by Helen Reilly
XVIII
McKee sat at his desk most of the night, studying the battleground, placing markers here and there, listening to reports coming in, sending fresh orders out, restudying the terrain.
He had lost the engagement—temporarily at least. Tony Wilder was gone from the Denfield Inn bag and baggage before North got there. In New York Pedrick and Eleanor Oaks had given his men the slip at around nine o’clock in Madison Square Garden.
Trebough and Brown were not to blame. The thing could always be done if the quarry was aware of surveillance, and determined enough. The timing of the vanishing act was interesting. It had followed immediately on the discovery of Wilder’s suitcase containing the raincoat and the blond wig.
Careful, McKee cautioned himself, that might be coincidence. As far as the Havens went, the melon had been ripening, the household thoroughly softened up. A twenty-five-thousand-dollar slice had already been cut, but there was a lot of luscious meat left. Hugo Cavanaugh could just possibly have warned Wilder, presuming for the moment that Cavanaugh was the shadowy figure in the background.
Or it could have been George Corey—or for the matter of that anyone in the house up there, tipped off by his own question as to where Wilder was. No use laboring the point when so many of the underlying facts were unresolved.
He collected certainties. One—Wilder had collected the twenty-five thousand. Two—Pedrick had an interest in the Havens, and Eleanor Oaks was tied to Pedrick, and they had all vanished into the blue; it was enough.
Daylight had come before McKee reached a decision. At twenty minutes of six, he yawned, stretched, got up and went home and showered and shaved and changed. He was in Denfield at nine. He stopped first at the state barracks.
There was nothing new on William Grant. Wilder’s exit from the inn the night before had been unobtrusive. He didn’t want any trouble. The money for his bill was on the dresser in his room. He had taken a cab to a bus stop in a town ten miles to the south, where he had bought a ticket for New York. From there on, nothing.
McKee said, “Thanks, Captain—we’ll find him.” He added, to North’s relief, that the state troopers could be withdrawn from the Haven grounds any time.
“They’re going away, Inspector?”
“Yes, Captain. They’re going away.”
At first McKee had trouble selling Philip Haven the idea of dropping out of sight completely. Haven’s book was going well at last and he had settled back into a familiar rut. Leave Denfield? He couldn’t see any good reason for it. It was too bad about Miriam’s having a scoundrel for a brother, but people couldn’t be held responsible for their relatives—and black sheep were older than the hills. He was sorry for Mrs. Stewart, but it might be a blessing in disguise. Now that every one knew, she could get a divorce. As for Tony Wilder, he had put a bee in Wilder’s ear. “Libby has a soft spot for lame ducks, but I let him see last night that I didn’t want him hanging around.”
The question then arose about William’s funeral. Kit was McKee’s ally. She said that his body was to be shipped to Atlanta where his father’s people had a vault. “That needn’t keep us,” and after a lot of backing and filling Haven finally agreed.
McKee said nothing about Wilder, or the contents of the suitcase, or the disappearance of Pedrick and Eleanor Oaks. He simply said that until the people they were after were behind bars there would continue to be danger to the entire household. With Kit and Libby Tallis and Haven safely out of the way, he could go after the proof he had to get to put the gang out of commission, for good. One of the conditions he laid down was that no one must know where they were going, absolutely no one.
As a first step they were to drive back to New York with him. Philip Haven hated the city. McKee said they wouldn’t have to remain there. He wanted them in a place where he could see that they had adequate protection without attracting notice, a place they had never been in before and where no one would dream of looking for them. He had such a place in mind, if it was agreeable. He would explain more fully after they reached town.
Kit went upstairs to prepare Libby, who was still in bed. She looked tired, as though she hadn’t slept, and there were half moons of shadow under her eyes. At first she demurred. “Oh, Kit, surely we’re safer here at home.” But her glance went to the maples under which William had lain. “I don’t know. I suppose the Inspector’s right.”
Kit said, “It won’t be for long,” and went to pack. Hugo got between her and sweaters and skirts and dresses, the shape of his head, he must just have had a haircut, so alert, so vital, sitting beside Libby last night, talking to her. . . . Libby came in and finished Kit’s packing, fresher after her shower. “I’ll be glad to get away,” she confessed. “Here, give me that.” She knew exactly how to fold things so they’d come out without a wrinkle. The packing finished, the two girls dressed in town clothes and went downstairs with their cases.
Miriam had been told that they had to go to New York to sign statements for the police and to be available if they should be wanted. She accepted their hurried departure with what would have been stoicism if she had cared. She didn’t. A peculiar vagueness still clung to her, and she had a neglected appearance. Her lipstick was on crooked, her hair wasn’t in its usual iron waves, and her make-up had been carelessly applied. She said in an oddly gentle voice, putting her cheek to each one of theirs in turn, “Well, goodbye. I’ll take care of things while you’re away.”
They left the house at a few minutes after eleven that morning. It was a relief to Kit to get into the Inspector’s car, and to drive off. Before darkness fell they were established in a suite of rooms in the Somerset Hotel in Portsmouth, New Hampshire.
"Well, Kit, well, Libby, this isn’t at all bad.” Joining the two girls for tea that had been ordered up, Philip was pleased with the hotel, with the rooms, three enormous bedrooms and a vast sitting room, and with the vistas through the wide windows of beautiful old house fronts, smooth lawns and wineglass elms dripping fresh green fronds. He said McKee had taste. The place had been built in 1880. It was the best of Victorianism, good woods, solidity-bravura, but with restraint. “I could work here, I really could. Very nice, very nice indeed. We ought to do this more often. ... I wonder whether I brought enough white paper with me.”
Kit reminded her uncle that he could get anything he wanted within a stone’s throw of the hotel. “Of course. Really excellent idea of the Inspector’s. I don’t care how long we stay.”
Libby didn’t share Philip’s enthusiasm. She looked tired and absurdly young in blue chambray with a full skirt and short sleeves and a little white collar. Sipping her tea, she said listlessly to Philip, “It’s all very well for you, darling, but what on earth are Kit and I going to do with ourselves all day, every day?”
Was she missing Hugo? Wilder seemed to be in the discard. Perhaps she was beginning to realize the sort of man he was. Philip said with a grandiloquent gesture that there was magnificent country outside Portsmouth. “Too bad we couldn’t bring the Lincoln”; but the girls could walk and there were shops, and probably a golf links and tennis courts, and anyhow it wouldn’t be for long. McKee had put no restriction on their movements. Kit said it was wonderful not to have a policeman at their heels and to be able to do what they wanted. Philip pulled a wad of bills out of his wallet. “Buy yourselves things.”
Gradually Libby brightened. By dinner time, when Kit returned from a solitary walk, she was almost cheerful. It was Kit herself who was depressed and let down, for no good reason. Yes, there was a reason. She was going to have to decide something about George. Last night he had asked her again to marry him, firmly, almost brusquely. “I want you, Kit, like hell—and I want an answer. Or is there someone else?”
She had been surprised at his vehemence, had assured him with truth that there was no one else. And there wasn’t. Hugo Cavanaugh was nothing but a disagreeable figure out of the past. Disagreeable because through him her self-love had been knifed, and the wound hadn’t healed. S
he wished passionately that she hadn’t run into Hugo again, hadn’t had to see him and talk to him. He was autocratic and self-centered; things had to go his way or not at all. Even if there had been no question of Libby, she told herself that he and she couldn’t possibly have gotten along together. It would have been a wretched cat and dog struggle. Pull devil, pull baker. And yet the man, the poise of his head, the brightness of his eyes, his lightly mocking tongue, his quick laugh, obsessed her. She knew it was nonsense, some trick of personality that had no meaning. George was different. George was balance and safety and warmth. Wouldn’t other cares, a home and children, other satisfactions and duties, wipe out Hugo Cavanaugh effectively?
She finished dressing and did her mouth. Hugo burnt her up. Take last m'ght for instance. How could you live with a man like that? The way he had looked at her after George went. "Don’t make a fool of yourself, Kit.” It wasn’t male jealousy; his tone was calm, personally disinterested; he just didn’t like George. Every time she saw him he maddened her afresh. Forget him. He was Libby’s problem. A quiet dinner in a charming dining room; a quiet evening. They had coffee and liqueurs in a small jeweled bar and listened to some music. Upstairs in Kit’s room Libby talked about Hugo.
Sitting cross-legged on the end of Kit’s bed in a soft blue wool robe that made her look like a young Trojan, she said, "I like Hugo a lot—but how do you know, if you marry a man, that you’re going to keep on being fond of him?” she added thoughtfully, "I like Tony Wilder, too—but Hugo is much solider. What would you do, Kit?”
Libby evidently had no idea that there had ever been anything really serious between Hugo and her, but Libby’s eyes were sharp. Kit went on using the hairbrush vigorously. Not Tony Wilder, anyone but Tony Wilder. She said getting up off the stool, "I tell you what I’d do, I’d get some sleep. I’m going to. It’s been a long day. Get out of here —I’m dead.”
The next day passed without incident. It was healing just to have nothing happen. While Libby took dictation from Philip, Kit wandered around the streets, drinking in the satisfying old houses, the doorways and windows, the cornices and chimneys and rooflines. There were green lawns everywhere and tall trees and shadows and the smell of the sea. Portsmouth was a beautiful town. McKee had said something about protection but there was no sign of anyone following her, or keeping an eye on her, no sign of anyone in the hotel itself. The change and the release from pressure were doing Libby a world of good. Her spirits had come back and in the dining room the next morning, under the admiring stares of four young airmen at an adjoining table, she flowered like any other pretty carefree girl. There were phones in their rooms. McKee called Kit that second night when she was getting ready for bed and she said that everything was fine.
After breakfast the next day, before he went upstairs to work, Philip said, "I’ve got a surprise for you,” and took the two girls outside. A blue M.G. with wire wheels was drawn up at the edge of the grass. He had hired it for them. Libby clapped her hands. Even Kit was pleased and surprised at her pleasure. I’d like, she thought, to buy myself a plane and go flying off—the M.G. was the next best thing.
Philip had nothing ready for dictation and the two girls used up the morning running north into Maine, came back for lunch, and immediately after lunch took the road west towards the White Mountains. It was fat, beautiful country with great blue shapes far out in front. They got out at the ruins of an old house in the foothills, and Kit sat down in the sun and smoked while Libby darted around, identifying plants in what had once been an extensive garden. She wanted to go farther, but it was too late. Back at the hotel they made plans for a longer drive the next day, if Philip didn’t mind. He was delighted. “I’ll be glad to get rid of you. I’ve got a knotty chapter coming up.”
They went to the movies that night. It was a mistake. The film was a gangster affair filled with gunfire. Libby was quiet walking back to the hotel, but when they got there she didn’t want to go to bed. So they went into the cocktail lounge for a drink. There were theatrical people there, some company was making a film nearby. One of the actors recognized Philip. “Mr. Haven, isn’t it?” He was a thin, distinguished white-haired man named Linlord. Philip introduced him to Kit and Libby, and presently there was a party at the table that included two younger men and a sleek creatine named Tanya to whom they deferred.
Kit and Libby both danced. But after an hour of it Kit felt overwhelmingly sleepy. It wasn’t the Scotch and water; she was drunk with sun and air, could hardly keep her eyes open. She went upstairs before the others, and was asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.
Her dreams were mixed up, troubled. She kept moving rapidly from place to place, was at a tall window looking out and down into a dark garden. There was moonlight in bits, but mostly it was dark. There was something moving in the darkness below her, something threatening. It was a lion. In the moonlight she could see the long slinky body crouching to spring. The window was open. She went out on a narrow stone balcony that was vaguely familiar. The stone was cold under her bare feet and wind ruffled her hair. The lion was gone. That was the most frightening thing of all. Because there was something else down there.
She went to the railing of the balcony and called in a loud voice, “Who’s down there? Who are you?”
A jumble of tiny sounds coming through the darkness; her terror mounted. She started to run along the balcony, away from the stairs up which the beast was padding. She ran and ran. Then she looked down over the railing and saw Hugo Cavanaugh, just his head, through bars, for an instant. She was shut up in a huge cage and couldn’t get out. . . . She stumbled, caught herself up—and woke.
She was on a balcony, the balcony that ran along outside their rooms, and there was a moonlit garden down there. . . . Her uncle had hold of her arms. “Kit—what is it?” Then Libby came out wrapped in a robe. Kit had walked in her sleep. There was of course no sign of Hugo, it had been nothing but a stupid dream. The lion was there, a big buttery cement lion beside the iron gate to the street, dim in the moonlight, but nothing and no one else.
Libby and Philip were both concerned. Libby made her take one of the sedatives Dr. Terry had given Philip, and Kit went back to bed, and this time deeply and dreamlessly to sleep. In the morning, however, the dream refused to fade. A threat in the dark garden, and then that glimpse of Hugo’s head beyond the gate; the picture was stamped obstinately on her mind and wouldn’t go away.
XIX
Kit didn’t say anything about her dream to the others at breakfast, which they had upstairs, except to ask Philip if she had ever walked in her sleep as a child. He said not that he knew of. She wandered out on the balcony, coffee cup in hand. The little quadrangle was peaceful with morning and harmless. There was sunlight on the pavement beyond the bars of the iron gate. What she had probably seen the night before was a pedestrian going past.
“Kitl” Libby called from behind her. “Come away from that railing. When I think what might have happened to you last night it gives me the cold shudders.” She was pale and there was no light in her eyes. She sat huddled in her chair as though she were cold. Kit blamed herself. Just when things were getting peaceful she had to go into that act in the small hours.
Libby spoke of it worriedly. “You’re sure you didn’t hear something real, Kit? I mean—there wasn’t anyone trying to get at you—get into your room?”
Kit laughed. “No. Nothing of the kind. I was fast asleep. I didn’t know I wasn’t in bed. I only woke up when I fell over a stool out there on the balcony. The only thing that does seem a little—a little odd to me is that I felt so terribly drowsy all of a sudden down in the lounge. ... I can scarcely remember coming upstairs.”
“That,” Philip said, “was probably it. You went deeper than usual. Interesting phenomenon, sleep. The brain is out of the control of the intellect and the will. A little death.” He buttered a muffin briskly. “Well, are you girls taking off for the hills?”
Kit felt sluggish, disinclined to mov
e. And the weather wasn’t too good. The sky was piled with clouds and the warm air had closeness in it. She shrugged. “I don’t know, it looks as though there might be thunder later.”
Libby’s enthusiasm for a jaunt into the mountains had also dimmed, but she said, “We’ll die of boredom if we hang around the hotel all day. And look what I bought before you were up, in a hardware store down the street, a wonderful one.” She displayed a trowel. “I want to get a couple of clumps of that sweet william out there at that place we stopped at yesterday if we go past it. It will keep all right if I put enough wet moss around it. Surely we won’t be here much longer. I’ll tell them to make up some sandwiches, shall I?—and we can take some Cokes and cool them in a brook.”
They left the hotel at ten minutes past eleven. Settling herself in the M.G., Libby looked ruefully at the sky, “I’m afraid it’s going to come down buckets, but I’m going to try to get my sweet william anyway.”
It didn’t come down buckets. The sky began to lighten and then the sun came out. They were still in the flatlands with the abandoned farm five miles farther along when
Libby said she was hungry. "All I had for breakfast was juice and coffee. Let’s find a good place.”
It wasn’t hard to find one. The road was very little traveled. Nothing had passed them since they left Portsmouth but a milk truck and a couple of motorcyclists. They lunched under an enormous gnarled oak in the middle of a grassy meadow white with daisies. The food revived Libby; it made Kit drowsy. She put her back lazily against the trunk of the oak and smoked while Libby went to get the trowel to dig up some mosses near a brook off on the left. She was an indefatigable gardener. Warm air, the hum of insects, the droning of bees, birds flying, their songs loud in the stillness. The mountains to the west were dark blue, pine woods beyond the road were black-browed and frowning and there was sunlight everywhere. There was no disturbing note, no ugliness. The nearest house was a long distance away.
