Nelsing relaxed into a grim smile. “Well, so far we haven’t any better way of testing Mrs. Majendie. With that manner of hers she could be lying all around the clock, and you couldn’t prove it. There’s one thing, of course, it’s not only Barby that likes her. The Johnson girls do, and she brought ’em up.”
“But how do they like her? As a grand old aunt, or as a Leader?” Todd inquired.
“Oh, that Leader business—there may have been a touch of that when they were in their teens, but before long it wore off. Ryn got to Cal before the others did, and it didn’t take her a week to get into the swing. I guess she passed it on to the others, because they were three of the most normal girls you ever saw.” Nelsing smiled wryly again. “I mean normal, too; they were slippery and self-protecting and altogether feminine, but any lying they did was strictly in—what’s the Godfrey been calling it?—in the world sense. The rest of the Beyond-Truth went overboard as soon as rushing started, and they all pledged a good house.”
“There isn’t a chance,” said Todd slowly, “that it went underground instead?”
“They laugh at it,” Nelsing said. “Cass has a sort of wink she gives when you mention it—”
Georgine could see her: the round, pretty face made yet more attractive by that laughing complicity. “And after all,” she remarked, “what harm would it do anyone to fast one day a week in secret? As a matter of fact, I think Ryn does it openly. Cass said something about that.”
Todd was still looking into space. “It’s the planning to marry and have children that seems to be dangerous. Grant wasn’t a Beyond-Truther, I suppose… I’ll swear David Shere isn’t.”
“Not he,” said Nelsing, “but he’s a bit more cautious than Hartlein; he doesn’t insult the memory of the dead Leader.”
“Ah, yes. And while we’re on that subject, what about those pieces of inhaler you found on the old lady’s property?”
“I might have known you’d be in on that,” said Nelsing with resignation, “when I saw you easing yourselves out the back door yesterday. No comment. —Look here, Mac, I wish you’d go over that story that Hartlein told you, once more.”
Todd began on it. Georgine’s attention wandered; she finished her sewing to the accompaniment of suppressed yawns, thinking about tomorrow morning, there’d hardly be time to get the wash out before her dentist appointment, she could do it in the afternoon—left-over spaghetti for lunch, though not very much of it—
“Sure you can make yourself sick, sucking arsenic off a paint brush,” she heard Nelsing say. “The old lady made Ryn go to two or three doctors, a couple of months ago. They all said the same thing.”
The old lady had made her go. Then there couldn’t have been anything to Hartlein’s suspicions about that. Probably all the other business about the girls’ being afraid of her had been the same, the product of a neurotic imagination… But as neuroses went, there were all kinds. There was David Shere, powered all the time by that overwhelming vitality—how would he act if that power went into channels of jealousy? He had loved Sibella Johnson first, and then turned to Ryn, and after her to Cass— would he be as devious as all that, possibly tampering with the steering gear of a honeymoon car to kill off the rival and the lost loved one? And then rigging up that inhaler for Hartlein, planting it in such a way that nobody was sure if that death was suicide or murder? If he were being as clever as all that, why didn’t he get Hartlein to write something which could be construed as a suicide note? But then the insurance wouldn’t be paid…
“Nelse,” she broke in suddenly, “how much money did Bell Johnson leave to her sisters?”
“Huh?” Nelsing said. “Bell? Oh—money. Why, quite a lot, as it happened. She and Grant had made wills in each other’s favor, before the wedding, and Grant died first. The insurance people checked on that. There was his estate, which was considerable, and her own share of the Johnson parents’ money. All that was divided between Ryn and Cass.”
“I see,” said Georgine, turning it over in her mind. Shere hadn’t many resources of his own, except that old building he’d mentioned, and you couldn’t live on your GI loan these days. He was courting Cass—
“I always get disgusted with myself,” she added firmly, “for conjecturing at all. Skip it, Nelse.”
Nelsing rose and stretched, regarding her dispassionately. “Okay, I’ll skip that if you’ll forget your nightmares. If this is a crime you don’t come into it.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself, but all I’m sure of is that you don’t believe we did it.”
“That’s something, isn’t it?” said Nelsing. “Look, Mac—I can’t go out there in an official car, or make it look as if I were on official business. If you, uh, felt like gathering some material, I believe that visitors are welcome enough at the Colony. It’d make kind of an excuse—”
“Todd!” Georgine said, coming to sudden awareness of what they’d been arranging. “You don’t mean you’re going to ask questions in the—the very lair of the Beyond-Truth?”
“Good God,” said Nelsing disgustedly, before Todd could open his mouth, “we might have known better than to discuss it in front of a woman.”
“Must you, Todd?” She ignored Nelsing.
Todd said no word. He cocked an eye at her and began to whistle a theme by Ludwig van Beethoven.
“Oh, money,” said Georgine in despair. “I wish we all lived on a desert island.”
“Dear Georgine,” said her husband, “we’d just starve a li’le quicker there. Nelse is going along to protect me in the lair, and who’s more discreet than Nelse? Tuesday afternoon, then,” he said to their departing guest.
“That’s right; it’s my day off. Good dinner, Georgine. Thanks a lot, and good night.”
They watched him go, into a clear night that stirred uneasily with the gusts of a chill, dry north wind. It was the kind of weather that made hair crackle with electricity and put an edge on nerves. “That’s part of what’s the matter with me,” Georgine murmured half aloud.
“Talking to me, dear heart?”
“Not exactly—there, his car started all right. I was rather wondering—well, never mind. Look how clear it is, you can almost count the lights on the Gate Bridge.”
“Does the scenery comfort you when you’re gloomy? Because I can see you are, and I wish you weren’t.”
“Yes, I’m gloomy. I have to be at the dentist’s in the morning, and I am a millstone around your neck.”
Todd said nothing. He only looked at her, with a familiar softening of his eyes, and the hint of a smile.
Georgine grinned at him. “I feel better now.”
CHAPTER SIX
BEFORE MORNING THE WIND gained strength, making the night hideous with the banging of doors and windows that one had not realized were unfastened, and thrashing trees about so that the stars winked evilly through their branches. The morning was no better. When the wind dropped for a moment one baked in unimpeded sunlight, and when it came up again it blew with piercing coldness. Georgine fought her way to the dentist’s and back again, and relieved her feelings by fairly hurling her wash into the machine.
Todd, with incomparable tact, had gone out for lunch; at least it would be a good drying day.
The clothesline whirligig in the side yard was putting up a spirited battle, at about three that afternoon, when Georgine saw something that unaccountably startled her. It was only a pair of smart moccasins, visible through the roots of the hedge; but the feet in those shoes had come without sound up the front steps, they were standing motionless now on the far side of that screen of leaves, and the whole thing gave a curious effect of stealth.
Georgine released the whirligig, which promptly whizzed around and slapped her in the face with a wet T-shirt, and went across the grass to peer through a narrow opening in the hedge. The owner of the moccasins was Cass Johnson. She was standing gazing down at them, lost in thought; she might have been a statue, except that the long circular skirt of her gray w
ool sports dress whipped and bellied in the gale.
“Have you been ringing our doorbell?” said Georgine. Cass jumped perceptibly, turning a startled face toward her.
“No,” she stammered. “No, I—I thought you were busy, I could just see your arms hanging up clothes, so I—I wanted to see you, and I thought I’d wait.”
“Next time, how’s about singing out? You scared me, I hadn’t heard your car drive up or anything.”
“Oh, I walked,” Cass said, recovering her aplomb and following Georgine back into the drying yard. “It’s almost easier than driving, if you know the short cuts—and I ought to, I’ve been walking these hills for most of my life!”
“Well, wait a minute,” said Georgine, “until I finish this job, and then come in.” She dived for the last handful of napkins, thinking regretfully of her sheets, which she had taken down at exactly the right degree of dampness and left in the Manfreds’ basement for ironing this afternoon.
“I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, but I’ve been trying for two or three days, and you’re hard to catch. Tomorrow’s my full day at the Community Nursery, too.”
Georgine muttered something noncommittal, snapped on the last of the clothespins and picked up her empty basket. “Just a minute, till I lock a couple of doors; do you want to go into the kitchen? It’s easier.” Her movements were perhaps unnecessarily brisk, but not quick enough; the whirligig got her again with a dishtowel as she scudded back across the yard. “I wish I hadn’t given up swearing,” she remarked aloud, entering her own kitchen and hanging the Manfreds’ key on a nail inside the door. “Well, that’s done. Now, do sit down, and we’ll have a coke, or tea, or something.”
Cass accepted the coke, but instead of sitting down she moved to the front window and stood looking down at the street. “How is Ryn feeling?” said Georgine, impatiently making conversation.
“Oh—about the same, I think. She won’t talk about it, or act ill if she can help it, but I can’t help seeing. If she’d just take a rest—go away somewhere.”
“She keeps on working?”
“Oh, yes, for hours a day she shuts herself up in the basement. It has a big north window, you know,” Cass said, still looking vaguely toward the street. “I guess she’s painting, down there. She never shows things for four or five months after they’re done, but she talks about them.”
Another silence fell. Georgine put down her glass and stifled a sigh.
“Oh, I did come at the wrong time,” Cass said, turning swiftly about. “You must have things you want to do—but I did try last—yesterday, and tomorrow’s imposs—”
Georgine interrupted her in the middle of a word. “Why don’t you come to the point, then?” she asked flatly. “What you want to find out is how much we know. Isn’t that right?” A sudden conclusion had formed itself in her mind. “I suppose it was you, walking up and down in front of the house last night while Howard Nelsing was here.”
Cass swallowed. “Yes. I know his car.” Her eyes lifted appealingly. “And you’re right, that’s just why I came today, but it’s awfully hard to get started!”
“I’ll start, then. We don’t know anything more than you.”
“Yes, you do, Georgine. You know whether he’s still investigating.”
“The Berkeley police like to have their cases closed,” Georgine said.
“Hugh was a suicide,” said Cass urgently. “I’d be willing to swear to it, now. I wouldn’t care if people said it was because I’d treated him badly. I didn’t, and I know it, and the ones who matter know it. But would that help?”
“I don’t know.”
“I can’t be like the Godfrey, trying so hard to make the police think someone’s innocent that they automatically suspect her. No matter what anyone says, it makes things worse, and they mustn’t get worse. There’s stuff that would come to light—some things that don’t have anything to do with Hugh’s death—and that just can’t be allowed to happen.”
Georgine looked at the floor. “There’s not much you can do about it, I’m afraid.”
Cass sat down suddenly beside Georgine, leaning forward to lay a hand on her wrist. It was hard to see her face, with the bright hard blaze of the afternoon filling the window behind her. Georgine looked down instead at the long hand with its nails like dark jewels, gripping her own. “If I told you what I think—and what I know—couldn’t you show me how?”
“You should tell Nelsing what you know,” said Georgine woodenly.
“Oh, heavens!” Cass made an impatient gesture. “You know why I can’t! Look, you’re a woman; there are people you love. What if someone who’s believed in something wrong, all her life, and is near the—edge of the pit because of it, is blamed for something that couldn’t have been her fault? Wouldn’t you—” She stopped to search Georgine’s face. “No. I see. You want names and dates, don’t you? Then I’ll have to give them, because I’m frightened for her. I love her, and if things go wrong she’ll be utterly lost. There are other kinds of poison,” said Cass slowly, with an odd, far-away look, “than Paris green.”
“Cass,” Georgine said, “I don’t really want to know what you’re talking about, but if you must tell me, couldn’t you use plain language?”
“I’ll try.” The girl’s voice still dragged. “It’s my—”
There was a sound of thudding feet on the outside steps, someone’s head was briefly visible in the lower pane of a window, and a second later the doorbell rang.
“It’s David Shere,” said Cass breathlessly. “He saw us… Please, Georgine, please don’t tell him what we were talking about!”
“Honey,” said Georgine, “I don’t know myself.”
Young Mr. Shere flashed his most appealing smile at her from across the door-sill. “Is Cass here? She said I might call for her, we thought you wouldn’t mind.”
Georgine asked him in with as much cordiality as she could manage, and led the way back to the living-room. Cass was in her same position on the sofa, but it was a new Cass; the intensity, the desperate worry of the past few minutes had vanished, and she leaned back at ease against the dull magenta cushions, her gray dress swirling around her ankles and her face at once serene and merry. “Well, my pet, you took your time!” she said.
“Now, don’t give me that,” Shere said good-humoredly. “I’m the one who’s supposed to get in a stew waiting for you.”
“Well, you didn’t make it this time,” said Cass with an impudent twinkle. “What happened, were you in the Bastille again?”
“Not today,” said Shere, frowning suddenly. He took a seat, at Georgine’s gesture. “Not since—Saturday, I guess it was.”
“Really? Why are you being neglected all of a sudden?” Cass sat erect, her eyes still shining. “It wasn’t because you broke down and Told All?”
Shere looked at her quickly. “Did Nelsing get after you again about that night?” Then he seemed to remember that they were not alone, glanced at Georgine and twisted his mouth sideways as if in annoyance.
Georgine, who had determined not to be shunted out of her own living-room by two uninvited guests, smiled at him and sat tight.
“O-ho-o,” said Cass on a long-drawn note. “So you did reveal the guilty secret. No, Howard’s neglecting us, too. What night, Dave?” He looked pointedly at Georgine again, and Cass added, “Never mind her, she’s hand in glove with the cops anyway. I can’t get a thing out of her, but you’ll tell me what goes on. What night?”
The young man stirred uncomfortably. “Well, the—the fourth of November. About a week before Hartlein died.”
“Oh, yes. That night I was supposed to have gone to see him, and didn’t. Godfrey’s wonderful story.”
“Well—you did, didn’t you? I’m sorry, Cass. I had to tell them. I saw your car parked around the corner, in a dark spot under a tree, and when I went in I heard Hartlein saying ‘No! No, I won’t believe it, there’d be nothing to live for!’ And on that,” said Shere rather bitterly, “I shut my
door, not wanting to eavesdrop. But I had to tell that much.”
Cass was looking at him consideringly, still half smiling. “We checked back on that night, before. I was in the Cal library, looking up some stuff, and Ryn was at a Little Theatre rehearsal in Wheeler Hall, making some sketches. So you saw our car. I wonder—if I confessed that it was I who went to see Hugh, and told him I’d never go back to him, do you think that would clinch the suicide verdict?”
“Would it be true?”
“What do you think, David?” She smiled at him again, and then looked obliquely at Georgine. “Damaging, isn’t it? And why do you suppose Howard Nelsing hasn’t been after me again? He’s had the evidence for three days.”
“Maybe,” said Georgine politely, “he didn’t believe Mr. Shere.” He gave her a look of sudden angry bewilderment. “I don’t know, of course. He didn’t mention it to us.”
“Well, would it make any difference if I did give up and say that it was I?” Cass said, and Georgine shrugged in answer. “It’s interesting to think about, just the same. Would it make any difference to you, David?” She turned her laughing face toward him, leaning forward. “What would you think if it came out that I’d driven my poor husband-in-name-only to suicide— by telling him I wouldn’t have him?”
“You’d lose his money,” said Shere in a surly voice.
“Oh, of course. But that would be much better than— further trouble. I’d have done it before, if I’d known. Would it make you think differently of me?”
Shere got up with a powerful thrust of his body. “Hell, I don’t know. What do you care what I think of you, anyway? I don’t know why I keep dangling after you girls.”
“Why, we’re just irresistible, that’s all,” said Cass with a soft giggle. “But we’re too plural, you know. Can’t you really decide which of us you can resist?”
“Who’ve I been paying attention to, the past three months?”
“Oh, me, I admit. You’ve honored me with all your fights and scoldings, I know it must be love.” She was playing him delicately, like a big angry trout, and Georgine felt a sudden pang of sympathy for him. It was abruptly dispelled in the next moment, when Shere gave her an unfriendly glare and said to Cass, “Must we discuss it so publicly?”
The Smiling Tiger Page 9
