by Helen Reilly
Clara was putting her things on. “You’re sure there’s nothing I can do, that you don’t want me to stay?” she asked. Eve said no. “You’re right. I am pretty well all in. It’s been rather dreadful....As soon as you’re gone I’m going to lock the door and go to bed. I’ve got a ghastly headache.”
She went to the door with Clara, closed the door behind her and slid the bolt. The blackout shade was drawn. There was no danger of being seen from the street. There was no other means of entrance to the shop, except the little mirrored windows at the back, and they were both latched securely. The last time she had mislaid her key she had come in through one of them by breaking a latch, but it had been fixed and was solidly in place.
She unlocked the golf bag and took out the rifle. It was hard and cold and smooth and so beautifully balanced that it didn’t seem heavy. The bag she put under the curtain masking the lower shelves. What should she do with the rifle, where could she conceal it so that it wouldn’t be easily found? If only, she thought, she could get up to Eastport and leave it in the game room or slide it into one of the gun racks with the others, but to leave New York would be dangerous—until later, anyhow. Perhaps she could make it tomorrow. Meanwhile...
The phone on the desk rang. She jumped, and glared at it angrily. Why couldn’t people leave her alone? Let it ring, she decided; she had no intention of answering it. But the shrill summons filed at her nerves and it was a tremendous relief when it stopped.
She looked around frowningly. The police had already been here and she had handed her revolver over to the Inspector. It was scarcely likely that they would search the shop again, soon. But they might. Under the stairs was too obvious a hiding place; so were the closets. She tried the rifle in among stocking boxes and it stood up like a sore thumb. Behind the bookcase was just as bad. She couldn’t put it under her mattress or in a bureau drawer...The decision was taken abruptly out of her hands.
Someone was rapping on the front door. The rifle joined the golf bag behind the flimsy curtain. Eve stood erect and tried to stop shaking. She hadn’t answered the phone. She wasn’t going to answer the door, either. She smoothed damp palms against the wool of her skirt, pushed hair back from a throbbing forehead.
Who was outside on the pavement demanding admittance? A truck was going by. The singing of tires, the squeal of brakes—some one called her name. “Eve.” It was Jim. He wasn’t alone. Gerald and Alicia and Susan and Bruce and Natalie were with him. Standing close to the door she could hear their voices. “She must be in,” Jim said. “I’m worried about her.” Natalie said, “If she’s not here, where can she be?” Her father was there, too. “Isn’t there a back way in, Nat?” he demanded impatiently. “Knock again, Gerald.”
If she didn’t open the door they might...Suppose they got really upset and sent for a policeman. That would be nice. That would be lovely. Eve retreated soundlessly and came on, making her footsteps loud. “Coming,” she called, and turned the key in the lock and opened the door.
They surged into the shop in a body. Jim kissed her. “Where have you been all day? I’ve been trying to get you for the last hour?” She murmured something evasive and greeted the others. They had come to tell her the news that was no news. The police were searching the house on the Square, Gerald and Alicia’s apartment, for the rifle with which Charlotte had been shot and killed. Had she by any chance brought hers down from the country. If so—she said she hadn’t.
Natalie’s slim height was buttoned into a black Chesterfield. Her skin was very white and her eyes were enormous. She looked frightful. So did Gerald. Their father was scornfully amused. “They can look the house over and welcome. I simply prefer not to be there. But if they break anything, they’ll pay for it.”
Eve played hostess with what energy she could summon: “Come on back. Let’s sit down.” She pushed chairs into position, put coal on the fire, offered cigarettes. Jim helped her. She tried to respond to the warmth in his eyes, to the pressure of his fingers on her arm, tried to answer him coherently.
Bruce was with Natalie on the little sofa in front of the hearth, sitting close to her, an arm along her shoulders. She was leaning against him as though she were cold. Eve thought despairingly, I’ve got to talk to him. He’s got to find some way to get that rifle out of here...But how can I talk to him with all those people around? At her elbow Jim said quietly, “What is it, darling? You’re worried about something. Have the police been at you again?”
Eve threw him a smile and turned a little and tried to catch Bruce’s eyes but he was looking down at Natalie, playing with her engagement ring, twisting it to and fro.
Eve tried to deny the pain which assailed her. Weariness and fear put a nightmare quality into the lights, the shifting figures, the warmth and comfort of the familiar little room, with the fire glowing under the white mantel on which the clock ticked unheard. She could feel Jim beside her, loving her with a devotion that was big and solid and sure, and across the rug, less than five feet away, the man in whom she was absorbed, wrongly, dreadfully, was talking in a low voice to Natalie, the sister she loved, no matter what her faults, and would rather die than hurt.
Her eyes moved. They touched the curtains behind which the rifle was hidden—and Charlotte had been shot with a rifle. Standing there, leaning against the mantel, Eve had a sudden sensation of seeing them all as animated masks, secretive, unreal, acting out preconceived roles that had no connection with what was actually taking place. The suggestion of strangeness where no strangeness should have existed was queerly frightening. It shoved back the barriers of the known and sent her spinning into a lost world of terrible surmise, incredible conjecture. Could one of them, her family, her friends, have killed Charlotte?
Alicia was roaming about beyond Susan. Eve recalled idly that, according to Jim, there had been a marked hostility between Susan and Charlotte in their one meeting, a chance meeting in the Square a day or two before Charlotte died. Alicia picked up a satin bra and held it out admiringly. “Why doesn’t someone tell me these things?” she said vivaciously. “I didn’t know you had stuff like this, Eve. How much?”
Eve said out of a dry throat, “Seven-fifty.” Her charming sister-in-law was standing not three feet from the particular curtain behind which the gun was thrust, insecurely, and showed every intention of continuing her explorations up the counter. She had to get her away from there. She said, “Come and look at these,” and took a box of lacy slips from the floor under the desk and opened it.
There was talk after that, a discussion of rifles in general, of wind velocity and angles and distance; they didn’t stay much longer. Before they went, Gerald insisted on mixing a cocktail. He always did. A visit to anyone, anywhere, would have been incomplete without it. He busied himself with glasses, with liquor from the cabinet in the corner, ice from the tiny chest upstairs.
When was she going to be able to talk to Bruce, Eve wondered dully as she found some crackers and cheese and speared olives out of a bottle. She mustn’t give the impression of wanting to hurry them away. If only they’d go, she thought, and she could speak to Bruce alone and get him to take the rifle and throw it in the river. It was impossible. He was engrossed in Natalie, didn’t give her so much as a glance, and she couldn’t call him aside and start whispering to him in a corner.
Gerald’s cocktail was awful but she drank it down. Alicia was in a conversational mood. She said, balancing her glass and a cigarette in a long jade holder and looking from Eve to Jim, “What about you two? What about your plans? Are you going through with your marriage, or are you going to put it off?”
There was a small silence in the green-walled room with the fire glowing redly and sending up little tongues of blue flame. Jim said with a shrug of his big shoulders, pushing hair back from his high forehead, “Well, after all, it’s hardly decent to—Charlotte isn’t buried yet and...
Eve said quickly, looking at an intricate design in the border of the worn Bokhara near a chair leg, “I don’t s
ee why we need to wait. Of course, yes, I suppose, for a day or two, but after that...”
Natalie roused herself and sat up. “I think you’re quite right, Eve. No girl likes to have her wedding put off.” She looked accusingly at Jim. “I don’t understand you men,” she said to him sharply. “You rush a girl off her feet and then when the weather changes you change your mind with it.” Her voice was edged with hysteria. She was beginning to shake a little. The day, and all that had happened, had been too much for her. Her freckles were miniature copper pennies and her mouth was a blur.
Bruce put a hand on her arm. “Hold it, baby,” he said and grinned down at her. The smile didn’t go any farther than his lips. He didn’t look at Eve. Jim had turned very red. Alicia said with a little laugh, “They’re trying to make an unwilling bridegroom of you, Jim. Don’t pay any attention.”
Jim didn’t answer. His eyes sought Eve’s and she gave him a nod of understanding. Natalie was beginning to recover her composure. She said contritely, with a quick rush,
“I’m a fool, Jim. I didn’t mean that. It’s just my nerves—”
Eve shoved her glass in from the edge of the table. That was Nat all over, she thought, with irritated tenderness, she was as volatile as quicksilver, down one minute and up the next.
Jim said gruffly, “Don’t give it another thought, kid.” Bruce put an end to it. He got up and pulled Natalie to her feet. “Far be it from me to break up this gathering. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m starving. Come on, young woman.”
Alicia did her lips and Susan threw furs over her shoulders. They were dining at a quiet place Gerald knew of where they wouldn’t be stared at. They wanted Eve to go, but she refused. Jim asked her to go somewhere alone with him. She pleaded a headache. “I’m going to have a cup of soup and go straight to bed.”
He looked at her quietly and agreed. “You are tired. You need a rest. I’ll be around first thing in the morning and we can talk...” It dawned on Eve then that they were to have been married tomorrow and she had done nothing whatever about it, had scarcely given her wedding a thought all day long.
She couldn’t worry about it now. Tomorrow was another day. But her heart twisted when Jim kissed her lips lightly, without insistence. He was so good. Tears moistened her lashes. She blinked them away. The goodbyes were endless. Gerald touched her cheek with a gloved forefinger.
“Not too hot, are you, baby? Take it easy.”
“I will, Gerald. Good night, Father. Good night, Natalie dear. Good night, Sue....Yes, Alicia, I’ll save some nylons for you if I get any...”
They were gone. Once more the door was closed and locked and bolted. Eve leaned against it wearily. The visit had been nerve-racking and a lot of valuable time had been lost. Detectives were searching the house on the Square, Gerald and Alicia’s apartment. Suppose they came back here? They might, at any moment. She must hurry.
She got the rifle out from behind the curtain and rested again, against the shelves. It was good just to stay still and do nothing. A curious lethargy weighed her down. How still the shop was after the voices that had filled it. The street outside was quiet too. The garage, the electrical house, the business buildings across the way were all closed. Distant traffic was a faint roar, rising and falling, rising and...Eve’s chin hit the button of her sweater and she jerked her head up and moved out into the middle of the floor, her skin prickling.
She had said that she was tired, she was righter than she knew—she was actually falling asleep on her feet. How ridiculous, with work to do, important, imperative work. Go upstairs and throw water on her face and open the windows there, she decided, the place was too hot. Her forehead was wet and the rifle was heavy in her hands. Her fingers didn’t seem to have any grip to them. She was still half asleep. Fool, she raged at herself, wake up, wake up.
The water helped but only for a minute or two, then fatigue was back over her again, a paralyzing cloak that wrapped her in thick clinging folds. She picked the rifle up from the bed where she had laid it, looking longingly at the bed’s flat white surface and turned away. She couldn’t sleep until she had disposed of the gun, safely.
Where could she put it? The shop had no cellar, no convenient pile of coal. An umbrella stand, a deep one, would be good. She could wind tape around the barrel and make it look like a stick and leave it out in the open. There was an umbrella stand in the hall closet in the house on Henderson Park; there was no umbrella stand here.
Cellar, umbrella, cellar, the words went round meaninglessly in her aching head. Tears of rage and frustration stung her eyes. What was the matter with her, why couldn’t she think? The chair beside the dressing-table was coming toward her. The flowers on peach-colored chintz grew larger and larger and then retreated to pin points in the oddest manner, as though they were on a trolley and the trolley was running away on tracks.
She went to the basin and threw more water on her face and the fog of weariness lifted a little. There was no hiding place up here, downstairs was better. The mouth of the staircase yawned blackly, the door at the foot of it was closed. She was tumbling down the staircase, no, she was going down mincingly, the rifle absurdly clasped to her breast, a cold hard doll with one long leg.
She stumbled out into the shop, hit a metal stand with sweaters suspended from it. They were flat brightly colored bodies swaying emptily on a gibbet. The lights hurt her eyes. Sit down for a moment to rest, she thought, and she would be all right. It was only seven. The clock on the mantel burred and struck seven wheezy strokes. She dropped into the nearest chair and closed her eyes. The darkness was lovely, a deep swinging bed. She lay back on it to rest for just a minute and fell soundly asleep in the armchair beside the desk, Bruce Cunningham’s rifle clasped loosely in the crook of a relaxed arm.
CHAPTER NINE
It was almost eight o’clock that night when the reports, for which Inspector McKee had been anxiously waiting, came through from the Medical Examiner’s office and from Charlotte Foy’s doctor in Vermont. Meanwhile, McKee knew nothing of Eve’s activities, where she had been, or what she had done. He was busy elsewhere.
Spencer Gorham, the Boston lawyer Charlotte had been going to see, arrived in New York early in the evening. His train was late. Due at 5:33, it didn’t get into Grand Central until 6:20. Kent and the head of the Manhattan Homicide Squad met Gorham at the gate by arrangement.
The lawyer was a small spare man with a dry manner, an immense bony forehead and frosty twinkling blue eyes. “I thought I ought to come down to look after Miss Natalie Flavell’s interests, you know,” he said, shaking hands with the two officials. “Her mother’s people, Jane and Alex Corey, who are also clients and friends of mine, are pretty much upset—not to speak of the young man she left behind her. Hah....I mean young Everet Corey. Pity that match didn’t go through, pity Natalie engaged herself to this fellow Cunningham. But there it is. Young people—when they take the bit in their teeth—what can you do?”
Gorham hadn’t dined and the three men proceeded through the great lofty waiting room crowded with sailors, soldiers and marines, and with long lines of inductees as well as the usual traffic, to the Commodore Grill. Seated at a table near the bar the lawyer discoursed, at length, over a plate of scrod and a hearty dollop of scotch. He had been surprised and shocked at Charlotte Foy’s death—but not as much of either as he might have been under other circumstances.
“I knew there was something up, Inspector, something in the wind. Yes.” He squeezed a lemon and nodded.
He said that Charlotte had first gotten in touch with his office at around the beginning of November. Unfortunately, he wasn’t there; he had spent the entire month West, on business and he didn’t return to Boston until yesterday, the morning of the second. In the meantime Charlotte Foy had called twice. His secretary said she wanted to get in touch with him as soon as he got back, that the matter was urgent, so late the afternoon before he called her at the Flavell house on Henderson Square.
C
harlotte hadn’t said a great deal over the phone. What she had said was rather startling. “She had seemed,” Gorham pursed his lips, “I don’t know just how to put it, Inspector—not so much afraid to talk because of physical circumstances such as, for instance, that she might have been overheard, but because—well, it was as though she were picking and choosing her words, so as more or less to prepare me for information of some magnitude, without coming into the open with it, then and there.”
As far as the lawyer could recall Charlotte’s actual words, she had said, “I’ve got to see you, got to tell you something.
It can’t go on any longer. It mustn’t. It’s very terrible. You will have to help me.”
Gorham put down his fork and reached for the salt. “Naturally, I was alarmed. I tried to get her to speak more freely. I asked her questions. I asked whether the communication she had to make, whatever it was she had discovered, had anything to do with Natalie. She said, ‘Yes...yes,” and then she added, ‘I’m—frightened,’ in a disordered sort of fashion that had me genuinely worried. But I couldn’t get another word out of her. No...she seemed to pull herself together after that. She said she had to go to the bank in the morning and that she would take the 1:15 from Grand Central and would drive straight from the station to my office as soon as she reached Boston. She asked me to have her will ready because she intended to make changes in it, and hung up. That was about all. Well, Inspector, what do you make of it?”
McKee took a sip of dry sherry and dragged at a crumpled cigarette. The long low-ceilinged room was blue with smoke. He looked beyond it, at Charlotte Foy at the telephone and in the beautiful hall of the house on Henderson Square, and the unplaced group of men and women who could have overheard her. The call, the prospective trip, were important. He had felt it all along. He was sure now. He said, “What was your own reaction, Mr. Gorham? What did you think? You know these people, I saw them for the first time today.”
