The Frightened Fianc?e

by George Harmon Coxe

  Holland found his respect for Crombie mounting. He had the feeling now that the man was completely honest, and he was satisfied that he intended to overlook no possibilities, no matter how remote. He also had the idea that no one was going to fool him for long, that whoever got in Crombie’s way would have to take the consequences.

  “What about Ginny Marshall?”

  Crombie answered this one by first digressing.

  “Roger Drake had a lot of wolf in him,” he said. “He was good-looking and, considering the kind of women he ran around with, he probably made a lot of progress. Well, this job was a cinch. The life of Riley. Nothing to do but loaf and eat and play. I don’t think he’d do anything to tip his hand that he was a phony fiancé but he knew enough about women to know he could make his play—and get away with it—because no matter how sore they might get at Drake they were friends of Miss Lawrence’s. Because of that they wouldn’t squawk to her. They might feel sorry for her, knowing the kind of guy Drake was, but they wouldn’t want to hurt her by spilling what they knew.”

  He grunted softly and said, “Anyway that’s my theory and if I’m right Drake made some passes at the Marshall kid. We know he was out of line somewhere because Carver found it out and went over there last night and dumped him. That’s what Carver says,” he added dryly.

  “If Carver could knock him down—and it looks as if he did,” Holland said, “why would he shoot him? Or if he went there to kill him why knock him down first?”

  “I don’t say Carver went there to kill anyone. Carver knocked Drake down—and that must have surprised Drake some—and maybe Drake gets up and pulls a gun that Carver takes away from him and uses it. I don’t know. This is all speculation. All I know is that you and Carver are running neck and neck as the cops’ number-one suspect, and right now I think he’s on the rail. But here’s my point. Drake must have bothered the Marshall girl and I’m only showing you how, in case she wanted to do something about it personally—she could have gone over there with a gun, not to do murder but only to threaten Drake—showing you that she knew a way to get out on that porch and down to the ground without being seen. That handkerchief Pilgrim found was hers,” he said.

  “Where’d Pilgrim find it?”

  “In Drake’s pocket.”

  “It could have been there for days.”

  “I’ll tell you something that wasn’t—that scratch on Drake’s face.”

  Holland took a breath. He said he’d been wondering about that.

  “A fingernail scratch by the looks of it,” Crombie went on. “There are five women in the joint. Toss out the old lady and Miss Lawrence and you’ve got Mrs. Erskine, Miss Winsor, and this kid. A scratch like that would almost surely break a fingernail if it was long. Mrs. Erskine and Miss Winsor have long nails and none of them were broken; I noticed that much. The Marshall girl’s nails are short, maybe because she did typing for Carver. Anyway, my hunch says she did the scratching—and last night, too. Drake might have got fresh and started wrestling around and she scratched him and—”

  “All right,” Holland cut in. “Maybe she did. But murder.”

  “Yeah.” Crombie sighed. “It’s different, hunh? And don’t get me wrong. I don’t say she did it; I say she could have. So could Baldwin—though I don’t know too much about the guy yet. He could have used the same means of getting out by way of the upstairs porch, and in a case like this you’ve got to consider everyone until you’ve got enough facts to work on. Right now, though, I’ll settle for that redheaded number you saw undressing.”

  “Nadine?”

  “Yeah. Because there are a couple of things that tie in with what you saw. First off,” he said, ticking off one chubby forefinger with another, “her prints are in the guesthouse bathroom. Drake sleeps late when he can. He did yesterday morning. This woman—Martha—couldn’t clean up in there until after four. Miss Winsor didn’t arrive until around six-thirty and I understand she stayed pretty close to Baldwin until she went to bed. So the police figure she made those prints after that time. Second,” he ticked off another finger, “somebody left a cigarette butt in that unoccupied bedroom.”

  “I saw it,” Holland said.

  “It’s got lipstick on it, but that’s all we know for now. Also there are a couple other things I’m going to look into that the police don’t know about.” He hesitated, gaze narrowing. After a moment he straightened the brim of his hat and clapped it on his head.

  “Pilgrim phoned me around five-thirty this morning,” he said. “When I found out what happened to Drake I make a couple of fast calls that I can tell you about later. I was on the way at six-thirty and nobody knows I made the calls. Get in touch with me Monday morning and we’ll see how things shape up. Meanwhile pump the old lady if you can; she likes you.”

  He stood up, shook hands. As they walked back along the pier he offered a business card, and after Holland glanced at it he asked if he should bring a check with him on Monday and if so, in what amount.

  “Never mind the check,” Crombie said, an undertone of satisfaction in his hoarse tones. “I like the deal I’ve got. If I can’t produce anything it costs you nothing. If I do you’ll owe me the finest dinner you can buy.” He grinned. “And I ought to warn you that I’m a sharp man with a knife and fork.”

  He gave Holland’s shoulder a light tap of his fist and started out across the lawn, heading for the corner of the house and moving very swiftly for a man of his bulk.

  twelve

  DINNER WAS SERVED buffet-style that evening, and everyone was there except Fanny Allenby, who sent word that she would like a tray in her room. Afterward Carver and Ginny strolled off somewhere, and Keith and Frances said they were driving into the village for a while and did anyone want anything.

  Baldwin and Nadine went out on the porch and Holland, sticking close to Tracy, accompanied her to the steps where she sat down. He offered a cigarette and a light. He said wasn’t it a clear night—the lights of the Saybrook shore looked close enough to reach with a well-hit golf ball—and she said yes, very.

  They had a little more of this sort of conversation while they watched the moon come up over the trees and begin to swing out over the water. They kept it very calm, polite, and outwardly pleasant. Finally, when Holland could stand it no longer, he told her he had hired Crombie.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” he said.

  “No, of course not,” she said. “I was very much impressed with him that first day I went to see him.”

  He waited before he-spoke again, determined to hide completely the hurt inside him.

  “Do you expect to be in town any day next week?”

  “I doubt it,” she said. “I expect to stay here until Labor Day and after that it’s back to work.”

  He said if she changed her mind would she let him know. He said he thought they might have dinner, and then, suddenly, she caught her breath in a half-sob and was on her feet. He thought she said, “Oh, Johnnie—please,” and then, as he stood up, she was all right again, her voice distinct.

  “Will you excuse me? I want to look in on Nana.”

  She was gone before he could reply and he sat down again, hearing now the faint overtones of other voices. He realized presently that they came from Baldwin and Nadine, and when he glanced that way he could see the glowing ends of their cigarettes in the darkness. After a while—he was not sure how much later it was—Tracy came back to ask if he would go upstairs and see her grandmother.

  He said yes and stood up, thinking she would accompany him. When he saw her move off and speak to the couple farther down the porch he knew she had done so to forestall any further conversation, so he went inside alone and up the stairs.

  Fanny Allenby eyed him severely as he entered. She sat in the wing chair, her white, blue-veined hands for once unoccupied, resting on the arms. Her thinning, faded-white hair was very neat, contrasting sharply with the blue taffeta dress and reminding him somehow of a play he had once seen in which Helen Hayes
had appeared, except that this woman was more robust, more vigorous, more vital.

  “I understand you hired Mr. Crombie,” she began, once she had asked Holland to sit down. “You’re determined to find out who killed Roger Drake—and why?”

  “If I can,” Holland said. “I have to.”

  “You think that by doing so you’ll help Tracy. I can assure you you won’t. I’m not sure anything will—ever.”

  Holland had no answer. He felt hot and uncomfortable, and there was nothing to do but keep his glance averted and hope the discussion would be a short one.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you objected to Mr. Crombie.”

  “I’ve had my one—and I hope only—experience with private detectives in Roger Drake,” she said. “I object to Mr. Crombie or anyone else who comes here prying into the family’s affairs.”

  She folded her arms, palms supporting her elbows. “I’m an old woman,” she said. “Waspish, irascible, and domineering. I trade on my antiquity and I dislike very much being crossed Sit still,” she said as Holland made as if to rise. “I didn’t say I disliked you. I told you this morning I thought some outsider had come and killed Mr. Drake. Actually I think nothing of the kind. I think someone on the Point killed him and I’m much too fond of my family and friends to want any one of them to suffer for the death of Mr. Drake. I don’t say this to influence you. Neither do I make apologies for my attitude; I’m merely explaining how I feel.”

  “If the case is unsolved,” Holland said slowly, “then those who are innocent will always be suspect.”

  “Those things pass. People talk, granted, but to what purpose? If the case remains unsolved there can be no proof that one of us here was guilty. I prefer to have it that way for the short time I have left.”

  Holland was watching her now. Her voice was still blunt, but it carried somehow a shaky quality he had never heard before. With her glasses suspended by the sidebows from their ribbon he could see her brown, yellow-rimmed eyes clearly, and he noticed again the odd reflection he had first seen that morning.

  “You’re a little afraid, too, aren’t you?” he asked.

  For a moment more she met his gaze. “I’m afraid I am, Johnnie,” she said, very quiet now.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I have to think about Tracy. I still think that somehow, some way, there must be a chance for us and—well—” He broke off, adding, “I guess I’d better not come here any more.”

  “You’re always welcome,” she said. “But Mr. Crombie, no. If the police bring him that is one thing, but if he comes alone I shall ask him to leave. Do you play backgammon?” she asked in a sudden reversal of tone that dismissed at once all that had gone before.

  “Yes,” Holland said, still wondering how she could do it.

  “We’ll have one game. Then you can make me a drink and I’ll go to bed. You’ll find the board in the drawer.”

  Holland had trouble sleeping that night. He stretched out on the bed just before twelve, naked because of the heat, and read for a while from a collection of short stories he found on the undershelf of the bedside table. Now and then he was conscious of voices on the lawn and some movement in the hall, but presently the house quieted. He closed the book a few minutes later and turned out the light. Then he lay there while the sheet grew damp beneath him, turning now and then to find a cool spot but finding no real relief or any desire for sleep.

  Finally, in desperation, he rose and moved through the darkness to the open window. There was no change in the thick, humid heat which had been clinging to the land for the past three days, but unlike the night before the moon was bright, its path of reflection giving the faintly rippled surface of the water the look of hammered silver. As he stood there feeling the gentle stirring of the air outside, the impulse that had moved him the night before came again with even greater promise, and he turned back at once for his trunks and slippers.

  When he had the maroon robe and a towel from the bathroom he eased open the screen door and stepped to the porch, a little excited now as he leaned over the rail to trace the course of the ladderlike vine, the same one he had watched someone else climb the night before.

  He knew at once that he would use this short cut but first he glanced about, aware that of the front windows only Nadine’s showed any light and this translucently because of tightly drawn curtains. Satisfied that no one would know of his excursion he knotted the towel around his neck and stepped over the rail, testing the two main trunks of vines which seemed as thick as his forearm and solidly anchored.

  He let his weight down gingerly, feeling for a foot-hold in the tangled cross shoots and finding one. He went down another step. He took a third step, feeling pretty pleased with himself, and then, not knowing quite how, he was falling.

  One moment the ropelike step supported him. The next it broke beneath his weight, and as he dangled there he felt the two trunks start to pull away from the rail and lattice. There was a rending noise, not loud but to him distinct, and then, knowing that he was going to crash anyway, he pushed hard with both hands, twisting his body outward before he let go.

  It was, luckily, no great distance to the ground. He figured he dropped about eight feet, striking evenly on the balls of both feet and then going forward to his hands and knees.

  For a few seconds he stayed right where he was, jarred but unhurt. He listened to see if he had attracted any attention. When he heard no sound from the house he straightened, found a slipper he had lost, and hurried off across the lawn.

  “You and Tarzan,” he said half aloud, and grinned to himself in the darkness.

  He could see now the rocks where he had stood the night before and the low, continuing ledge that extended smoothly and in a gradually declining angle until it disappeared in the water. He went out on this as far as he could before he kicked off his slippers. He put the towel down, folded the robe on it, and placed his slippers on top. Then, as he glanced once more toward the house, he saw the flash of light off to the left.

  It was gone almost before he could focus on it but he waited, trying to place the spot from which it came. He saw it once more, a tiny pinpoint of yellow, and it seemed to him it came from the general direction of the bush-lined road and turn-around that he had explored earlier. He thought it might be the all but obscured flash of a car’s headlight, but when he listened he heard no sound. For perhaps another half-minute he waited, gaze fixed; when he saw nothing more he turned and stuck one foot into the water.

  It was warmer than he had expected and he moved on in, not diving, because he wanted to keep quiet, but leaning forward and pushing out with his feet until he was afloat. There was the usual quick cool shock as the water closed over him and he took two or three silent strokes while the adjustment was made. After that he lay relaxed and content as a feeling of sensuous refreshment stole over him.

  Doing more floating than swimming, he wallowed about for several minutes. When he’d had enough he pulled himself up on the rock and hunched there contentedly in the moonlight, letting the water drain from his body before reaching for the towel. He scanned the water ahead of him, then turned to look along the path of the moon’s reflection. That was how he happened to see the figure hurrying toward the end of the pier.

  He had heard nothing. He had seen nothing until then. Now he watched intently, moving nothing but his eyes. He tried to identify the figure but the moon’s angle was from beyond the pier now so that what he saw was mostly in silhouette, the near side of the man remaining in shadow.

  At least he thought it was a man, though all he could be positive of was that the figure wore dark slacks and a jacket, a figure which now stopped at the end of the pier.

  In almost the same moment Holland saw an arm move, still in silhouette, swinging back and then forward. Something glittered once as the moon’s rays caught it, out from the pier now and above the water.

  Then there was a splash.

  Holland caught the faint sound of it. There was a sudden
eruption on the glittering surface and then there was nothing to mark the spot but his own memory.

  Farther out a flashing buoy winked at him every three or four seconds. He mentally marked the point of the splash in relation to that light before he let his gaze shift. Then, being careful to move nothing but his neck and head, he followed the retreating figure, still not knowing who it was, until it reached the lawn and was lost in the shadows of the house.

  He kept looking to see if the front door opened. If it did he could not tell from where he squatted. He did notice that the light in Nadine’s room had been extinguished, but when he could find no movement in or about the house he swiveled his head back, fixed the point of splash in relation to the buoy, and slipped back into the water, curiosity driving him now and a new excitement working in his chest.

  Swimming partly on his side and partly on his stomach so he could keep his head out of water, he followed the imaginary line he had laid out. Not once did he let his eyes stray from the buoy. He felt sure he was keeping the angle of approach constant. He kept going until he was off the T-shaped end of the pier; then, knowing the rest of it would depend on the element of luck, he gulped air and went under in a surface dive, keeping his feet still until he was sure he had water above them.

  His hands touched the bottom quickly—he estimated the depth at no more than seven or eight feet with the tide as it was—and now he began a sweeping, two-handed movement across the hard, sandy bottom, moving in a roughly circular fashion, turning, kicking when necessary, groping. When he had covered this one area thoroughly he moved a little to the right while the pressure grew inside his lungs and the blood began its pounding against his eardrums.

  He stood it as long as he could. He took one last sweep of his hand and this time his fingers touched something hard and smooth, something that rolled so that he had to lunge at it. His fingers closed tightly and held fast. He surfaced with a push of his feet. His pent-up breath came out in a harsh blast as his head broke clear; then he was sucking air in great gulps and cursing silently at the object in his hand.