Escape the Night

by Mignon Good Eberhart

  “The Cartier man said cash was paid for it. That’s a lot of cash to trust anybody with,” said Lossey. Captain Quayle gave him an odd glance which had something disapproving in it, but said nothing.

  Sutton shrugged. “Oh, it was all right with Leda.”

  “Mrs. Condit admitted it then?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Sutton again with a weary shrug. “She—she was very childish in a queer way, you know. Amanda, I mean. When I talked to her yesterday she said she’d drawn a check, given Leda the cash, talked over the telephone to a man at Cartier’s and selected it from his description but didn’t give her name. She …” he made a helpless gesture with his hands and put his head down again. “I tell you Amanda was like that. She’d decided to buy that bracelet; it was in New York. Leda was going there on a shopping trip and she simply had Leda get it and bring it to her.”

  “She was trying to cover her purchase,” said Lossey. “She wanted to conceal the fact that she had saved so much money.”

  “No,” said Sutton. “I think it was merely convenience. I—I guess I’m not very clear in what I say. But you see she—she didn’t want me to know. She’d asked Luisa for loans; Luisa had made substantial loans to us several times; she never even took a note for them; but the money always disappeared somehow without much to show for it. But I—naturally”—his mouth twisted—“naturally I didn’t suspect Amanda of that. How could I?”

  He, too, thought Serena painfully, had loved the woman he thought was Amanda. And loved her still. “Go on, Mr. Condit,” said Quayle. “What about the attempt upon Luisa’s life?”

  “Amanda told me that, too,” said Sutton. “Luisa came to her about noon—the day Sissy got home. Luisa insisted that somebody had fired at her. Somebody standing in the arch over there …” He jerked his blond head toward the doorway in the white patio wall. “She said she didn’t see who it was. But she accused Amanda of wanting to murder her because of the money she had and I would inherit. I suppose Luisa suspected something of the truth. Luisa was more of a—more of a business man than I am,” said Sutton vaguely. And Luisa, thought Serena with pity in her heart, hadn’t been a man in love with a beautiful woman.

  “Luisa,” went on Sutton, “had taken one of my guns. She showed it to Amanda and threatened her. She said she’d telephoned the police and told them that somebody was trying to murder her; and she said she could protect herself. She”—he sighed—“she’d got the idea, too, that Jem Daly was here too much. So Amanda said. Luisa thought he was in love with Amanda. But she—I don’t know whether I can explain but—but Amanda was so beautiful, you see …”

  Jem was very white. Johnny stroked his bald head again and stared at the bracelet.

  “Go on, Mr. Condit,” said Quayle again but rather gently.

  “Well, Amanda told me that just then the telephone rang and it was you, Sissy. And Luisa was in the room and asked her who it was and Luisa was waving the gun around excitedly. Amanda finished talking to Sissy and then she reasoned with Luisa. Finally Luisa agreed to call up the police and tell them to forget it. But Amanda—I’m telling everything backward but I”—he rubbed his reddened eyes and his forehead—“I’m confused. It’s all so horrible. I—where was I? Oh, you see, Amanda didn’t believe Luisa. She thought Luisa was only making a fuss. She told me yesterday that Luisa had demanded that she send Jem away, which of course was ridiculous, and that she—Amanda, I mean—had told Luisa that it was ridiculous and they had quarreled over it.”

  It was coming out; a motive for murder—Amanda had quarreled with Luisa about Jem. Jem had been at Casa Madrone at about the time that Leda was murdered. And Sutton was talking, talking, as if he didn’t know what he was saying and there was nothing Serena could do to stop it. Nothing …

  She saw the look Anderson and Quayle exchanged. Lossey said: “So Jem Daly was in love with your wife?”

  Jem said suddenly and very clearly: “Yes. I was in love with Amanda—hopelessly—for a long time.”

  Sutton gave Jem a queer look, half-sympathetic, half-grateful. He said quickly: “Jem thought he was in love with her. I don’t know whether or not I can make you see—he wasn’t really—I mean—oh, it really didn’t mean anything. Jem admired her; but everybody admired her.”

  “Of course, of course …” said Lossey soothingly. “But did Mrs. Blagden know that he—admired her?” Something in the way he quoted Sutton’s own phrase made it stand out and seem false. Sutton, however, did not appear to notice it. He said vaguely: “Leda? Why, I don’t know. Perhaps. Amanda and she used to tell each other things—even when they’d quarreled.”

  “Oh, did Mrs. Blagden and Mrs. Condit quarrel?” That was Lossey again.

  “Not real quarrels,” said Sutton. “They knew each other so well, you see. Always. Lately Leda had been cross about Johnny, and Amanda—I think she liked to tease Leda a little. She didn’t ever mean to hurt her. It was only …” Sutton sighed and then said, in its way, a very wise and discerning thing. “Amanda had so much strength,” he said, “and so little—scope for it.”

  Serena knew what he meant. There had always been some thing baffled and frustrated about Amanda with her sense of the dramatic, and her uneven, flashing temperament. Quayle said slowly: “Did she like jewels, Mr. Condit?”

  “Why—no. I don’t think so. Not particularly.”

  “What was her purpose in getting together such a substantial sum of money? Secretly.”

  A flush came up into Sutton’s face. But he lifted his eyes to Quayle. “She was going to leave me. She said she was bored here. She … I suppose it was dull. I’m not a very brilliant or entertaining person. She was so lovely and wanted to—oh, get out in the world. She had to have money first, of course.” His voice wavered. He repeated helplessly: “She was so lovely—why should anyone …?”

  Captain Quayle said quickly: “Why do you think someone shot at Luisa?”

  “I don’t know. Amanda said she thought Luisa was only making up a story. She didn’t believe her—not then, at least. Not until later when Luisa fell over the rocks and even then she was in doubt. She thought it may have been an accident.”

  “Why didn’t she tell us about it?” asked Lossey. “Did she explain that to you?”

  Sutton’s red-rimmed eyes went to the detective in surprise. “Why, of course she couldn’t tell you that!” he exclaimed. “Then you’d be sure to think it was murder.”

  “But, my God, Condit,” cried Lossey in sudden anger and Quayle lifted his hand. “Just a minute. I feel sure that this is exactly the way Mrs. Condit would reason. You see,” his voice was firm, “I’ve known most of these people, in a way, for some time.” He turned to Sutton. “Mr. Condit, why would Luisa Condit tell your wife that someone shot at her if it wasn’t true?”

  Again Sutton shrugged. “But it was true,” he said. “Obviously. Even Amanda thought that, when Leda was murdered. But she didn’t know who attacked Luisa. Or why.”

  Lossey said eagerly, in spite of Quayle’s reproof: “She—your wife, I mean, didn’t take a shot at Luisa herself?”

  Sutton only looked at him wearily and shook his head: “No,” he said in a flat voice. “No. She wouldn’t have done that. And if she had, I think Amanda would have told me. You see she really depended upon me when it came to anything important.” An odd—and pathetic—note of pride came into his voice.

  There was a long silence. “Put that down!” Amanda had said to someone in the room while Serena was talking to her on the phone from San Francisco. She’d meant a gun then. In Luisa’s hand.

  “Mr. Condit,” said Anderson suddenly, “did you and your wife come to any—any conclusion after your talk yesterday?”

  “Well, no,” said Sutton. “She told me everything. We quarreled, of course. She locked herself in her room. That’s why I was sleeping over there—in a guest room on the first floor.” He jerked his head toward the door across the patio that had let out a path of light the night before. “But she knew that really I’d hav
e forgiven her. I couldn’t have not forgiven her. She promised to put the money she had in a joint bank account; she said she was sorry.” Sutton swallowed. “That—really, that’s all.”

  There was another silence—a queer silence this time, as if it were packed with unsaid things. That then, thought Serena, was the reason for Amanda’s claim to have given her money. Amanda had had to have some excuse, some way to account for the money that she had taken from Sutton. Yet, Amanda-like, she had counted on Sutton to back up her claim.

  Jem said suddenly to Johnny: “How much of this did you know?” And Johnny looking very red said: “I knew she had a—a nest egg for herself. But she knew I wouldn’t tell.”

  And Sutton got up suddenly and asked to be arrested.

  “Arrested!” Lossey’s voice rose excitedly in the quiet courtyard. “Did you kill her?”

  “No! But I know that’s what you are all thinking. You’re thinking I’d quarreled with her. You’re thinking I’d got enough of it at last. Enough of—of flirtations with other men and trouble about money and—and everything. You’re thinking the worm turned at last …”

  Jem had gone to him. He put an arm around his shoulders. “Don’t—don’t …” And Johnny said quickly: “Stop that, Sutton. I’m your lawyer. If you still want me. Stop that …”

  “Is this a confession?” asked Quayle very gravely.

  “No! I didn’t kill her!”

  They didn’t arrest him. And someone—a ranch hand in blue jeans who remembered Serena and came and shook hands with her and muttered something kind and sympathetic—came from the house just then and called Quayle to the telephone, saying that the medical examiner wanted to speak to him. Quayle took the bracelet in his hand. “I’ll return this—later,” he said to Sutton and went into the house. Lossey followed him. Anderson said: “Guess that’s all for now, Mr. Condit.”

  Jem came to Serena’s side. “You’d better try to rest, Serena. Alice will stay with you.” He walked over to the stairway with her. Alice was standing on the veranda at the top of the steps.

  “I heard it all,” she said. “Come on, Sissy. I’ll stay with you.”

  She stayed almost all afternoon. She made Serena lie down; she had Modeste bring lunch—sandwiches and hot milk. She wouldn’t talk and wouldn’t let Serena talk; beneath her air of languor Alice had always had a wiry strength and she showed it then. Her red hair flamed; her lips were set firmly; her eyes were almost black and bright with excitement like a cat’s, but only once did she speak of Amanda’s death. “Bill didn’t do it,” she said. “It was Sutton. See if you can sleep, Sissy.”

  And eventually Serena did sleep. For all at once she awakened and Alice had gone. The sun had set and a star shone in a blue sky outside the window. She lay for a long time looking at it and was gradually aware that it reminded her of something. Not Amanda, dead in her beauty in the starlight, but something else, something threatening, but something that was also beautiful and promising. Then she remembered her glimpse of the valley, coming down on the train from San Francisco—the black clouds and the dark valley and beyond it the golden sun. There was blackness now and threat—yet up there, clear in the sky was a star that seemed to promise.

  She got up at last. The house was quiet. She felt much more like herself. The horror was still there; but the terrifying and numbing sense of blankness was gone. She washed her face and the cold water was refreshing. She walked out on the veranda and Jem was sitting just below her in the patio smoking. He jumped up as he heard her footsteps and sprang up the stairway.

  “Serena.” He took her hands, his eyes anxious. “All right? Alice said she’d got you to sleep.”

  “Yes.”

  He studied her for a moment. “I’ll have Modeste bring you something to eat. And then I—Serena, I’d like to talk to you.”

  “What have they done? Do they know who …?”

  “No. I’ll tell Modeste you’re awake.” He ran down the stairway. It was twilight; more stars were beginning to show. There were lights in the guest room on the ground floor across the patio. Sutton must be there. She looked out toward the hazy, dark blue Pacific. The blackout was on already. There were no lights twinkling from the village; no lights anywhere, in fact—it was all a misty, darkening blue. Suddenly Jem was back again, springing up the stairs. He drew her into her room again.

  “Jem, who could have done it?”

  He answered her literally. “I don’t know, Serena. When a group of people know each other as well as Amanda’s little circle of friends knew her—and each other—many possible motives could exist. Their lives—and my life, too, through Amanda—are interwoven. It’s queer, but it’s as if Amanda had held us all together. They—we”—he corrected himself rather sadly, without bitterness—“lived so close to each other. There could be so many motives.” He got up at some sound from the veranda and went to the door. “Oh, it’s you, Modeste,” he said. “Thanks.” He closed the door and came back with a tray and—as he had done another time—made her eat. But he talked this time. Hurriedly, as if talking against time.

  “Sutton, as you know, had gone to sleep in the guest room on the first floor. Somebody apparently tied Pooky … You know all this, too. Sutton says he heard the dog crying for some time and finally got up to see what it was. Amanda must have heard it first; and the police say that whoever killed her, probably, tied the dog in the hope that Amanda would hear it before anyone else did, and come to investigate. And—if that was the intention—it worked. Without much time to spare before you and Sutton came, too, but”—Jem’s face looked very grim and tired—“but enough. Well, as I see it, there are a lot of motives.” He pulled from his pocket a picture that Serena remembered—as if, again, from another world, for it was one of the pictures Bill Lanier had shown them the night before. While Amanda was still alive. It was the group at a picnic, with everyone in it except Alice Lanier and Serena herself.

  “You see,” said Jem looking at the picture, “almost everybody there could conceivably have done this. Killed Amanda, I mean. I don’t know why Luisa was killed unless …” He seemed to check himself there so abruptly that Serena had an impulse to question him: unless what? Before she could speak, he went on swiftly: “You see—first, Amanda may have been killed because she knew who killed Leda. I doubt that, because I believe Amanda, if she’d known or guessed, would have told the police; particularly if she had any reason to suspect that the murderer knew she knew something. Johnny, of course, could have killed Leda because he was in love with Amanda, and Leda was determined to put a stop to it; but then would he have killed Amanda? Yes, if she threatened him, perhaps. But again, why would he kill Luisa? Bill hated Amanda and blamed her—blamed her twice actually, once for himself, and once for Alice—for breaking up his marriage with Alice. But why would Bill kill Leda? And why would he kill Luisa?” He dropped the small picture on the table with an impatient gesture as if it could have told him something but obstinately refused to do so, and went to the window.

  “That’s been one of the blocks to the thing all along,” he said over his shoulder. “Why should anyone kill Luisa? What possible motive was there? It must be either for her money (which would suggest Sutton or Amanda) or because she threatened somebody (us—according to Lossey) or because somehow—somewhere she had aroused a very terrible hatred. But if actually all this were aimed at Amanda—not Luisa and not Leda, but Amanda—then there’s a different slant to the whole thing.”

  He turned swiftly and came back. He picked up the picture again. “Alice conceivably could have killed Amanda from jealousy—except that Bill stated so publicly that he hated Amanda. And why would Alice kill Leda? Also she does seem to have an alibi for the time when Leda must have been killed. Although, as Lossey says, an alibi isn’t always an alibi. Dave—if he thought it was Leda who wrecked his laboratory—could have killed her from revenge. I could have killed her for—well, revenge, too, I suppose. From the police’s viewpoint, at any rate. Sutton …”

&n
bsp; “Jem, do they suspect you? Did they question you this afternoon?”

  He didn’t look up from the picture; his mouth was a straight line. “Of course they questioned me. Of course they suspect me. They suspect everyone. But so far have made no arrests. Finish your dinner. I’ve got to go.…”

  “I’ve finished. Jem, where are you going?”

  He took her hand and looked at it for a long moment, as if scrutinizing the shape and line of her fingers. And finally said, “God knows whether I’m right or wrong but—I talked to Johnny this afternoon, Serena. And I saw something—last night, as we came out of the tack room with Bill Lanier. It made me remember …”

  “What, Jem?”

  He put down her hand gently. “It’s a chance. It may be too much of a chance. If I’m wrong—but it’s the only way I see it. There’s—well, there’s a reason why I don’t want to tell you, now, what I—what I think. I don’t know. It’s merely a—a guess. And I …” he gave a wry, half-smile. “I’m like Leda. I don’t want to tell the police. I really don’t. There’s a reason for that, too.”

  From somewhere, impalpable but urgent there had come a sense of the pressure of time. She felt it then. “What are you going to do? I’m coming with you.”

  He caught her suddenly in his arms as she got up. They stood for a moment holding each other. For a warm inexpressibly grateful moment sustaining each other against the world. Then Jem said unevenly: “You’re to stay here. I can’t let you go …”

  “Where, Jem? To Monterey? To—to Casa Madrone?”

  “You must wait here.…”

  It was Casa Madrone, then. Where Leda had gone; where someone had crept stealthily down the stairway and missed the fifth step. Her heart was throbbing hard in her throat. “I’m going with you.”