Escape the Night

by Mignon Good Eberhart

  “Afraid of anybody?”

  “No—no. That is, she was excited and she said she might have been followed …”

  “So it was a person she saw, and she thought the person had seen her and had followed her.”

  “Yes. I suppose so. I thought she was talking—well, low, so she wouldn’t be overheard by anybody in the drugstore.”

  “Did she say which drugstore she was in?”

  “No.”

  “What time was this?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Between three-thirty and four, I think.”

  “Go on. What else did she say?”

  “She asked me to meet her at Casa Madrone. She didn’t want to go to the police. She said she wouldn’t. I thought I’d better see her. So I did and …”

  “Wait a minute, Miss March. Try to tell that conversation over the phone word for word, will you?”

  Serena took a long breath. And began.

  She told that—except for what Leda had said of Amanda; that, Serena was convinced, had nothing to do with the murder. She told everything—every word she could remember that Leda had uttered, except for what she’d said of Amanda, of her own suspicions of Amanda, of the quarrel she’d said had occurred between Amanda and Luisa and the subject of it. Yet whatever evidence Leda believed she had happened upon in the hardware store had obviously gone to prove, in Leda’s mind, that Amanda had had nothing to do with Luisa’s death. It occurred to Serena swiftly that there was a chance that the part of the story that she was withholding might serve to clear Amanda rather than to incriminate her; yet the chance the other way was too strong. If she’d only had time to think, she thought desperately, to talk to Jem or a lawyer at length. But of course there wasn’t time. She went on, hoping that her voice hadn’t faltered or shown the indecision she felt. She told of getting the station wagon, and Amanda’s red coat; of driving down to the house. She told of entering it, of finding Leda.

  And of someone on the stairs.

  Her voice did falter there; she found it extraordinarily difficult to continue. Anderson went to the side table and got her a drink of water. The Captain said, “Take your time, Miss March.”

  “I don’t know who it was on the stairway, but someone was there. I heard the footsteps and then they seemed to stop, or else came on down so quietly that I couldn’t hear them. I didn’t move. I—couldn’t. And then all at once Jem came in from the back. He spoke to me … He thought at first that I was my sister because of the red raincoat I was wearing. Just as he spoke someone knocked over the lamp in the hall. You saw that …”

  “Go on.”

  She did. There wasn’t much more, then, to tell.

  But when she sat back against the cushions of the sofa and thought, relieved that now she’d finished, at least for the time being; that now she’d told it all and not in any way incriminated Amanda, not in any way brought Jem into the thing, she found that she had only begun.

  She had to go over it all again; and then she was asked to go over the whole story a third time.

  They questioned her then, on points of her story. They questioned her about her own views of the thing. What did she think about it? Was there any reason she knew of that might conceivably lead to the murder of Leda Blagden? Well, then what about Luisa Condit? Would she please tell the Captain everything she knew of that?

  She did so. Once, twice—again a third time. Conscious all the time of Slader’s fingers, in the shadow of the sofa, but so near that he heard every syllable she uttered and made a deathless record of it.

  They questioned her about that, too—both Anderson and the Captain this time. Had she seen anyone during the course of their walk? Only a car passing along the highway. Had she recognized anybody in the car? Were there men or women or only one person? Oh, she hadn’t noticed. Well, was she sure that there was no one on the ledge of rocks above the spot from which Luisa had fallen? She’d seen no one? Had she looked up? Why had she looked up? Had she thought someone was there? Oh, she wanted to get help.

  It seemed to go on endlessly, yet it really wasn’t long that they kept her there, questioning, and it was in no sense a third degree or anything remotely resembling it. They merely questioned, quietly and in a disarmingly friendly and sensible way—and kept on questioning.

  Once, even, Quayle asked her about the bandage on her hand. How had she been hurt? Oh, when she fell on the path. He came to her and looked at her hand closely.

  If there were traps laid, she didn’t see them; but then she wasn’t looking for traps.

  “What about the key, Miss March?” asked Lieutenant Anderson suddenly. “Wasn’t your house locked?”

  “The front door was locked. I had the key in my dressing case. I took it with me—that’s one of the things that delayed me in meeting her. I’d forgotten that. The front door was locked; so she couldn’t have come into the house that way, if that’s what you mean. The back door I think had been left open—unbolted, that is—at some time or other.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Why, Jem—Jem Daly must have come in that way. And Leda herself. Besides …” she stopped suddenly. Quayle said: “Besides …”

  “I was only going to say,” she continued slowly, “that someone, I believe it was Leda, said something at dinner the first night I was here, about the house being unlocked; and someone else—I think Johnny Blagden—said I must speak to the caretaker. Something like that.”

  There was a slight pause. “Can’t you be a little more definite about that?” asked Quayle. “What exactly did they say? How did the subject come up?”

  Serena felt obscurely uneasy; rather like a skater who suspects, without knowing exactly why he suspects it, that the ice is thinner, inexplicably. She said: “I don’t know, really. It just came up in conversation.”

  “How many people were there? Who, exactly, heard that?”

  She told them briefly. Quayle looked at Slader: “Got that? The Condits, Dr. Seabrooke, the Blagdens, Mrs. Lanier, Mr. Daly—Miss March.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How many keys are there to Casa Madrone? Who has them?”

  “I don’t know.” She thought back and said slowly: “I had one, of course. The caretaker has one.”

  “Does your sister, Mrs. Condit, have one?”

  “I don’t know. She’ll tell you.”

  “How did Mrs. Blagden know that door was not bolted?”

  “That’s all that was said. I don’t know. It didn’t seem important.”

  There was another pause. Then Captain Quayle said unexpectedly: “Thanks very much, Miss March. This is only a preliminary inquiry, so to speak. These things take some time as a rule. But thank you. If you think of anything you want to add to what you’ve told us, only let me know. Thank you—thank you …”

  Jem had waited with Amanda and Sutton. Dave had gone home. Sutton went to the door with Quayle and Anderson and Slader with his notebook tucked away in the pocket of his tunic.

  They didn’t question anyone else then. They spoke to Sutton and Amanda briefly, saying they might have to ask them some more questions.

  It was late. Serena hadn’t known how tired she was until the door actually closed behind the three police. Jem came quickly to her. “What did they …” he began and looked at her and said: “We’ll talk in the morning. You’d better get to bed.”

  “We’d all better get to bed,” said Sutton, his face drawn and tired.

  “What about my scarf?” demanded Amanda. “Didn’t they ask you about my scarf?”

  Later—much later—Serena thought of that. Amanda’s red and white scarf with Amanda’s name on it, caught on one of those soft, wet shrubs. Surely she ought to have seen the bold red and white against those grays and greens.

  Jem had strolled out into the patio with Serena and Sutton, leaving Amanda brooding, looking into the fire, tall and lovely in her red gown, with her dark eyes thoughtful. The two men had walked with Serena as far as the stairway leading to her room.
Sutton had patted her shoulder comfortingly. Jem had said, “See you tomorrow, Serena.”

  That was all.

  She wondered, staring into the darkness, whether tomorrow Jem would say the thing she so wanted to hear him say; all that about Amanda is in the past—nothing of that matters to me now.

  And she wondered too what tomorrow would bring.

  One thing was certain: it would bring further investigation, more questioning, more repetitions, more police inquiry.

  Who had murdered Leda? What had Leda seen—there at Gregory’s, a hardware store in Monterey?

  She didn’t like the house that night. It was too silent, too dark, with the narrow veranda just outside her door and the deep, shadowy well of the patio below. Yet Leda had been murdered in Serena’s own house, in Casa Madrone, across the valley. She wondered if she would ever want to live in Casa Madrone again.

  Curiously, she thought once, it was as if Leda had actually been murdered in the Condit house—or as if whatever dark motive had brought about Leda’s murder had actually seeped out from the house that lay so silent now around that silent patio, and down to Casa Madrone and—there—found Leda.

  Tomorrow, too, she must talk to Amanda. Whatever happened, certain things must be clear between them. There were questions too, puzzles that now had to be explained and reckoned with if only in order to protect themselves. The bracelet—what had Leda known about it? Who had been with Amanda, in the living room, when she, Serena, had talked to her over the telephone from San Francisco? “Put that down,” Amanda had said sharply. Put what down, then? Amanda wouldn’t have murdered anybody. She didn’t for an instant suspect her of being—as Leda had said—“involved” in Leda’s or Luisa’s death. But there were those small puzzles that, now, could not be merely dismissed. Someone—not Amanda but someone—had murdered Leda. So even quite small things might, conceivably, have some significance. Yes, she must talk to Amanda.

  But as it happened, she didn’t.

  Morning came, still gray and cloudy.

  And—early—the police returned. It was Anderson this time and Slader, and a small, narrow-headed man, almost bald, with a pale mouth and bright, small eyes.

  Serena and Amanda and Sutton were having breakfast when they came.

  Ramon came to tell them, his withered dark face full of anxiety.

  “Well, show them in. Show them in,” said Sutton, with a kind of sharp impatience. He glanced at Amanda. “We’ll have to expect this until the thing is settled.”

  Again Anderson came in first. And rather oddly he carried a blue jacket over his arm—a woman’s jacket, dark blue.

  Her jacket! Serena saw that. She’d worn it the day before and it had been in her room when she left it. Anderson said: “I’m awfully sorry …” Anderson looked different, he looked uneasy and embarrassed and wouldn’t meet her eyes. Slader looked different, too. He met her eyes, in fact, he stared with a queerly avid look of curiosity. Sutton said: “Well. Well, what is it?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Anderson again. “I …”

  The third man intervened. He didn’t wear a uniform. He was in civilian clothing, a rather wrinkled, dark-brown business suit. His eyes were so small and bright that they were beady, almost like a rat’s. He said, brushing past Anderson and ignoring Sutton and Amanda, to fasten those ratlike eyes upon her, “Are you Miss Serena March?”

  “Yes.”

  Anderson muttered, avoiding her eyes: “Mr. Lossey. Of the detective bureau of …”

  Again the pale-lipped, narrow-headed man—Lossey—intervened. “You found the woman, Leda Blagden, yesterday?”

  “Yes. Of course. Lieutenant Anderson knows …”

  “You went to the house, Casa Madrone or whatever you call it, to meet her?”

  “Yes, certainly. I’ve already …”

  “And you were with Luisa Condit the day she went over the rocks?”

  “Yes.” Serena’s hands gripped the edge of the little breakfast table with its lace cover. “Yes, I was there, but …”

  Anderson was turning and turning his hat in his great brown hands and looking at it in a queerly shamefaced way. Slader had whipped out his notebook again. Sutton just stood there, staring, his rather weak mouth slightly open. Amanda sat without moving behind the silver coffee pot, her dark eyes fixed upon the detective, Lossey, her lips a straight red line.

  “Is this yours?” rasped the detective. “Don’t deny it; don’t deny it. We found the place where it’d been pulled off your jacket.”

  His pale, damp-looking hand shot out, so close to Serena’s face that she drew back.

  On it lay a button.

  It was a blue button, with shreds of blue threads in it, and she recognized it at once.

  “Answer me,” demanded the detective.

  “Why, it—it’s mine, I suppose. It …” she looked at Anderson. “It belongs on that jacket. My jacket …”

  “Okay.” Lossey whipped his hand and the button back into his pocket. “Okay, Anderson. She admits it.”

  Sutton said in a queerly stiff voice: “What is all this? What do you mean? Where did you get that button?”

  “I hate to do this,” said Anderson suddenly. “I don’t like to do it at all, Mr. Condit. But two women have been killed. It isn’t safe …”

  “Go ahead, Anderson,” snapped Lossey. “She admits it. You can get your things, Miss March. Slader’ll go with you. Only don’t try to pack anything but a little clothing; just what you’ll need.”

  “But I …” Serena gripped hard at the table. “I’m not going any place.”

  “Oh, yes you are,” said Lossey. “You’re going to the county jail. You’re under arrest for murder. You needn’t look like that. We’ve got motive and all. You killed Luisa Condit for money; you’ve been bleeding your sister, Mrs. Condit, for years. She’s given you every cent of money she could get hold of. She ran out of money and you thought if you got rid of Luisa Condit, your sister’d get more for you from her husband. Soon as he inherited. That’s how you got those scratches on your hand. Miss Condit struggled with you. And Leda Blagden found out about it and warned you and you … Oh, take her away, Anderson. She’s going to deny it and I’ve got to get the train.”

  “I didn’t—I couldn’t—Leda said …”

  “We’ve only got your word for that story!” snapped Lossey. “Gregory’s say Mrs. Blagden wasn’t there at all yesterday.”

  Anderson was looking down at her in a rather kindly, still embarrassed way. But he said firmly: “I’ve got to do this, Miss March. As I said, it isn’t safe not to make an arrest when … And you see, here’s your jacket and the button matches. And they say you picked up Mrs. Blagden in the station wagon. How would she get there if somebody didn’t bring her? And I ought to tell you that they’ve found out about the bracelet.”

  “Bracelet …”

  “The bracelet you gave Leda Blagden the money for. In New York. Now Miss March, if you’ll just come quietly …”

  “I didn’t give Leda any money. Amanda hasn’t given me …”

  Anderson said: “That button was clutched in the dead woman’s hand. It’s evidence, Miss March. Jury evidence.”

  “So you see, murder will out,” said Lossey, his pale lips smiling. “Your attempts to incriminate your sister by wearing her red coat, and by leaving her scarf caught there in the shrub didn’t work. May as well come along without making a fuss about it, Miss March.”

  “I—can’t …” She didn’t know what she meant. Her hands held hard to the table. Amanda’s gaze was still fastened upon Lossey. Jem came in the door so quietly that it was as if he’d been there all along. He said: “And what about Dr. Seabrooke’s laboratory? Do you think Miss March did that too?”

  Lossey’s ratlike eyes shifted to Jem. Everybody looked at Jem, except Amanda, who still apparently could not remove her dark gaze from Lossey. Lossey said: “Who are you?” Anderson said, looking very uncomfortable: “That didn’t have anything to do with the murder, Mr.
Daly. I’ve got orders to arrest Miss March. I’ve got to do it …”

  “And what about that money, Amanda? Tell them you never gave Serena a cent of money, in your life.”

  Jem’s face was so white that his eyes looked black and hard.

  Sutton cleared his throat. Amanda said, still staring at Lossey: “I’m sorry. But it’s true, Jem. I thought you knew.” She paused, moistened her lips and said slowly: “I’m sorry to have to say this. But she’s my sister. I couldn’t refuse her. I gave her everything I could, always. I—I’m sorry.”

  Into the strange, fathomless silence Serena heard someone’s voice saying, “Take it easy, now, Miss March. Take it easy.” She knew dimly that it was Anderson’s voice. But all she was really aware of was Amanda’s lovely, white face—her dark eyes, still fastened upon the detective, her red lips, her loosened dark hair. Amanda who was a stranger to her.

  “Guess that proves it,” said Lossey. “Hurry up, Miss March. Get your things. We’ve not got all day.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  NOTHING WAS REAL.

  Least of all Amanda’s beautiful, white face, her beautiful dark eyes fixed upon the detective, her beautiful red mouth and the words it had just moved to speak. Words she could not have said and yet had said.

  “Amanda …” Even Serena’s voice sounded unreal to her own ears. It stopped as if it had met a hard and concrete wall.

  Something then became real. Jem walked across to her and stood beside her. That was real. Jem and his solid body and his voice. “Sutton, did you hear what Amanda said? Tell them that it isn’t true.”

  Sutton was very pale. He looked down at the table, adjusted his yellow scarf with worried fingers and cleared his throat. “Well, yes. I heard.” He cleared his throat nervously again. “I thought you knew. Amanda has told me all along.”

  Although she made no perceptible motion, a kind of strength seemed to renew itself in Amanda. She didn’t shift her gaze, she didn’t appear to take a deeper breath or in any slight way show it, yet it was as if a strong pulse began to flow again through her lovely, tall body.