The Dead Can Tell

by Helen Reilly

  The Inspector’s hand went into his pocket, came out holding the squat automatic that Sara had slipped into the pocket of her ermine cape on the night of Margot’s party, that had been gone when Steven left Margot’s room; the gun that Steven had hidden under the mattress in the tenement on Twenty-first Street.

  The Inspector continued implacably, “There are no fingerprints on this gun, Mr. Hazard. You wiped them off before you hid it under the mattress of Eva Prentice’s bed, didn’t you?” McKee waited.

  The stenographer’s pencil was poised. The only word Kent had down from Hazard was the word none. Spreading pallor crept along Steven’s white jaw.

  “I don’t know anything about that gun,” he said in measured tones. “I didn’t wipe any fingerprints off it. I never saw it before in my life.”

  Cristie sat very still. Her breathing had stopped. She wanted to stop her ears. She had to keep on listening. McKee tapped the gun lying on his outstretched palm. He said, “Mr. Hazard, you may stand on your privileges if you wish. You can refuse to answer any further questions without the advice of counsel. I am convinced that on the night she died your wife received a blow at the base of the brain that fractured her skull. This gun has been taken apart and gone over. The surfaces are clean, it’s true, but the surfaces aren’t all. Blood and fragments of blonde hair were found in the crevices, blood that corresponds with the same group as your wife’s as recorded in the autopsy report. This is the gun that actually killed your wife.”

  The noise in Cristie’s ears had mounted to a roar. If Steven answered, she didn’t hear his answer. She simply recorded with some part of her brain that continued to function independently that the stenographer closed his book and then that somehow or other, all three men were gone and the room was empty of them and she was alone.

  XII

  Cristie went to bed early. She was spent, exhausted, needed no drug. She fell asleep almost at once, woke some time later on and glanced at the luminous dial of the clock on the table beside the bed. It was only a little after half past eleven. She had slept for less than two hours. It seemed like a span of years spent journeying in distant lands across unnumbered continents.

  She turned her head listlessly on the pillow, looked through the open window and rose on one elbow. The maid had gone to bed before Cristie, but there was someone in the living room. Reflected light from its illuminated interior made tall spears of the iron fence around the visible portion of the terrace. Who was in there? It must be Margot. Margot must have come home.

  Cristie lay still for a moment, watching the glow on the long grill. Margot was hard-headed, capable, efficient. Impossible to tell her everything, but there were some things on which you could ask her advice. Cristie hesitated, then threw the covers back. She put on the dark blue flannel robe thrown over a chair, slipped into mules and opened her door. The hall was dark. The glass doors to the living room, forty feet away, were ajar.

  “Margot,” she called, and started forward.

  Before she had taken half a dozen steps, the living room lights went out. Standing motionless in the sudden blanketing darkness, Cristie listened. She couldn’t hear anything except—it was absurd—a faint sound like the galloping of little horses. Then after a moment the front door opened and closed.

  Cristie was trembling. Terror was back in her again. She stilled it with a hand at her heart, found the hall switch, pushed it up, walked resolutely into the living room and turned on the lights there.

  The room was empty. There was no evidence of an intruder. Everything was in order. Cristie frowned at Margot’s immense chromium and leather desk. She was still shaking.

  It couldn’t have been Margot because Margot would have recognized her voice. The only other people who might have keys were Johnny and Euen Firth. But surely they too would have...She folded the dressing gown tightly around her, compressed her lips. Someone had undoubtedly effected an entrance to the penthouse, someone who had withdrawn with stealth and with despatch at her call. Whoever it was had come there with an objective. Her eyes went swiftly around the room again. Did the intruder get what he was after?

  She made herself stop trembling. She mustn’t lose control. She was going to need every ounce of it for the long ordeal that lay ahead. No use trying to think things out tonight, or to plan. That was for tomorrow when her brain was rested and her nerves were in better shape.

  She went out into the foyer, tried the door, found that it was locked and picked up a small Windsor chair. She hung the chair over the knob so that any further attempt at entry would produce a loud crash, and returned to her room, and to bed.

  Rest, she had to have rest, and sleep and the healing of forgetfulness, if only for a few hours, to refill the springs of her courage. But sleep was done with her for the remainder of the night, except in broken snatches that were filled with tumbling nightmares. It wasn’t until daylight came that she dropped into oblivion.

  It was at half past two that afternoon that she put in a call for Steven at the office of National Motors.

  Would Steven be there? She had to see him. Her fear hadn’t gone with the night. If anything, it had deepened. But she was no longer undecided, wavering. Strength had returned to her. She had pushed the doubts, the fears, the ugliness, the black uncertainties into the back of her mind, had closed a door firmly on them. The past was past. Nothing could be done about that. The present and the future remained. If they played it right they might still win through. Not to happiness, she didn’t attempt to deceive herself for a moment, happiness was not for them, but they might avert the worst.

  Her pulses leaped when Steven answered. One barrier surmounted. Steven said he would be at the penthouse at about a quarter of six. The rest of the afternoon dragged interminably and then he was there, in the room with her, taking her in his arms and kissing her with hungry passion. She released herself with a small shaky laugh. She turned to the fire and picked up the tongs.

  “What did they do to you, Steven?” she asked. “I mean, last night? About the gun—and that maid?”

  She was aware of Steven’s eyes on the curve of her cheek, her bent head, traveling over the satin folds of the blue house gown sweeping to the floor. There was a pause before he said in a different voice, a brusque harsh voice, “You’re not to worry about that, Cristie. The police have nothing on me, nothing whatever. McKee knows it. He’s too shrewd a man not to know. They have absolutely no evidence to tie the possession of that gun to me. In order to do any good, make a charge stick, they’d have to put it in my hands, watch me wipe fingerprints from it.”

  Cristie didn’t turn. She kept on staring into the flames. “They would have to place it in my hands, see me wipe fingerprints from it.” A sickness swept through her, dimming her vision, taking the sight from her eyes. Her hands and feet were cold, clammy. For just an instant she had an almost overwhelming temptation to turn to Steven and tell him the truth, not only the truth about the gun, but the truth of what had taken place on that black August night when Sara died, or rather in the early hours of that morning.

  She fought her weakness down. Not that way. Some time perhaps, but not yet. It would ruin everything. She put a fresh birch log on the fire, returned the tongs to the stand and swung around. Steven was regarding her intently from under his thick black brows. The angle of his jaw was sharp. His eyes gleamed palely. The muscles of his broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, long-legged body were tight.

  She thought, Steven, lying. He doesn’t trust me; I don’t trust him. And then it came to her. Not joy, not rapture, but a realization of the facts that lay under these things. She loved Steven, she would always love him, no matter what had happened, no matter what was happening now, no matter what was going to happen.

  Going to happen. The words acted as a spur. She raised her head. “Steven,” she said, “there’s something I want you to do for me.”

  “Yes, Cristie?” Steven had been far away. His face softened. He smiled at her. Cristie returned the smile. Her own
was a little uncertain, a little tremulous.

  “Steven,” she said, “will you marry me? Now? Right away?”

  She didn’t wait for him to come to her. As she spoke she went to him, put her arms around his neck and pressed her cheek tightly against his.

  Steven didn’t answer her at once, didn’t respond to the pressure of her clinging. She could feel the struggle going on inside of him. She slid her cheek around, found his lips.

  “Yes, Steven. Yes,” she whispered, drawing back. “Don’t you see? It’s the only way. The only way to...”

  Steven was still holding her. He put her from him. “The only way to what?”

  Cristie let her lashes fall, buried her face in his breast. She couldn’t tell him, couldn’t put into words the things she knew, the things that made it imperative that they should become man and wife and so gain the haven of immunity the legal tie offered. No wife could be forced to take the witness stand against her husband and no husband could be forced to testify against his wife.

  She lifted her face, said looking up into his, putting urgency into her tone, “I’m frightened, Steven. I want protection. I want someone to lean on. If we’re married, if you’re my husband, I won’t be so-so alone.”

  It was only this plea, repeated again and again, that finally induced Steven to consider her proposal. She took advantage of his tentative weakening, made him comfortable on a chair beside the hearth, mixed a drink, settled herself on a puff beside him and began overriding the objections he raised, one after another.

  “We’re being watched,” he said. “If we take such a step at this juncture—why look, Cristie...”

  She swept that aside. There were ways, there must be ways. She started putting forth suggestions. Her excitement kindled an answering spark in Steven. He sat up. He lit a cigarette and reached for a second drink. His color was better and his eyes brighter.

  “By God, it might be. done at that.”

  Cristie drew the puff closer to his knees, laid her clasped hands on them. They began to talk in low eager voices. They went on talking for a long while.

  It was nine o’clock before Steven left the penthouse. The envelope containing the tickets arrived by messenger at half past eleven the next morning. Cristie ate a leisurely luncheon. There was plenty of time.

  At two she changed into a dark plaid suit with a plaid topcoat, selected a hat. She chose a bright red one with a black wing on it that stood up jauntily on her soft dark hair. She checked over the contents of her purse, made sure that her toothbrush was in it, and powder and her lipstick and what money she had. Dressed and ready to leave the penthouse, she pulled open a drawer of the highboy, got out a tan beret that matched the lining of the plaid topcoat, stowed it, neatly folded, in a capacious pocket and picked up her gloves.

  She went down quite openly in the self-service elevator, got out at the main floor. The elevator was just inside the doors. As she went through them and down the steps she watched a stoutish man in a gray hat and brown overcoat detach himself from interested contemplation of a flight of pigeons and saunter after her along the street.

  She hailed a cab at the corner, saw with satisfaction that the gray-hatted, brown-coated detective was doing likewise. At Eighty-sixth Street, she took the East Side subway uptown.

  The stations fled by. Immersed in her magazine she was aware of her shadow resting bulkily reading a newspaper beyond a stout woman with a baby a few feet away. At 161st Street, she got out, went down the steps. The Yankee Stadium reared itself above her. A sudden roar burst from the hidden crowd within the huge enclosure. She walked to the right field entrance. A sign said: “Texas A. & M. vs. Fordham” in big bold letters. She gave her ticket to the man at the gate, walked up a ramp and consulted the stub.

  A scarlet-coated attendant escorted her to her seat. Cristie settled back after a sideways glance established her detective settling himself in a seat ten rows behind.

  It was working out exactly as they had planned it. The second half had begun. The stands were packed. Alternate sunlight and shadow drifted across the white-lined playing field and the 69,000 spectators. Both Texas and Fordham were big draws. The crowds had turned out for them. Bright colors, excitement, its focal point those twenty-two jerseyed figures, running, tangling, swooping, darting, out on the field. The throng followed them breathlessly, surging to its feet as a halfback cut off tackle and got in the open on Fordham’s thirty-five for a gain of seventeen yards and another first down.

  It was a tightly fought game. To her astonishment, Cristie found herself caught up in its thrills. The acting she was going to have to do oughtn’t to be difficult. The third quarter ended with the teams still locked in a tie. The fourth quarter began.

  Fordham put on a late drive. Plunging deeper and deeper into Texas territory, they reached the Texas twenty-yard line. They were on the twelve, then the eight. Texas recovered a fumble. A groan went up from the Fordham side of the huge stadium. There was a yell as Fordham intercepted a forward pass on its own forty-seven.

  A collective gasp of suspense broke from the 69,000 people. Cristie glanced at the big clock above the scoreboard. Two minutes to go. Would Fordham make it? Would she make it? A chill went through her that had nothing to do with the frosty wind or the sudden grayness of a passing cloud.

  First down. A loss. Second, only four yards this time. Time out for a substitution. One minute to go. And then it came. The Fordham man faded back, waited and threw a prodigious pass. Dead on the run the rangy end plucked it out of the air, shot forward alone and went over the Texas goal line for a touchdown.

  The kick was bad but nobody cared. Only thirty-five seconds to play. Everyone was standing now. Cristie stood too. Her vigilant trailer had moved up closer. There was just time for a kick-off. The gun sounded and the crowd went mad.

  Cristie was caught up in the laughing, cheering, riotous mob. If she had wanted to she couldn’t have freed herself. She didn’t want to. Already the detective in the gray hat was separated from her by hundreds of shoving men and women. She let herself be pushed this way and that indifferently. She was bent on other things. No one noticed the slim girl in the plaid outfit and the scarlet hat turn into an entirely different figure. The red hat pulled from her head, the beret slipped into its place, the plaid coat was reversible. She had to struggle to get it inside out and button its tan exterior neatly down the front.

  The goal posts trembled and went down. A cheer rose and the crowd milled toward the various exits arguing and expostulating, replaying the game. Cristie searched the faces nearest her. The detective’s wasn’t among them. Careful to remain embedded in that flowing tide of humanity she was carried out of the stadium along the street and up the hill to the Independent subway station.

  The station was packed but she was able to crush her way into an early downtown express. The crowd had thinned a great deal by the time she reached the West Fourth Street station but she wasn’t afraid now.

  As she walked across Christopher Street, exultation made her a little light headed so that she forgot for a moment the grimmer aspects of the adventure that still lay ahead. It couldn’t fail now. What she had done, Steven would be repeating in a different shape. They had gone over every move carefully. He would do what he did every Saturday, lunch, then back to his club to loaf for a couple of hours. Then the game with a seat in another section. During the goal post rush he would have shaken off his man.

  She turned the corner. It was there, the little black sedan that Steven had ordered and that had been parked at his direction in front of the old brown church on Hudson Street, opposite the opening of Grove. It was the car that was to carry them south to the little town that Steven had selected.

  Light from the sun sinking in the West flared out on either side of the square church tower silhouetting its bulk sharply. The sedan was empty. Steven had not yet arrived. Cristie walked to and fro in front of the big red brick school, silent and deserted on Saturday afternoon.

  After a little
while she glanced at her watch. It was only twenty-five minutes past five. The game had ended at twenty of five. She had gotten down fast.

  Steven might be having trouble. She mustn’t permit herself to become impatient.

  She went on walking. An occasional taxi flitted by, buses; an occasional man or woman entered or left the houses along the street. The shadows lengthened. The wind grew colder. Cristie forced herself to go south as far as the drugstore on the corner. She could still see the sedan, empty, waiting. Her feet began to feel like lumps of ice, the chill crept up through her body. It was a quarter of six, it was six o’clock. Darkness had come, but not Steven. She kept on waiting and walking to and fro.

  Cristie was right in her reconstruction of the earlier part of Steven Hazard’s day. He had returned to the club after luncheon, the twin of Cristie’s football ticket in his pocket. No use getting up to the stadium until after half past three.

  From a comfortable chair in the reading room he watched Detectives Carr and Allen collide accidentally on the pavement outside, murmur a few words, separate and continue their vigil. They didn’t worry him any. He had no doubt of his ability to shake them off at the proper time.

  He looked at the clock above the doorway after he had gazed unseeingly at the early editions of the afternoon papers for a considerable stretch. One more cigarette and off to the races. He was lighting a match when the attendant’s singsong voice said: “Mr. Hazard, Mr. Hazard.”

  Steven rose. The attendant said he was wanted on the telephone. The man pointed. “Right over there, booth five.” Steven entered the booth, closed the door, lifted the receiver and said “Hello.”

  At the other end of the wire a voice said, “Hello Steven, having a good time, darling?”

  Steven Hazard hadn’t seated himself on the little stool. He was standing. He staggered. The back of his head hit the rear wall of the booth. Shock, mountainous seas of it, was sweeping down on him. He gasped for breath. Had he lost his mind? Was he going mad? He dragged himself erect, lifted the instrument in a clenched hand and said into the mouthpiece in harsh unrecognizable tones, “Who is this, who is this speaking?”