by Q. Patrick
She gave a little shiver and moved toward the fire, as though its very warmth would bring comfort. She had reached the hearth before she noticed the hatchet. It was standing propped against the wall by a box of logs. The blade shone dully. Somehow, she could not tear her gaze from it. And yet it was just the wood hatchet, she told herself. The young man—Sam Nolan—he had brought it in from the balcony and hadn’t taken it back. There was nothing to be afraid of.
Suddenly everything about the day seemed sinister to Lila Trenton. First there had been that scene with Larry; then the professor with his strange warning; the girl from the beauty parlor; and now this boy, Sam Nolan, with his queer looks and hints. Everyone was against her. They were jealous—that’s what it was—they were jealous because she had money, because she was still young and pretty.
For a moment Lila Trenton stood motionless, twisting her scarlet-nailed fingers. Then, as usual, she ran to the mirror for reassurance. With trembling fingers she pulled the towel from her hair. She was not old. She—
Lila Trenton’s eyes widened. Her mouth dropped half open and hung there. Then she gave a low, strangled sob.
Half blind with panic, she rushed to the mirror in the bathroom. It gave her no comfort. The girl’s words were ringing in her ears. “Before the boyfriend comes, take a good look at yourself!”
She stumbled to the telephone and swiftly, clumsily dialed a number.
“Hello, is that the university? … I want to speak to Paul Trenton…. Yes, yes, it’s urgent—urgent! I need his help.”
In the pause that followed Lila Trenton twisted the beads around her throat hysterically. Her voluptuous breasts were moving quickly, jerkily. She had never felt this way before— never. For the first time in her married life she was conscious of a desperate need for her husband. He would understand. He would comfort her.
“Hello, Paul, is that you? … Oh, you must come, darling. Come quickly…. Something awful has happened. I’m frightened—terribly frightened.”
VIII
DOOMED!
Gilbert Comroy thought he would never forget the look in Paul Trenton’s eyes when he told him about the discontinuance of the Abel Foundation Fund. He had hoped desperately to raise the five thousand dollars so that his friend should never know. He had interviewed trustees, scientific organizations. He had even contemplated the money lenders. But there had been no success.
Trenton was not an expansive man. He never showed or spoke of his feelings. But Comroy had seen that brief instant of disappointment and frustration in his friend’s eyes, the momentary droop of his mouth. He knew that there had been taken away from Paul Trenton something which could never be replaced.
He had worked with Trenton at the university for nearly twenty-five years. He had seen him as an enthusiastic, vital young man; had seen him through his disastrous marriage to Lila, through the years of his life with her during which her contemptuous selfishness had slowly, relentlessly turned him from an ambitious young scientist into a frail, broken old man. Comroy had watched the gradual change in his friend with a bitterness that held Lila wholly responsible. His dislike of her was the only violent element in his otherwise mellow, placid existence.
He knew that Paul Trenton had given his all to the Abel Research in a last, desperate attempt to prove to himself and to Lila that he was not a failure. Results were near; success almost with his grasp. But here—as in everything else—Lila Trenton had let him down.
Not only had she failed him, but she had added petty insult to real injury. That afternoon she had called Paul back from the laboratory. That was typical of Lila. Even at the moment when she knew her husband had found the ground cut away from beneath him, she had called him home—called him most likely to do some trivial errand for her.
And he had gone meekly! That was Paul’s tragic weakness. He had never got over his blind infatuation for that useless, heartless woman.
Although he looked as calm and benign as ever, Gilbert Comroy felt hatred in his heart when, at seven-thirty that evening, he stood outside the Trenton’s apartment at the Vandolan Hotel.
Paul Trenton’s face was pale and drawn when he let him in. “I’ll be ready in a few minutes, Comroy. Poor Lila’s had quite
a shock. She’s in bed and there are just a few little things—“ He broke off, hurrying back to his wife’s bedroom. “She says she doesn’t mind being left alone. We can go out to dinner. But she’s very upset.”
Comroy moved into the living room and stared around him moodily through his thick spectacles. From the open door he could hear his friend’s voice, soothing, consolatory.
“Don’t worry, Lila, dear. Just stay in bed and drink all the fluids you can. Comroy and I won’t be long. We’ll be back by ten.” There was a pause. Then he added in a louder voice. “Ready, Comroy?”
“Yes. I’m ready.”
“Well, good night, dear.” Trenton closed the door of his wife’s bedroom.
As Comroy followed him out of the apartment, his expression was placid but his thoughts were turbulent. For the first time in his benevolent life, he was consciously wishing evil to a fellow creature—he was wishing fervently that Lila Trenton was dead. Over dinner at the Davenham Grill, Gilbert Comroy made no reference to the Abel Research Fund. He did his best to chat lightly about unimportant university topics. Trenton listened gravely, but his mind was obviously straying. Once or twice Comroy had the impression that he was trying to tell him something, but it was not until dinner was finished and they were smoking over coffee that he spoke. His drawn, almost ethereal face had taken on a strange determination.
“There’s something I want to tell you, Comroy. It’s about the Abel Research. I think that it can go on for a while. At least we’ll be able to get that new equipment.”
“You mean you’ve raised some money?” asked Comroy, his plump face alight with pleasure.
“Well, hardly.” Trenton’s mouth twisted in a smile. “You see, I went to my doctor this morning. I’ve had pain for some months, but I’ve been busy, never had the time—“ He broke off and added softly, “The doctor told me it was too late to operate.”
“Is—is it—“
Trenton nodded slowly. “Yes, cancer. It’s just a matter of months—weeks, possible. I’ve got a small insurance policy, Comroy. Just about three thousand dollars. I’ve left everything to the university. Fleming’s a good man. He’s been working with me and he could carry on. I think he might get what we want very soon.”
“But, Paul, this is terrible!” Comroy felt a sudden constriction of the throat. “You mean there’s no hope?”
“Don’t worry about me.” Trenton stirred his coffee slowly. “I’ve been pretty much of a failure. I admit it, and now I don’t care a great deal. If I felt that Fleming could complete the work with my money, that’s all I’d want. Lila has ample means to support herself. And I think she would be willing to pay the funeral expenses.”
“Don’t talk that way, Paul.” Comroy had gripped his friend’s arm. “You never know. Tomorrow I’ll go to the doctor with you. There’s always—“
“No,” said Trenton quietly. “I’m happy that it will solve the problem for us. Now, let’s forget about it. I’ll order some brandy—a little luxury.”
While they sat there sipping their old cognac, Comroy’s mind was working feverishly—thinking of Lila Trenton. It was she who had done this. For years she had been taking advantage of Paul’s almost reverent love for her. She had worn him down, neglected him. This morning she had willingly cut off his career. And now—now he realized that she had been letting him die before her very eyes.
“Another brandy, Comroy?”
“Yes, I think I will.”
Trenton glanced up at the clock. “We’ve got plenty of time. But I’d like to get back at ten o’clock because poor Lila will be alone.”
And so they sat together until ten o’clock, those two old friends, thinking their thoughts of life and death. But
to the waiters and other diners, they were just a couple of commonplace middle-aged men who could not possible have anything interesting to say to each other.
IX
MURDER
It was ten minutes after ten when finally Paul Trenton and Gilbert Comroy returned to the apartment. “Excuse me a moment,” said Trenton, “I’ll just look in the bedroom and see if Lila wants anything. Why don’t you go into the kitchen and get yourself a highball? While you’re at it, mix me one, too. You know where the refrigerator is.”
Trenton moved to the door of his wife’s bedroom and, tapping gently, murmured: “Lila, are you awake?”
Comroy made his way through the living room toward the kitchen. Lila Trenton! The image of that woman was still haunting him like an obsession. He glanced at his own reflection in the mirror and was startled at the pallor of his face. God grant he would not have to see her again tonight. If she were there in front of him, he thought suddenly, he could not be answerable for what he would say—or do.
When Paul Trenton hurried anxiously toward the kitchen a few seconds later. Comroy’s ample figure was blocking the doorway. His shoulders were bent, his hands hanging limply at his sides.
“Is Lila there?” asked Trenton. “She’s not in her room. I’m worried. I—“
“She’s here.” Comroy’s cheeks, usually so pink and unlined, were now a rough parchment ivory. “She’s here!”
Slowly he moved aside. The two friends stood together in the doorway, Comroy peering shortsightedly forward, Trenton pressing against the woodwork in a kind of trance.
The kitchen was in a state of utter chaos. The glass panel in the black door leading to the balcony fire escape was shattered. The door of the refrigerator had been flung open. And on the floor, with a hatchet at her side and surrounded by sharp splinters of glass, lay Lila Trenton. She was hunched in an awkward, ugly posture across the gray linoleum. The diaphanous pink wrap was torn and spattered with red. Around her head was a wide, crimson pool. But there was one thing—one thing which added a final touch of macabre horror to that ghastly scene.
Her tangled, untidy hair was not of the auburn tint which Lila Trenton had so carefully and expensively preserved. It gleamed in the hard illumination from the ceiling light—and it gleamed green, a dull metallic green.
For a second neither of the men spoke. Then Paul Trenton stumbled forward and knelt shakily at his wife’s side. His head was against that crumpled pink silk that covered her left breast. “She’s dead, Comroy,” he whispered tonelessly. “Dead. You’d better call the police.”
The little professor did not seem to hear. He was clasping his hands in front of him and gazing at the twisted body at his feet with glazed eyes.
“The police, Comroy.” Once more Trenton’s voice rose, swift, agitated. “And call a doctor, to make sure there is no hope. Quick.”
Comroy seemed to gather his wits with an effort. Throwing a last glance at Lila Trenton, he turned and hurried into the living room. In the shock of what had happened, his mind was confused with a thousand terrible thoughts. Visions of Lila Trenton swept before his eyes; visions of her as he had seen her that morning in the pink dressing grown; visions of the hatchet and of the scarlet pools on the linoleum.
“The telephone,” he found himself repeating half out loud. “The telephone. I must call the police, the police—and a doctor.” As he reached the passage which led toward the front door, he saw something which at first his numbed senses could not take in. The door of the hall closet was opening slowly. He paused and looked over the top of his spectacles. A man in a gray hat and raincoat had slipped from the closet and was moving swiftly toward the front door.
The sight of another living creature, appearing however unexpectedly, instantly banished the nightmare images from Professor Comroy’s mind and brought him back to reality.
“Stop!” he called. “There’s been a murder done.”
The man’s hand clutched the front-door knob. He swung round, his young face pale with fear.
“Murder!”
He stood motionless for a second as though unable to make up his mind what to do. Then, as Comroy hurried purposefully toward him, he threw open the front door and started to run out. Comroy could not see what happened next, but he heard a woman’s voice exclaiming sharply, “Get back in there, Larry.” And while the professor’s fingers moved toward the receiver of the hall telephone, the young man backed up the passage, followed by a girl. The lines of her face were set and determined. In her gloved hand she held a revolver.
Comroy watched her shut the front door slowly behind her and point the gun at the young man.
“I knew you’d be here, Larry. I had to come, too. I wanted to be sure that nothing would happen.” The girl’s gaze flicked to Comroy, and instantly her gray eyes faltered. “Who—who are you?”
“I have no idea what all this is about,” Comroy said calmly. “Mrs. Trenton has been murdered, and I’m just about to telephone for the police.”
“Murdered!” The girl’s lips turned pale. Slowly she moved the revolver so that it was aimed at the very center of the professor’s expensive vest. “Stay where you are,” she said softly. “If you use that telephone, I’ll shoot.”
Her eyes had flashed back to the young man. “So I was too late. You did do it—did kill her, Larry!”
Larry Graves did not seem conscious of what was going on. He was gazing at the girl dazedly. “I waited around the garage all evening, Claire. I hoped you’d call, but you didn’t. I guess it was crazy for me to come here. But nothing seemed to matter, and I knew there was only one way to clear up this mess.”
“Oh, I’m not blaming you.” Claire French’s voice was swift, breathless. “But you’ve got to get away. The police will soon be here. You’ve got to go.”
“But you don’t think that I—“
“What’s the use? There’s no need to lie to me, Larry. But I’m for you. Don’t you understand that?”
Both the young people seemed to have forgotten the professor, although the girl was still pointing the gun at him. Gilbert Comroy watched them closely, with understanding gradually dawning on his face.
So he was not the only person who had wanted Lila Trenton dead. There were other lives besides her husband’s in which she had been a destructive influence.
“Get out of the country, Larry,” the girl was whispering. “The midnight train to Canada. I’ll keep this man quiet—stop him calling the police until you’ve gone. Only hurry.”
Larry Graves’s square-cut face broke into an expression of grateful relief.
“Claire, you mean you can forgive me?”
“Oh, Larry, how can anything like that matter now?” She broke off and then, impulsively, she laid her hand on his arm. “If you get away, I’ll follow. I’ll find you wherever you are.”
“But you don’t think I would leave you here alone!”
Claire turned on him impatiently, almost fiercely. “Go, you fool, while there is yet time! Go!”
For a moment the young man stood gazing at her irresolutely. Then he turned and hurried out, closing the door behind him.
X
NOLAN ON THE SPOT
After Larry had gone, the girl passed a weary hand across her eyes. Professor Comroy regarded her face thoughtfully through his spectacles. “Well, this is a most extraordinary affair,” he said. “It is my duty to call the police, you know. Do you still intend to prevent me from doing so with that revolver?”
The girl continued to menace him with her gun. “I—I suppose you’re her husband.”
“Lila Trenton’s husband!” The professor’s mouth moved in a slight smile. “Heaven preserve me—no! I’m sure it would be idle to ask whether you or your friend committed this murder. I do think I am entitled to some explanation.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t tell you anything.” Claire French’s lips tightened. For a moment she was silent. Then she added suddenly: “But there�
��s one thing I do know. If Larry did kill her, she deserved it. She was a wicked, despicable person. She had no right to live.”
“Sh-h!” The professor glanced over his shoulder as faint sounds came to them through the living room from the kitchen. Then, to the girl’s utter astonishment, his smile returned. “My dear,” he said softly, “I agree with you absolutely.”
“You—you mean—“
“I mean that it might be a very good plan if you were to put that revolver back in your bag and leave the Vandolan Hotel as quickly as possible.” Gilbert Comroy crossed his hands over his vest. “The police have been kept waiting as it is. I feel they can wait a little long.”
Claire was looking into his sympathetic eyes, and, before she knew what she was doing, she had poured out the full story of Larry’s relationship with Lila; the instinct of jealousy which had led her to go and see Mrs. Trenton that afternoon; and the scene which had taken place between her and the other woman.
“It was crazy of me,” she concluded, “but Mrs. Trenton’s the kind of person who’d make anyone do crazy things. That’s why I came back tonight. I realized she’d be furious and make things worse for Larry. I’ve got to save him somehow. So you will help me?”
The professor did not speak for a moment. “It may be difficult. Even if neither of you—er—killed Mrs. Trenton, it’s rash to run about with guns and hide in closets. In a civilized world you can’t turn life into melodrama without getting into trouble.”
“I’m so grateful—“
“Oh, don’t be grateful, my dear.” Behind his spectacles the professor’s eyes were benevolent. “It is unconventional of me to say this. But I feel Lila Trenton’s death is—is a benefit to society, and I do not want anyone to suffer for it. Now you’d better hurry up and go. Mr. Trenton is still in the kitchen. He may not feel the same way as I do.”
