by Mary Kruger
And this morning he’d gotten it. Yesterday he’d made a long-distancer call to a Sergeant O’Neill in New York. O’Neill had returned the call today, talking for a long time. After exhaustive questioning at the city’s best hotels, he had finally found a clerk who admitted that, yes, the man in question had spent time there, and yes, he’d sometimes been with one particular girl. Yes, that girl, in the picture the sergeant was showing him, he insisted. Matt smiled grimly when he’d heard that. The girl in the picture, taken from the society pages of the Herald, was none other than Rosalind Sinclair. Their suspect was implicated in Rosalind’s death, and, by association, the others.
Armed with this evidence, Matt had next to face a long interview with the chief, who was both pleased and disgruntled. The thought of arresting yet another cottager for the murders gave him dyspepsia, he said, but in the end he, too, had to admit that the facts were overwhelming. Within an hour, armed with an arrest warrant, as well as a warrant to search the suspect’s estate, Matt and Charlie were driving in a buggy on Bellevue Avenue, the paddy wagon behind. They were at last going to solve the Cliff Walk killings.
It was disconcerting, then, to reach their destination and to be told their man was not at home. Only mildly frustrated, Matt presented the search warrant to a flustered butler, telling his officers precisely what to look for, particularly any knives that could have been used on Nellie, and for the heavy work shoes the killer had worn. They would wait for their man to come home, rather than try to take him in a public place, since he was expected to return for luncheon. And, by the way, Matt asked casually, where was he this morning? The butler, upset over the invasion of his domain and the disruption of his orderly routine, answered distractedly. His employer had gone to Belle Mer, he believed.
Alarm flashed through Matt, making him rise abruptly to his feet. Beside him Charlie was reaching for his hat, apparently as concerned as he was. They couldn’t wait, not now. “He’s got no reason to hurt her, Cap,” Charlie said, as they hurried out to the drive and climbed into the buggy. “She doesn’t know anything. She’s all right.”
“I know.” Matt’s tone was grim as he picked up the reins and sent the buggy speeding down the drive. Hard to explain this strange sense of urgency he felt, except that it was getting stronger. The presence of the suspect at Belle Mer meant only one thing. Brooke was in danger. “But we’ll take him there, anyway,” he said, and set the buggy at a spanking pace, heading for Belle Mer, to arrest Miles Vandenberg.
Brooke looked up and found Miles regarding her again, this time without amusement. There was instead a chilling calculation in his eyes, making her go cold inside. He knew he’d made a mistake, and that she’d figured it out.
The same terror she’d felt the previous afternoon, when she had realized that Eliot was angry enough to kill, returned, magnified a hundredfold. Miles had proven himself a killer several times over, and he had attacked Annie because she could identify him. He had—dear God, he had been just outside the kitchen the night of the ball. He was relentless, ruthless, and if he thought Brooke were a danger, he’d stop at nothing to eliminate her.
Around her the chatter went on as if nothing had happened. No one seemed to notice Miles’s stillness, or that he continued to stare at Brooke. She was safe, she reassured herself. So long as she stayed in her own house, she was safe from him. Matt had been right in warning her not to be alone with anyone.
Matt. Dear heavens, he’d have to know. For all she knew, he could be off working on some other case, but she still had to let him know what she’d discovered. With shaky fingers she reached out to touch the silver teapot, as Winifred spoke to Miles, momentarily distracting him. The pot felt scalding to her icy hand, but still it provided her with the excuse she needed. “The tea’s gone cold,” she murmured. “I’ll see about getting some fresh.”
As casually as possible, she rose and pressed the button in the wall, signaling to the staff that service was required in the morning room. Then, as if leaving one’s guests were a normal occurrence, she slipped out of the room, careful to keep her back straight and her movements slow, easy. Once out in the hall, however, she dropped the pretense of casualness, picking up her skirts in both hands and setting off at a run.
“Miss?” Hutton said, startled, as she passed him.
Brooke ignored him. The house’s only telephone was mounted on a wall in the back hallway, where its ringing wouldn’t disturb the family. It was her lifeline now. Out of breath, she reached for the receiver, rattling the handle to signal the operator. “Come on, come on,” she muttered into the mouthpiece, dancing from one foot to the other in impatience and fear. “Come on the line—oh! Operator. Get me the police.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” a silky voice said behind her, and something cold and sharp pressed against her throat, making her freeze.
“Who are you calling, please?” the operator’s mechanical-sounding voice said through the receiver.
“Hang up the phone, Brooke,” that same silky voice said. Miles’s voice. “Now.”
Brooke swallowed, and the receiver fell from her nerveless grasp, to bang against the wall. The operator squawked indignantly, but Brooke was beyond noticing. “I’ll scream.”
“If you were going to scream, you would have already done so.” The knife pressed deeper into her skin, and she felt a drop of wetness trickle down her neck. “You know I’ll use this if I have to.”
“Y—yes.”
“Good. Don’t make me do it.”
From somewhere Brooke found the courage to raise her eyes to his, cold, pitiless, remorseless. “You will, anyway,” she challenged. “You can’t let me live, with what I know.”
“What do you know?” He bared his teeth in a smile.
“You’re the Cliff Walk Killer.”
“So you did figure it out.” He sighed. “I’m afraid, then, there’s nothing else I can do,” he said, and gripping her arm, marched her toward the back door.
“Where are you taking me?”
“You’ll see.”
“You won’t get away with this,” she said, as they emerged onto the lawn, a brilliant emerald in the summer sun. The peacefulness of the scene only added to the surreal feeling of the moment. This couldn’t be happening. “Too many people will see us.”
“Will they? All they’ll see is that we’re taking a stroll.”
“With a knife at my throat.”
Surprisingly, he laughed. “I like you, Brooke. You’ve got spirit. Pity I have to do this.”
“You don’t, you know. If I figured it out, you know Matt will.”
“Matt? Ah, yes, our esteemed Detective Devlin. No, he won’t, my dear. He thinks Paul Radley is the killer.”
“Paul? Why in the world would he think that?”
“Because I pointed him in that direction. Of course, all Radley is guilty of is being indiscreet enough to let himself be seen here when he’s conducting an affair with a married lady. A useful fact for me to know. Relax, my dear,” he said, as she suddenly tried to tug her arm free. They were halfway across the lawn now. Halfway to the Cliff Walk. “Very unwise of you to struggle. Try to appear as if we’re enjoying a pleasant walk on a beautiful morning. Ah, look at the view of the sea. Shall we go on the Cliff Walk to see it better?”
“You’re insane.”
He chuckled. “Insane? Hardly. No, I’m very, very sane, my dear. I’m merely protecting myself.”
“Is that why you did it?” she asked, as he pulled her through the gates of the Olmstead estate onto the Cliff Walk. She had to know, and if she could distract him, perhaps she could escape. “Were the girls you killed some kind of threat to you?”
“Not all of them, no. Only Rosalind.”
“Then why kill the others?”
“To make it seem there was a maniac on the loose.”
She stared at him. “You are insane.”
He chuckled again, a low, evil sound, as he hustled her along the narrow, sandy path. “Rosalind had t
o be eliminated. I chose a way to do so that would keep suspicion from falling on me, and I made certain the police looked in a different direction. Thus, the roses. Very quick of you to pick up on that, by the way.”
“You made it appear as if my Uncle Henry were the killer.”
“Guilty.” His self-deprecating smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I knew about his hobby, of course; everyone does. Clever of me, wasn’t it, to use the rose he’s well known for growing? I like the Cliff Walk, don’t you? So convenient. You don’t agree?” he added, as she shuddered, involuntarily. “Yes, of course I tried to make the police think Henry did it, and when he lost his cuff link at the Reading Room, I found that quite useful, too. What good would it have done me to eliminate Rosalind if I got caught for it?”
“But why? What did she ever do to you?”
Miles stopped unexpectedly, making her stumble. “She was blackmailing me. She was pregnant, the little bitch—didn’t know that, did you?—and she was going to tell, unless I agreed to divorce my wife and marry her. She thought she loved me.”
They were close to the edge of the cliff, too close. Far below the waves broke upon cruel-looking, jagged rocks. In spite of his restraining hand, Brooke took a step back, and the knife pressed into her throat. “You were the man she was sneaking out to meet?”
“Yes. Our Rosalind liked to live dangerously. We started seeing each other, oh, last spring sometime. Clever of her, wasn’t it, to use a maid’s uniform? Of course, that’s what gave me the idea. The other maids were perfect camouflage. I killed her here, you know,” he said with chilling casualness, swinging her around, and she realized they were at the exact spot where Rosalind’s body had been found. “It was easy enough to do. My right hand might be weak, but there’s enough strength in my left to make up for it. No, it was really quite easy. I let her think I was giving in to her demands so that she wouldn’t suspect anything, and then I followed her. Well, I couldn’t very well let her do what she planned, could I?”
“B—but-”
“After all, if I got a divorce, I’d be penniless. My wife has all the money, you know. No, you didn’t know, did you? I’ve been careful to keep that quiet. I’ve been poor before. It’s not an experience I’d care to repeat. Nor will I do so, now.” His lips thinned, making his face look cruel, hard; the face of a killer, not the man she had thought she knew. “I hate to do this, Brooke, but you’ve given me no choice. I will not let anything threaten my way of life.”
“You won’t get away with it,” Brooke repeated. “This time you’ll be caught. Too many people saw us together.”
“Ah, but I’m not stupid, Brooke,” he said, beginning to walk again, so fast that she nearly had to run to keep up with him. To her side the cliff fell away at a precipitous height, and far, far below, the hungry waves waited, beating on the rocks. “The cliff is high here. It should do quite well.”
“You wouldn’t-”
“Ah, but I would. So sad, Brooke. I shall have to run back to the house and admit my misdeeds. I shall tell them, you see, that I’ve always been attracted to you. I have, you know. That’s why they’ll believe me. And I shall say that when I told you you became so distraught—I am a married man, after all—that you ran from me. Unfortunately, you weren’t looking where you were going, and you fell over the cliff.”
“No.”
“Yes. I can’t very well use the knife, can I? So messy, and I’ll be a suspect. But this.” He grinned, but his eyes were empty, cold. “It will cause a scandal, I imagine, but I’ll weather it. No one will suspect.”
“Matt will!” she cried, digging in her heels as he pulled her toward the edge. “Matt will suspect and he’ll come after you.”
“But it will be too late for you, won’t it?” He hooked his leg behind hers, and, arm flailing for balance, Brooke went down hard onto her knees. “It’s over for you, Brooke. I’m sorry, but -”
“Let her go.” The voice rang out in the warm summer air, carrying even over the crashing of the breakers below, and Miles went still. “Let her go, Vandenberg.”
Miles looked up, and Brooke, scrambling for balance, managed to raise herself enough to see what was happening. Charlie was crouched a few feet away, his revolver drawn, but it was on Matt her eyes focused. Matt, who also held a revolver. “Matt, look out! He has a knife!” she cried.
“Ah, Detective Devlin,” Miles said at the same time, pulling Brooke to her feet. “Such good timing. Do you know, we nearly had a nasty accident? Poor Miss Cassidy nearly went over the cliff. I caught her just in time.”
“Don’t believe him! He did it, Matt. He’s the Clff Walk Killer.”
Miles chuckled. “Now why would you say something like that?”
“Let her go,” Matt said again. “I know all about it, Vandenberg. It won’t do you any good to hold her. Let her go.”
Miles’s eyes shifted from him to Charlie. “Do you know, I don’t think so?” His grasp on Brooke tightened as he pulled her to him, one arm across her throat. The knife pressed into her skin again, making her briefly close her eyes. “You may have a revolver, Devlin, but I have her. I don’t think you’ll shoot.”
“No?” Matt said, and fired.
The report was deafening, echoing off the cliffs and startling seagulls into flight, squawking. There was a sharp pain at Brooke’s throat, and then she was falling, slowly, slowly, to the ground. Had she been hit? She didn’t know. She knew only that the terrible pressure around her throat was gone, that for some reason Miles had released her. Or had he thrown her over? The thought jolted her, and she screamed, just as her face hit the dirt.
She was on the Cliff Walk, and she wasn’t hurt. At least, she didn’t think she was. She had little time to feel relief, however; hands were grabbing at her upper arms, pulling her up. Blindly she struggled, striking out, and someone yelped in protest. “Brooke! It’s me, Brooke. It’s Matt.”
“Matt?” She looked up at him, kneeling before her, and her muscles went slack. “Oh, Matt!” she exclaimed, and threw herself into his arms. They closed around her with comforting solidity, easing her terrible shaking, making her feel safe and protected. “Matt.”
“Hush. It’s over, Brooke. You’re safe.” Abruptly he pushed her away, staring into her face. “Did he hurt you? Because, if he did...”
“I—I’m all right. But Miles-”
“Matt got him right in the knee,” Charlie said, almost cheerfully. Brooke turned her head to see him standing behind her, his revolver held on Miles, who was rolling around on the path, hands clutching his leg and his face contorted. “Good shot, Cap.”
“Thanks.” Matt peered into her face, and his finger reached up to touch her neck. “You’re bleeding.”
“Am I?” she asked, foolishly.
“Yes. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes. Oh, Matt, he did it! He’s the killer.”
“I know.”
“He told me all about it, why he killed Rosalind and the other girls-”
“I know,” Matt repeated. “We got the evidence against him yesterday. We went to his house this morning to arrest him, and found out he was here. Then we found out you’d both gone outside. God.” His arms tightened around her. “When I saw you with him, and realized what he was trying to do-”
“I figured it out, you see,” she babbled. “He said something about roses, and I realized he wasn’t supposed to know about it and he saw that I knew. I tried to call you, Matt, I did.”
“I know. Brooke, I-”
“Matt,” Charlie said. “We’ve got company.”
“What?” Matt said, looking over his shoulder. He loosened his hold on Brooke. She didn’t want to let him go, but she was aware of voices coming near. Looking up, she saw Hutton running toward her, looking like a long-legged blackbird. Behind him were several patrolmen.
“Detective Devlin?” one of them said.
“Bring that man back to the station,” Matt pointed at Miles, “and book him.”
&nb
sp; “On what charge?”
“Assault, for now. I want him locked up good and tight.”
“Yes, sir,” the patrolman said, and pulled Miles to his feet with an ungentle grip. Brooke averted her head as they shuffled past her, though Miles, supported on either side by two patrolmen and in what must have been terrible pain, stared straight ahead, dignified even under arrest. She had liked Miles. She really had. If he could have fooled her and everyone else for so long, what other secrets might people be hiding? The thought made her shudder.
“Brooke?” Matt said.
“Yes?”
“I’ll take you home.”
“All right,” she said, though at that moment she wasn’t certain where home was anymore. Newport was lost to her, but she had never fit into the world of the Four Hundred. She didn’t think she ever would.
“Come on.” His voice was gentle. “You’ve had a shock.” He reached for her hand, and went still. “Your ring is gone.”
Brooke looked down at her hand. “I gave it back.”
Matt drew in his breath. “You did?”
“I did,” she said, and met his eyes. Their gazes held for a long moment, and peace settled over her. She was wrong. Here was where she belonged. Here was home.
“Good,” Matt said, and, helping her to her feet, linked his arm through hers. Together, they walked back toward the gate.
