"How do you mean? Did you kill him?"
"No. No, I don't think so."
"What did you hit him with?"
"A candlestick."
"But you used a gun on Lundy, didn't you?"
"What-what's that?" George started up out of the chair, trembling all over. "Listen, I don't know anything about it. Harry was pretty good to me, most of the time. I guess he knew I was planning to roll the boss, but he didn't seem to care. He just laughed about it and I figured he was gettin' plenty on his own. But I don't know what the deal was between him and Mr. Ashton. This whole place is tied up in knots. But I didn't kill Harry! I tell you I didn't!"
Panic broke the dam of reason in the houseboy's mind. He made a queer screaming sound and lunged up at Sam, hands like claws that scratched at Sam's face. Sam ducked and threw a hard right that crunched solidly on George's mouth. He felt no sympathy, no urge to restraint. He hit George again and the man slammed against the wall with a thump, lost his footing on the Belgian tiles and suddenly sat down on the floor, his back to the wall. Sam started to straighten him up then paused, satisfied. George was out cold.
Rain beat sullenly on the tiled roof. Sam decided he could leave George safely for a few minutes while he investigated upstairs. The house was without sound or movement. He needed no lights to guide his way down the long hallway to the central foyer, hung with its Toledo tapestries and somehow oppressive with the suits of medieval armor his brother had collected long ago. As he mounted the broad, curving stairway it seemed as if nothing at Isla Honda had changed in all the tormented years of his absence. Almost without thinking, he turned to the left, toward his old bedroom which Bill had occupied the night of Charley's death. Even the furniture was the same as he remembered it. He stood beside the bed and listened to the sullen thrash of wind in the palms on the lawn, the muffled beat of the nearby surf. His thoughts touched Mona briefly and he wondered if she had reached the boat in safety and then abruptly he quit the room and turned down the hall toward the upstairs study where Charley's body had been found.
Halfway there he paused feeling a nerve tic in his jaw. The quiet darkness enveloped him like a warm blanket. Three years ago, in this hallway, Bill Somerset must have seen something that perhaps had not meant anything until yesterday and then it had made sense to him even through his alcoholic haze. But whatever Bill had known and whatever Harry Lundy had learned was dead with both men.
He shivered, conscious of defeat. He did not want to go into that room where his brother had died. He hesitated, listening to the rain and the wind; then he thumbed the antique latch and entered.
John Ashton had been occupying the room and a dim light burned beside the huge, old-fashioned mahogany bed, making queer, angular shadows on the vaulted ceiling. He paused again, sweeping the opposite end of the room with its kidney-shaped desk and tiers of books that Charley had loved.
Then he saw John Ashton's thin, twisted body on the floor beside the bed. For a moment Sam thought that George's panicky blows had accomplished more than the houseboy intended. He moved unwillingly around the rumpled bed and held to the delicately carved bedpost, looking down at this strange man of warped intellect and disturbed passions. The answer to all his problems lay locked somewhere behind that thin, ascetic face. He knelt and watched a drop of blood trickle across the papery cheekbones, to be absorbed by the thick carpet. Ashton was still breathing. The only damage George had done was a long, superficial gash.
Even as he knelt beside the man, Ashton sighed and moaned and Sam got an arm under him and helped his first, vague struggles to sit erect. Aston opened his eyes and stared and then intelligence dawned; with it, after the first wince of pain came sardonic, silent laughter.
"So you're back, Sam?"
"I'm back," he nodded. "How do you feel?"
"Alive anyway. Where is George?"
"In the kitchen. I knocked him out."
"He's a stupid man," Ashton remembered. "I lost my temper, but I meant him no harm. Help me up to the bed, Sam."
"Did he say anything about Lundy?" Sam asked.
Ashton lifted his head to look at him. "Just a moment. My head aches. Let me think." He was silent a second, his pale eyes staring beyond Sam. "George is nothing but a cheap little thief."
"Forget about George," Sam said harshly. "Let's think about that faithful old family retainer, the panderer and blackmailer named Harry Lundy-deceased."
Ashton's sensitive brows lifted. "Harry is dead?"
"Are you surprised?"
"No. No, I'm not. The only surprise is that it did not happen sooner. Harry was a dangerous man playing a dangerous game."
"And what game was that?"
Ashton smiled sardonically. "Death seems to join you with each visit you make to Isla Honda, does it not?"
"You think it's a coincidence?"
"Decidedly not."
"Then who was Lundy afraid of? Who killed him?"
"Presumably the same person who killed my nephew, Bill. But as to his name, your guess is as good as mine, my dear boy."
"The time is over for guessing games," Sam said angrily. "What I want are the facts."
"And what is a fact and what is an illusion?" Ashton sighed. "Get my stick, please."
The man's big, knobby-headed cane had been kicked away from the bedside, obviously by George. Ashton's thin, gnome-like body was clad in red silk pajamas. Sam watched the misshapen feet grope into leather slippers and then he turned away and got the stick for Ashton. It was surprisingly heavy; he supposed it was well weighted at the knobby head, like a Haitian cocomacaque. He handed it to Ashton and stepped back a little. The crippled man laughed briefly, lurched erect and swung his satyr's body toward the closet where he shrugged into a dressing gown that matched the intricate pattern of his pajamas. Sam was struck again by the incongruity of that handsome, intelligent head on the sick body that supported it. He kept his eye on the heavy cane.
"The facts," he said again.
"You sound rebellious, my boy."
"I am. I've been pushed around enough. You helped quite a bit last night. I'm not forgetting you were at Johnny Capp's fishing camp. You and Deputy Frye."
Ashton nodded. "I was not sure that you remembered."
"I have too many memories of last night to forget any of them easily. Start at the beginning.".
18
Ashton limped across the room on his heavy cane and settled into a chair near the casement windows. The sound of the rain was heavy and sullen on the dark foliage outside. The wind had died a little. Sam stood at the foot of the bed. He had the feeling that now it could be settled-now or never. Ashton had to tell him the truth. He did not know how the man could be forced to talk and yet Ashton seemed more agreeable than before, as if touched by defeat. It was just possible that his angry bluff might make Ashton tell him what he had to know.
"You were my brother's partner," Sam said.
"Not a partner. An associate in several banking deals with the Caribe Traders Company of which Charles was the main shareholder. You must remember," Aston said lazily, "that the Traders Bank dealt with countries to the south which are hardly noted for their political or financial stability. In one country especially, three years ago, there was special tension as the result of the efforts there to establish a military junta. Many of the board members were inclined to do business with the new regime, although at first Charles was violently opposed to it."
"Where does this lead us to?" Sam demanded.
"To a bitter disillusionment for you, my young friend." Ashton seemed amused. "Are you very much in love with Ellen Terhune?"
"Ellen?" Sam was surprised. "What does she have to do with this?"
"You will not believe me, my dear boy. I hesitate-"
Sam took a step forward. "Keep talking!"
"Remember, you invited this. You will not like it. Your friend, Miss Terhune, is a clever and ambitious woman with a sharp eye for quick profits. She and Charles made an admirable pair; she was idea
lly suited by temperament toward a life in the world of finance. As Charles's fiancee, she helped me urge your brother to lend a quarter of a million dollars to further the cause of the military junta I spoke of. It was a lost cause, but Charles succumbed to Ellen's blandishments. We were all betrayed by the confused issues. The board members protested against meddling in politics by then, but Charles withdrew the cash anyway-refusing to call a board meeting in the knowledge that he would have been voted down."
Sam felt incredulous. "Charles acted with the best of intentions. He was a man of honor. As for Ellen-she never told me any of this. I find it hard to believe."
"I warned you that you would not like it."
"If Ellen influenced Charley in any way-"
"She did. The actual cash, you understand, went to two South American agents named Jaquin and Gabrilan who brought the money over from Cuba to this house the night Charles died."
"Whose agents were they?"
Ashton smiled ruefully. "I thought they were mine. I told you, we were all betrayed. In the time it took to liquidate securities and gather the cash, the cause of the junta was lost. It was obvious to everyone but your brother. The two agents had other plans for the money. They took orders from another foreign capital-it should be obvious who and what those men were-and their plans were to take the money to Eastern Europe. Charles and Ellen and I argued for half the night about it."
"Ellen was here that night?"
"For a time, yes."
He thought: She never told me. She never said a word. Anger made him tremble and he felt a sickness of betrayal in him. It made sense. It explained Ellen's attitude in all this-her anxiety lest he learn too much now that he was back at Isla Honda. Her silence could only mean a deeper guilt than that he already knew of.
"Go on," he said harshly.
Ashton sighed. "Actually, all our talk did no good. Jaquin and Gabrilan were determined men. Their decision had been made. When the storm let up a little that night, they left Isla Honda with the money and were never seen again."
"They stole the money?" Sam asked.
"You could call it that."
"Then why did you and Ellen allow my brother to die being accused of embezzlement?"
Ashton shrugged. His sensitive fingers caressed the heavy, knobby end of his cane. "It was the truth in a way. Legally, the money was misappropriated since the majority of the stockholders disapproved the action. The money was gone with Jaquin and Gabrilan. Who was there to say it had not been planned that way from the start?"
"And you and Ellen were there. You knew the truth."
"What is the truth?" Ashton asked. "Charles died that night. Who could take the blame? Myself? Ellen? That would have been a useless sacrifice. As you see, the whole matter was a tragedy of errors, confused by misunderstood motives from beginning to end. Do not blame Ellen for her silence about it. All we knew was that Jaquin and Gabrilan had disappeared and as far as I was concerned, the matter was over until Gabrilan's bones were found on the nearby island recently. Then it was obvious that the storm had betrayed even those two and they had been swallowed up by the sea, money and all."
Sam said: "It doesn't explain Charley's death. He didn't commit suicide. He was murdered."
"There is no evidence. There never will be."
"Who did it?" Sam asked. "Who killed him?" He shook with the effort to control himself. He felt a crazy urge to do violence to the crippled man, to drag the truth out by main force. He wanted to smash the smile of intellectual superiority off that handsome, warped face, until the truth came screaming into the room. "Listen to me," he said. "Bill knew something about it. He learned it from Lundy. Lundy knew the truth. He always knew it, which is why you kept him on and allowed him liberties of insolence and independence you normally would never have tolerated. What did Lundy know? What else do you know?"
Ashton said quietly: "It's hopeless. You will never know the truth. Even I don't know it."
"But Charley was murdered?"
"Yes."
"By whom?"
"I do not know. None of us was sure of what happened. There was confusion in the house and your brother was in a fury over what he considered the betrayal of those two men who escaped with the money. He accused Ellen and me of collaborating with them. We almost came to blows. Ellen left the house then. I persuaded him finally that we had all been duped and he finally retired to this room. A few moments later I heard the shots. I was the first one in here. Charles was dead on the floor, at the foot of the bed where you are now standing. The gun was at the window-at quite an impossible distance from your brother's hand. It was obviously not a suicide. It was murder."
Sam swung toward the casement window, aware of Ashton's bright eyes following him. Rain beat against the leaded frame. It washed against the old glass in distorting rivulets and he swung the window wide open, smelling the wet smell of tropical foliage. Rain glistened on the roof tiles below and he remembered how the Romanesque arcade ran along this side of the building, the roof a gentle slope about four feet below the bedroom windows. He looked back at Ashton.
"If the gun was here, then the murderer fired from outside." He forced himself to be calm. "But the gun was found in Charley's hand."
"I put it there," Ashton nodded.
"Why?"
"Consider my situation. The murderer had escaped and I would have been accused of the crime. Everyone knew we had quarreled. It seemed to be the simplest way out of it from my viewpoint."
Sam's jaws ached. "What happened then?"
"Lundy came in and saw me with the gun bending over your brother. Lundy worked for me, he was willing to help. I doubt if he ever believed me though and ever since then he has had a certain measure of power over me that pleased his limited intellect. I could have gotten rid of him I suppose, but he proved useful in other ways, so I maintained the arrangement."
"What about Frye? He was in charge of the official investigation, wasn't he?"
Ashton nodded again. "Frye also suspected that all was not as I had made it seem to be. He approached me later and I told him the truth. I had no choice. We agreed to let it remain as it was, for a consideration. Since then, I never expected to be troubled by it until I returned to Isla Honda." Ashton shrugged. "I could have told you all this long ago, but there was the question of the money, my boy. Gabrilan's body was recovered and I acquired Isla Honda-on a shoestring, incidentally-and then you returned, too. I assumed you knew something about the location of the money. I must have it. I've had poor fortune lately, and I intend to recoup the money for myself."
Sam looked at the man. He felt nothing but contempt and hatred. "I don't know where the money is. Nobody knows."
"I believe that now. But you can find it."
"Perhaps. But not with Lundy's murderer still at large." Sam paused. "It's the same murderer, the same one who stood out there on that roof three years ago and killed Charley. But it doesn't add up."
"But you know where to find the money, don't you?"
"I do," Sam said.
"Suppose I telephone the police and tell them you are here at Isla Honda? And when they come, I shall deny everything I told you, of course. Where would you be then, my boy? In jail, charged with a double murder. What profit would there be for you in that?"
Sam studied the man. It might be a bluff, but he couldn't be sure. He wouldn't put anything beyond the man's fertile intellect. Ashton might see an obscure gambit in such a move that could gain him eventual victory. Sam shook his head slightly. There was too much that he did not know as yet.
He looked away toward the window, wondering how it had been that night three years ago. For that one moment, his caution was slackened-and Ashton took sudden advantage of it. Sam heard the rustle of silk as the man moved and he turned, twisting in sudden alarm. He saw the uplifted arm, the heavy cocomacaque hurtling toward him-and then it crashed against his head and drove him against the window with a shattering explosion of broken glass. He fell sidewise into dark, wet space.
19
His face and arm scraped the wet, smooth tiles of the narrow roof below. One hand was flung out, catching the sill instinctively. For a spinning moment he could only hang on, fighting the pain of the blow. Dimly he was aware of Ashton limping across the room beyond the window, stooping to retrieve the heavy cane. He felt a surge of dismay at being outwitted like this. For a moment he had almost believed the man's story. Now he believed nothing at all. Scrambling, he got both feet secured on the slippery roof tiles and crouched outside the window. The rain beat at him with sodden strength. His head spun giddily. He saw Ashton lift the club and flail savagely at him through the window and he ducked, felt the heavy weapon graze his back. He tried to grab it from the other's hand, but Ashton was too quick for him. His own movement betrayed him on the treacherously sloping roof. His feet went out from under him and he toppled to the lawn below.
The hibiscus shrubbery broke the force of his ten-foot fall, but the impact knocked the wind out of him and for several moments he lay stunned, aware of the dark night and the rain turning in slow revolutions with the wet earth under him. Picking himself up, he felt a weight missing from his pocket and discovered that the gun he had taken from Mona was gone. He remained on hands and knees for a moment, searching the dark, wet grass for it then gave it up and stood erect. Movement blurred the bedroom window above him as Ashton withdrew. He hesitated, wondering whether he should go back up there and have it out with the man then decided there was nothing to be gained by going on with it. Turning, he moved carefully toward the kitchen wing and went back inside to locate George, the houseboy.
The kitchen was empty. George was gone. He had taken his canvas bag of loot with him.
From the main stairway came the heavy, irregular tread of Ashton's feet descending to the ground floor. Sam went outside into the rain again. His head cleared slowly, although the throbbing pain of Ashton's blow still persisted. His legs trembled as he walked through the rain toward the garage. He wondered if Ashton would call the police now and he was oppressed by a sense of defeat. There was no way of proving the truth of Ashton's story to anyone, assuming it was the truth as far as the man knew it. It was a question which he felt impossible to decide and there were too many blank areas in the pattern Ashton had woven for him to accept any of it as yet. Ashton had talked skillfully, knowing the effect of his every word on Sam. He felt trapped by the dark destiny that loomed ahead of him.
Dark Destiny Page 14
