It's pretty ghastly. Poor devil... I Jocelyn found him, you know. She brought him here, and Mr. Bell gave him a job—sort of caretaker and so on.”

  She poured him another cup of coffee, in a nice domestic way. “Light a cigarette,” she said, “and take it easy.”

  “Because now you're going to tell me the worst?”

  She lit a cigarette for herself and leaned back, looking out over the water with her narrowed eyes. “It's about Eric Ponievsky,” she said. “And it's not nice.”