The Girl Who Had To Die

by Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

“There'll be a post-mortem, won't there?”

  “Oh, everything necessary will be done, of course,” she said. “There'll be an inquest, and so on. But the cause of death is pretty obvious.” She paused. “And the police don't want to cause Luther any more trouble than can be helped.”

  That would be nice, thought Killian. Just to drop this. When you come to think of it, a lot has been happening this last week. A strain, for a sensitive, high-strung lad like me. Less than a week since Jocelyn went overboard. That did something to me. Changed me—permanently. It's as if I were the one who fell overboard. And was drowned. The good ambitious John Killian died, and there's this left.

  Everything passes, and this, too, will pass. A few weeks. A nice, quiet weekend in the country. Chauverney coming into my room bleeding to death. Angelo lying in the road. Elly crying, and Harriet crying. Ponievsky's gone, and my youth has gone. That's poetic. Gone, alas, like my youth too soon.

  He began to sing to himself. “Oh, the sound of the Kerry dancers. Ah, the ring of the piper's tune.” He couldn't remember all the words, and it bothered him. “When the boys began to gather, in the glen of a summer night...”

  That's what my ancestors did, I suppose. Gathered in a glen on a summer night. The pipers played and they danced. With their girls. You can't fit Jocelyn into that. She'd be sitting on a rock with a flask of whisky and a pack of cigarettes. Very morbid girl. Extremely morbid thing for a girl to swim around in the sea in a white dress. And I did it? Shell have to get that idea out of her head. I don't like it.

  He felt sick of smoking. Everything was quiet in the afternoon sun. A Sunday in May. Chauverney won't be ruined. And Elly won't be ruined. Harriet isn't ruined. She's too young and strong for that. Only Angelo is ruined, very definitely. And maybe me. Yes. Maybe that's what's the matter with me. I'm ruined. It makes you feel pretty flat, to be ruined.

  “Well?” said Sibyl.

  They looked at each other. Both sat down.

  “I thought,” she said, “that it would be nice for you and Jocelyn to have dinner on the boat.”

  “Just Jocelyn and me?” he asked. “I've never tried to run a cabin cruiser.”

  “The Captain will do that,” she said. “I rang him up, and he'll be ready for you any time this afternoon.”

  “Will Jocelyn like that?”

  “Tell her it's what you want,” said Sibyl. “For God's sake, John, get her out of this house.”

  “Does she bore you?”

  “Oh, I could take it,” she said. “But she gets on Luther's nerves pretty badly. He's upset, anyhow. He'll have to identify that man—what was the name?”

  “Angelo.”

  “He'll have to identify Angelo, and that bothers him. He objects to anybody dying. And Captain Warren wants to come back, and ask more questions about Angelo. He said he was not 'altogether satisfied.'”

  She sighed. “John,” she said, “for a thousand dollars, will you take Jocelyn away, now, and keep her away?”

  “Is this a joke?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “I've got a check all written out.”

  “If it's not a joke,” he said, “then probably it's an insult.”

  “I suppose I could have been more tactful,” she said. “But I'm tired, John. I've suffered from your girl friend for four years. The first time she went to South America, I hoped she'd marry a somebody there and be very, very happy. The second time she went, I hoped she'd break her neck. For four years she's been blackmailing Luther.”

  “Them's fighting words,” said Killian.

  “Yes. I've tried to fight her. But I'm licked, John. For the last year Luther has been trying to settle with her. But she won't make any promises; she won't sign anything.”

  “Do you mean she's got something on Luther?”

  “He picked her up on a bus, four years ago,” said Sibyl. “She said she was eighteen, and he believed her. She said she was an actress, and he believed that, too. Luther has lots of good points, but he's not very bright. It was quite a while before he found out that she was a schoolgirl of fifteen. Then, naturally, her family cracked down on him. He had to pay them to keep quiet. And he's gone on paying and paying. It's a story he wouldn't like to see in the newspapers.”

  “Is that where she gets her little income? From your husband?”

  “I was pretty sure you didn't know,” she said. “At first I thought I'd just let you go ahead. But I've changed my mind.”

  “Why?”

  “Kindness to you.”

  “I don't think it's that,” said Killian.

  “Maybe not,” she said. “The motive doesn't matter, does it? You're getting the truth. Your fiancee is living on blackmail, and she means to go on. The job Luther offered you is blackmail, my dear.”

  “I haven't accepted it,” said Killian.

  “You can't get away from her,” said Sibyl. “I'll tell you what she did to Eric.”

  “I've heard that tale.”

  “She'll do worse than that to you, my dear. She loves you. She'll never let you go.”

  Killian said nothing.

  “Wherever you go, whatever you do, she'll follow you. Even if you leave the country, she'll get money from Luther and go after you. She'll make scenes such as you've never imagined. If you have any family, any friends, they'll be dragged into it.”

  He looked up and met her pale blue eyes.

  “You're inciting to riot,” he said.

  “No, only trying to persuade you to take her away.”

  “To take her where?” he asked.

  They kept on looking at each other steadily.

  “That's not my business,” she said after a moment. “I've got a check for you—”

  “Very kind of you, but I don't want that check.”

  “The job in Luther's business is still good,” she said. “No matter what happens.”

  “Nothing's going to happen,” he said. “And I resign, here and now, from Bell, Fiske and Waters.”

  Her pale blue eyes flashed over his face as he looked away over the lawn.

  “I suppose,” she said, “that I married for money. That's what everyone said. I certainly wanted money. But there's more in it than that. I'm fond of Luther. I've been in love in my time, but this is something else again. As I told you, and you've probably noticed it yourself, Luther's not very bright. But he's different. I've never known anyone else like Luther. He has a code. It's dumb. It's—maybe it's a thousand years out of date. But I like it. I like his ways. I like the way he treats the servants. He feels responsible for them.”

  She paused for a time. “He trusts me,” she went on. “He trusts me with everything he has. His money, and his reputation. I've been a good wife to him. I've learned a lot. I can hold my own now, even with his damn snooty friends. He knows he can count on me. He depends on me. And I'll never let him down.”

  “You could forgive him when he strayed?”

  “When Jocelyn got hold of him,” she said, “he was sixty-three, poor devil! He told me about it. He told me he was sorry; and he was sorry, even before she put on the screws. I'd do a lot, John, to save Luther from any more of this.”

  “I believe you,” said Killian.

  “Will you take her away tonight?”

  He thought for a while. “Not tonight,” he said. “I'll go back to town myself.”

  “And leave her here?”

  “While I make arrangements. I've got to do that.”

  “What arrangements? What are you going to do with her? Have you any money?”

  “Enough,” he said.

  “Do you imagine she'll be satisfied with what you've got?” asked Sibyl. “For four years she's had everything she wants. If she wanted a mink coat, she got it; and I wore my old coat. She's been to South America, to Paris, to London.” She paused again. “It's not only that Luther's afraid of the story getting known,” she said. “That's bad enough. But he believes he's ruined her life. And her character. He's like that, you know. He says things lik
e that. 'I feel a great and crushing moral responsibility.' Poor devil! She was fifteen, and he was sixty-three and he was a poor, silly little rich boy, and she was—well, I won't go on with that.”

  “Let's not talk,” said Killian.

  “All right!” she said. “Take her away for dinner, though. I'd—God! I'd choke to death if I saw her at the table tonight. I'll order the car, and the chauffeur will drive you down to the wharf. You and Jocelyn can have dinner on board, and a nice, quiet talk.”

  “About what?”

  She turned her head away a little,-and her face in profile looked old, and heavy, and sad. “If you'll persuade Jocelyn to go away,” she said, “I'll make the check for five thousand.”

  “I don't seem to make myself very clear,” said Killian. “I don't want any of Mr. Luther Bell's money. Jocelyn doesn't want any more of it, either.”

  “Suppose she does want more of it?” Sibyl asked, and waited; but he didn't answer. “There's one thing to remember,” she said. “If anything goes wrong, don't worry. Luther's like a king out here. Practically unlimited influence.”

  They looked and looked at each other.

  “Nothing will go wrong,” said Killian.

  The butler was coming toward them, not looking at them.

  Is there a rule about that? thought Killian. A butler must be three feet two and one-half inches from his betters before he addresses them.

  “Lunch is served, madam.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “LUNCH IS AN interlude,” Killian said to himself. “It's a welcome interlude. I can pull myself together. After lunch, I'll have to see Jocelyn. I didn't know that anything could ever hurt me this much.”

  She told me she was a little tramp, he thought. She told me about the bad old man. All right, then. Why does it hurt so much to find out that the villain is Luther Bell? I've eaten Mr. Luther Bell's food and drunk his liquor; I am now mounting the steps to Mr. Luther Bell's home, to break bread with him again. And it is hell. I'm being unreasonable. She told me this story. The past is past. But just the same, this is hell. I feel—how can you put it? My honour is tarnished. “Want a drink, John?” asked Sibyl. “No, thanks,” he said.

  No more of Mr. Bell's drinks. I'll have to sit at his table. I can't make a scene. But this is the finish. She asked me to take her away, and that's what I'll do. After lunch. Back to New York. Not out on Mr. Bell's boat. I think Sibyl was hinting that I'd better murder the girl. Jocelyn doesn't seem very popular. I'm afraid we won't have much of a social life, after we're married.

  After we're married. I'm going to marry her. I've got to. I'm elected, because I fed her with toast. Because, as far as I can see, I'm the only living soul who doesn't hate her. I'm the only one who doesn't feel injured by her. Or ruined by her. If I'm ruined, I did it myself. I let that crazy Irishman come out of his cave and take charge. I don't like myself any more, but that's not her fault.

  Harriet was there at the lunch table, looking clean and alert and cross, in green linen. Elly was there, in a thin black dress with little pink bows up the front, very dainty. Still with that face like a piteous little clown. Mr. Luther Bell sat at the head of his table.

  I won't look at him, Killian thought. After lunch, Jocelyn and I will go away, Somewhere. Five men, she said. Five names written in a little book. Ponievsky is one. And Luther Bell is another? He could want to murder her. Easily. He's not very bright, and he wouldn't know how; but he could want to. He might ask Sibyl to look after it for him. And Sibyl passes the buck to me.

  There was something magnificent about Sibyl. She made a conversation. John, what was the food like in Buenos Aires? How interesting! Luther, do you remember the Brazilian woman with all the little dogs? Do tell that story. Mrs. L'O, what sort of hats will we have to wear in the autumn?

  “I think that what I feel is called grief,” Killian said to himself. “She's so beautiful, and she's nineteen, and there's all this. She told me about this. I don't think she's a liar. I think she's a victim. I do think that. Victim of what? Her family. Mr. Bell. Something born in her. I wouldn't know. And it doesn't matter. I'm elected. Maybe I can help her. Maybe yes, and maybe no.”

  It was a good lunch. But Mr. Bell's food doesn't agree with me, he thought. I do not like thee, Mr. Bell. I won't look at you, because if I did I'd look at your neck and think about choking you. Like a king, are you?

  The lunch was coming to an end, and Sibyl was arranging their moves. Like an automatic chessplayer, Killian thought.

  “Luther, I suppose you will go on with your writing?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes.”

  “His book, you know,” Sibyl explained. “It's about progress.”

  “Progress in relation to industry,” said Luther Bell.

  “All his holidays given up to that,” said Sibyl. “Harriet wants to show you some of our lovely countryside, Mrs. L'O. Shell drive you out to the Country Club for tea, and, of course, well see you here in time for dinner. I'm going to keep John, and make him look at my flowers.”

  Pushing me around, are you? thought Killian. I'm not going to look at your flowers. I'm going to take Jocelyn away. I'll have to show her to my father, in the course of time. My bride. He won't be pleased. An upright man. A C.P.A., and they send him all over, even to China, and what he says is so. He minds his own business; he doesn't talk much. But hell look at Jocelyn. What sort of marriage is this? What are you thinking of? Father, this is love. Phooey on love.

  Sibyl rose; they all rose.

  “Come up to my room,” Elly murmured. “The first moment you can. I'll be waiting.”

  Sibyl and Luther went out onto the terrace, and Killian with them. He tried to think of an excuse for leaving them; and in the end he just walked off, into the house. He liked Elly; if she wanted to see him, he complied automatically. But as he was going up the stairs, an idea came into his head that stopped him.

  Chauverney's dead, he thought. That's what she wants to tell me. He felt sure of that. That's why she looked like that. He's dead. Well, why talk about it? It's too bad. But there's nothing to be done.

  It seemed to him impossible to go on up the stairs and face Elly. And talk. I'm sorry Chauverney's dead. But when a person's dead, he's dead. Nothing to talk about. Elly'd better go home and carry on as well as she can. There's no sense in my going up to her room, just to hear that Chauverney's dead.

  The sound of footsteps in the hall below started him up in a hurry. You have to hear things. You have to listen, and be decent, even when you're completely indifferent. He knocked at Elly's door, and she opened it, and let him in, and closed it. She looks terrible, he thought.

  He saw two suitcases, very smart, the lids open, showing some admirable packing. She does everything nicely, he thought. She was kind to me on the ship.

  “I've got to tell you something,'' she said, standing with her hand on the back of a chair.

  “I'm sorry,” he said. “But do you know...?” she asked. “Well... Chauverney, isn't it?”

  “Do you know?” she asked, again. “Did she tell you?”

  “You mean he's worse,” said Killian.

  “No,” said Elly. “He's better. But he told me last night... He and Jocelyn are married.”

  “Really?” said Killian, raising his eyebrows.

  “If he'd only told me,” she said, “I'd have understood.”

  “Sit down, Elly,” said Killian. “And look here, Elly! Don't cry.”

  “I won't,” she said. “At least, I don't think I will. Only, it's so...”

  She did sit down in the chair; and he sat on the edge of the bed, facing her. “Take it easy,” he said.

  “They were married nearly a year ago,” said Elly. “But they never got on. How could they? She went to Mexico and got a divorce.”

  “Then they're not married now,” said Killian.

  “Yes, they are. Charlie thought he was divorced. He—we planned to be married in the autumn. But she came on board in B. A., and she told him. Her l
awyer had told her, months ago, that the divorce wasn't valid, but she hadn't bothered to tell Charlie. She told him then, on the ship.”

  “I see!” said Killian.

  “She was going to start divorce proceedings when she got back to New York. You know what that means, in this state. All that sordid, nasty business. And it suddenly came into her head that she'd name me as corespondent Charlie told her there were no grounds, but she didn't care. He was almost frantic. He felt he couldn't let it go undefended, on my account. And if he did defend it, it would be in the newspapers and ruin him. The company wouldn't keep a Purser who'd got mixed up in a scandal with a passenger.”

  “I see!” said Killian again. He couldn't say anything else.

  “He tried to argue with her. But he couldn't stop her.”

  Did he try to stop her?

  “That's why he came here,” Elly went on. “He hoped Mr. Bell could persuade her. He really shouldn't have left the ship yesterday; but he got twelve hours' leave, and came here. And Mr. Ben was odious. He said he wouldn't be hurried. He said he wouldn't discuss the matter at night because it kept him awake. So Charlie did that.”

  “Tried to kill himself.”

  “No! He only meant it to be an injury that would be an excuse to stay here a day or two, until he'd talked to Mr. Bell. He was going to say he'd cut himself while he was shaving.”

  “Cut his wrist?”

  “The razor could slip. Anyhow, that was the only thing he could think of. But the cut began to bleed dreadfully. He held it under cold water; he tried to tie it up. He said he got so curiously lightheaded. He said he felt sure he was dying, but that he wasn't at all frightened or unhappy about it—only surprised.”

  “That's how he looked,” said Killian.

  “Sibyl Bell's one idea was to get him away, so that he wouldn't die here.”

  Like a rat, thought Killian. Positively will not die in the house. “Yes,” he said.

  “I was shocked, furious at her. And Doctor Ponievsky agreed with me that he must be moved. But then he came to, and he said he wanted to go. He told me—about this. He thought he was dying. We took him to a little private hospital, and they gave him a blood transfusion. He's going to live. But he's ruined.”