“He came up for a long week-end with a ring in his pocket. Tracy was here and so was Eric, who was older than we were but had practically grown up with us because he came here every summer. In fact we all considered that Tracy and Eric were engaged, though nothing definite was actually said; just one of those things you take for granted. Anyway, we had a very gay foursome that week-end, with lots of tennis and swimming “and dancing.”
She hesitated, one brow arching. “I don’t think I ever believed in this love-at-first-sight bromide before, but I do now. That’s why it was such a shock. Tracy and Jeff couldn’t have’ been alone more than a few minutes and I’m sure he never touched her except to dance with her. Even later neither could explain it. It was just one of those things they could not fight. I’m sure they tried. Jeff didn’t see Tracy for nearly a month. Then she went to New York. He came up here once. Finally they knew they had to face it so Jeff came up here again and they told us.”
She sighed and said, “I’m sure it was almost as hard for Tracy as it was for me. I was crushed and furious and rather strident, I’m afraid. Yet all the time I knew she was never a schemer, never sly or underhanded. She’d simply stolen my man in spite of anything she could do, and she had to admit it. They came together to tell me and you can’t imagine two more miserable people, or two more in love. They had to explain to Eric, too. There was never a more ghastly week-end.”
“And was Jeff the one who was killed?” Holland asked.
“Yes. They announced their engagement, and Eric and I sort of turned to each other for consolation. Jeff had about three months more of service and he had a leave coming up and he wanted to get married right away. Tracy wanted to wait. She wanted a big wedding, and those things take time, so instead of faking his leave when he expected to he postponed it to allow for the extra month that Tracy wanted. He continued to fly and two days before he was supposed to arrive here he took up some experimental-type plane and crashed into a mountaintop in Pennsylvania.”
The room grew silent. For a few seconds Holland was afraid that was the end of the story. He waited, watching her examine her hands. Finally, she seemed to remember the rest of it.
“There’s no point in going into details,” she said quietly. “The only thing that is important now, the thing that almost killed Tracy, is that she felt responsible. At first, because I thought I was still in love with Jeff, I was inclined to agree. Of course it was a silly, futile business, and Tracy was no more responsible than the man who designed the plane or the mechanic who had to do with the radio that failed. But you couldn’t tell Tracy that. To her it was simple; if she had married when Jeff wanted to he would be alive because he never would have flown that plane.”
Holland waited. When he was sure she had finished he said, “And George Vanning?”
“Then you knew about George?”
Holland explained that Vanning was his best friend. “Tracy wrote me in South America,” he said, “but I didn’t know the details until I got back.”
Frances sighed again and shook her head slowly. She looked down the front of her pajamas, absently read-justing them and pulling the robe about her shoulders.
“That was a perfectly frightful thing,” she said, her voice depressed. “I was married to Keith then and I didn’t see too much of George but I thought he was wonderful. We all did. And Tracy—Well, you’ve never seen anyone more radiant. If it hadn’t been for Jeff she might have accepted George’s death as just a horrible mistake. But, you see, there was Jeff, and to Tracy the comparison was the same. She was engaged to George. They were to have been married the following week. Then some idiot kills him by mistake and almost on the same day, relatively, that Jeff was killed.
“Actually none of us thought she’d ever get over it. To Tracy it was her fault. If there had been no engagement, if they had gone to City Hall, they would have been married, and George wouldn’t have been living in the same apartment with that labor organizer who should have been shot, and therefore George would still be alive. After that there was nothing in the world for Tracy but her job; that’s why she’s done so well with it. Then, a few weeks ago when she told us she was engaged, we had a real celebration—just the family. We didn’t expect anyone quite like Roger Drake, but we thought if that’s what Tracy wanted it was her business.”
She looked right at him and said, “I guess you can understand now why she hired Drake. To anyone else it might seem silly and childish and neurotic. But when you understand how Tracy felt about the other men she loved you have to accept what she did.”
Holland agreed, though he did not say so. For the first time he could really appreciate how Tracy felt and understand the reasons behind an idea that at first seemed incredible. It bothered him greatly that he had behaved so badly; what made it worse was that he felt so helpless and impotent.
He shook his head to try to eradicate the growing sense of hopelessness. He stood up to put his robe on properly. When he finished his drink he was able to talk of other things.
“You and Keith are separated?”
Frances nodded. “He’s going to Reno after Labor Day. It’s all very friendly. I think he has a girl in New York but I’m not sure, and so long as it stays that way I’m willing to pay something. Of course he hasn’t a dime except what salary and commission he makes in that decorating shop, but he knows I won’t go to Nevada at this time of year—if ever—so I’m making him a little settlement for being a good boy.”
“How much?”
She gave him a wry smile. “You are a nosy character, aren’t you? Twenty thousand,” she said. “To help get him started in a business of his own.”
“Any special reason why you didn’t hit it off?”
“Oh, I don’t know. We did very well at first. I found him extremely good-looking and I was fascinated by that accent he cultivated in his two years in London for the O.W.I. He says it’s good for business; you know, impresses the customers with the Continental touch. I know it impressed me. He Was a handsome, well-functioning, and altogether charming guy. A little too impressed with himself, perhaps, but nice.”
“So?”
“Well, there wasn’t anything wrong exactly. But after living with him for a year I discovered one day that to me he was a crashing bore.”
Holland grinned at her frankness. He asked if she had any plans and she said no. “Unless,” she said, “you know of some good-looking charmer who in addition has a good mind and some ability. Remind me to give you my telephone number,” she said, slipping once more into her old. offhand manner.
She rinsed out her glass and his own, cleaned the shaker. “What are you going to do with this?” she asked and picked up the gun. She aimed it and pulled the trigger. “You know,” she said, “I used to be pretty good with a .22 target model we had. Dad taught Tracy and me when we were kids.”
Holland took the gun, wondering if he would ever quite understand this woman. “I’m going to put it under my pillow,” he said. “And in the morning I’m turning it over to Lieutenant Pilgrim.”
She said not to forget to tell Pilgrim about the man who tried to kill him. Then, something in her manner suggesting that she was not nearly as assured as she pretended, she added that it might be a good idea for him to lock his door and hook the screen.
fourteen
A LIGHT BREEZE had come up out of the east during the night to sweep away the heat of the previous day, and when John Holland awoke at nine o’clock he found his room refreshingly cool. His shoulder was stiff at first, reminding him of the night before, but by the time he had shaved and showered he found it no longer bothered him. The revolver was still under his pillow and because he did not know what else to do with it he slipped it into his hip pocket before donning his jacket and going downstairs.
The dining-room was empty, and from the looks of things he was the first one down. But there was a pitcher of iced orange juice on the sideboard so he helped himself, and then poured coffee from a Silex that stood on a small el
ectric plate. As he did so he heard the quick tapping of heels in the hall and an instant later Ginny Marshall came into the room.
“Oh,” she said, a little startled. “Good morning. I didn’t think anyone else was up.”
Holland said good morning and eyed her with approval, for this was a new, dressed-up, and prettier Ginny. The touches of make-up she had applied enhanced her small, almost delicate face and her quick smile was a nice thing to see. To further the impression that she was indeed a grown-up young woman she wore a fresh-looking yellow print dress and spectator pumps; on her head was a small, face-framing helmet that clung pertly to the top and back of her dark hair.
“Church?” he asked when he saw her white gloves.
“Yes,” she said. “Does Walter know you’re here? How do you like your eggs?”
“Any way,” he said. “However he fixes yours will be all right with me. Shall I pour your coffee now or would—”
“Now, please,” she said and disappeared into the pantry.
They talked about things of no importance while they ate, but an idea had been growing in the back of Holland’s mind and presently he spoke of it, asking if she were driving to church. When she said she was he asked if she would have time to drop him off at the station.
“Plenty of time,” she said. “I don’t have to be there until eleven.”
He said he would hurry and excused himself, aware that while his departure would never merit the approval of Emily Post he could make amends after a fashion in his bread-and-butter letter. At the moment almost anything seemed better than staying around here where Tracy was without being able to do anything to help her, for it seemed that merely sitting around and doing nothing was something he could no longer tolerate.
Ginny was waiting in the same station wagon that Walter had used to bring him from the Mansion House. He offered to drive but she said she was used to the car’s idiosyncrasies so he tossed his bag in and sat back to smoke and examine the passing countryside. Not until they were rolling along the town’s main street did the idea occur to him that going to church was a thing that he had too long neglected.
“Do you mind if I go with you?”
“To church? Why, I’d love it.”
He grinned at her, feeling better already. He asked her if she went often, and she shook her head.
“I promise myself I will—because we have such a lovely church and a nice minister—and then I forget or something comes up. I guess three or four times a summer is all I make it.”
It was a lovely old church, painted white, with a towering spire and large, multi-paned windows. There was a gallery on three sides, empty now except for the small choir and organist. Downstairs the pews were perhaps three-fourths occupied, and standing there with Ginny and sharing her hymnbook Holland felt proud and humble and a little exalted, though this was a word that did not occur to him.
The minister was youngish, with a sense of humor and none of the pontifical manner so often associated with ministers. He talked to his congregation rather than preached, and his sermon was made more interesting by virtue of the references and associations he made to contemporary things. Afterward, on the lawn, there were those who bowed and spoke to Ginny, but though their curiosity about the tragedy at the Allenby house was in their eyes for all to see they looked at Holland and hesitated, reluctant, it seemed, to approach the subject in front of a stranger.
Once in the station wagon he asked if she knew where Lieutenant Pilgrim lived. When she said yes he said, “Could you drop me there instead of going to the station?”
She nodded, saying nothing. She made a turn off the main street and now, seeing her hands on the wheel—she had taken off her gloves—and the short, well-kept nails, his thoughts went on to other things.
“I guess you’re the one who put that scratch on Drake’s face, aren’t you?” he said casually.
She was watching the road. She continued to watch it while she passed a car, her chin up and sitting erect so she could see over the top of the wheel.
“How did you know?” she said when he had about reached the conclusion that she was going to ignore him.
He explained Sam Crombie’s theory about fingernails.
“I didn’t mean to scratch him,” she said evenly. “I tried to slap him—hard.”
“I guess you’re in love with Eric Carver.”
“I guess I am.”
“I’ve been wondering what he does for a living.”
“He’s writing a novel. He used to work in advertising, and he did some radio work, and now he’d just like to write.”
“And you help him.” Holland paused. “He must be in love with you, too, to go up there to the guesthouse and—”
“He didn’t kill Mr. Drake.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“It doesn’t even follow that he loves me. He would have done the same thing for a sister. If I hadn’t been a little fool I wouldn’t have let him catch me crying. That was the whole trouble.”
“Because you cried?”
“Because I thought he didn’t love me.” Her lip quivered again and she stilled it with an effort. “I’m not sure he does now, but I think he might. The night I went out with Mr. Drake I was sure he didn’t. Eric, I mean.”
“Oh,” Holland said, pretending the whole thing was quite clear. “You were mad at Eric so you went out with Drake.”
She glanced around, then continued, sounding disgusted with herself. “You might as well know that I’m a nitwit where Eric is concerned. I’ve known him since I was a little girl and it seems I’ve always loved him—or thought I did. And you would have thought I was his kid sister the way he acted. Then, a few nights ago, he did something that—oh, I don’t see how it matters now. He just—well, infuriated me. I just couldn’t stand being treated like a baby, at least not by him.”
Her hands grew tense on the wheel and she said, “I took the station wagon and went to Saybrook to the movies. Alone. That’s all I intended to do. But the longer I sat there the madder I got and then when I came out I saw Mr. Drake. He was alone, too. He said why didn’t we go get a sandwich and a drink.”
“And you were just mad enough to go. You were going to show Eric.”
“Oh, I know how it sounds and I’m not going to bore you. We went down the Post Road to this place, and I never drink more than a Daiquiri and generally only a beer, but I felt mean and spiteful, and oh, so very sorry for myself. The only thing I worried about at first was Tracy, but Mr. Drake said he wasn’t married yet and this might be his last chance to go out with a pretty girl. Well, you can guess what happened.”
“You got a little drunk.”
“Mr. Drake was furious with me. He didn’t realize it, you see, until it was too late. He had to buy me quarts of black coffee and drive me around for an hour before he could trust me to drive the station wagon back to the house.” She made a small sighing sound and moistened her lips.
“I was so ashamed, so disgusted with myself. I didn’t go near him after that until he told me he wanted to see me the other night and I was afraid to go and afraid not to. I couldn’t tell Eric—though that’s what I should have done—or Tracy. But Mr. Drake had been drinking and he got—well, I guess you might call it affectionate.”
“And he got slapped.”
“Finally, when there wasn’t any other way. And it would still have been all right if I hadn’t been such a fool. If only I had just gone off to bed Eric wouldn’t have seen me—Oh,” she said suddenly, swerving and braking the car. “Here’s where Lieutenant Pilgrim lives. I’ll wait for you.”
Holland thanked her and said he could call a taxi. She smiled and shook her head. She said she had absolutely nothing to do for another hour and she wouldn’t think of leaving him here.
There was a stone fence in front of the gray shingled house, and when Holland went through the gate he guessed that the front door was seldom used so he walked around the house toward the back. A spaniel barked at him and came r
unning to investigate. The man who was kneeling in the flower in the flower bed looked up and took the pipe from his mouth.
Lieutenant Pilgrim wore dirt-stained slacks and old sneakers. Between his belt and chin there was nothing but tanned and sweaty nakedness. His glasses were steaming slightly from his efforts and it seemed that he was not quite sure who his visitor was until he wiped them and had a second look.
“I have something for you,” Holland said. “Also I’d like to get back to New York on the next train and I thought maybe I should ask your permission.”
Pilgrim looked at the gun and then at Holland, his gray-green eyes inscrutable. The policeman in him said, “I guess if there were any prints on it when you picked it up there aren’t any now.”
“Wait until you hear how I got it,” Holland said, and proceeded to tell the other about the man on the pier and his subsequent diving-expedition. He had a small debate with himself as to whether he should speak of the attempt on his life but he decided against it because it seemed to him the business with the landing-float proved nothing. If the police found out who had thrown that gun away they would also know who had waited there on the pier.
“It looks like the right caliber,” Pilgrim said. “It could be the gun. We’ll check it—and thanks.”
He asked Holland to write down his home and business addresses and telephone numbers. He said they would probably call him back for the inquest and further questioning, but he guessed it would be all right if Holland returned to New York.
fifteen
SAM CROMBIE’S OFFICES were in a nondescript building on Seventh Avenue in the Forties. The downstairs directory said 405 and when Holland entered at eleven-thirty on Monday morning he found himself in a squarish room furnished with a settee, four chairs, and a table cluttered with dog-eared magazines. One wall contained a glass panel with a semicircular opening. The word Information was lettered in gilt above this and on the other side of it a pert brunette sat at a switchboard.
The Frightened Fianc?e Page 12
