Yellow Room

by Mary Roberts Rinehart

  “This sum of money every month—she might have been blackmailing somebody,” he suggested.

  The landlady had never thought of that, although she “wouldn’t put it past her.” Asked as to where the letters came from she said she hadn’t noticed, but the last one had arrived about the first week of June. She thought it came from Maine. There had been none since.

  As Dane limped out to his waiting cab he realized that his leg was bothering him again. He wondered if excitement did not make it worse, for under his veneer of cool impassivity he realized that he was excited. The dates, the clues all fitted. He needed only one fact to complete his evidence, and he got it by long-distance that night. But he was not happy. As the cab started he was more depressed than he had thought was possible when he began to see his way through a case.

  27

  IT WAS MONDAY NIGHT when he got out of the plane and saw Alex’s disapproving eye in the glare of the car’s headlights. The heat even at that hour was appalling, New England going through its brief but annual hot spell. It was like being plunged into a Turkish bath, and he said so as Alex stowed away his bag.

  “Better over by the sea, sir,” Alex said dryly. “What you been doing to that leg?”

  “The leg’s all right. I’m tired, that’s all.”

  Alex glanced at him. Dane’s lean stern face looked tired and there were new lines in it, but Alex thought it best to ignore them. In answer to questions he made his usual brief replies. Nobody had been seen around Crestview. The redhead had gone home. Mrs. Hilliard was still in the hospital, but he’d heard she was up and around. Hilliard himself had gone. As for Floyd, he was strutting around so puffed up he’d had to let his belt out.

  It was too late to see Carol. But Alex’s statement about the heat had proved erroneous. He did not go to bed. Instead, he changed into slacks and a thin sleeveless jersey and went out of the house. For some reason he felt uneasy. He lit a cigarette, and wandering over to Crestview found Tim near the lane. He was standing there gazing up the road, and Dane’s silent approach made him jump and grab for his gun. He smiled sheepishly when he saw in the starlight who it was.

  “Hell!” he said disgustedly. “My nerves are about shot. How long am I to keep this up?”

  “Anything new?”

  “I think we’ve located Greg Spencer in New York the night of the murder. Not sure yet, but it looks like it.”

  Dane nodded.

  “That’s a big help,” he said. “What were you watching when I came up?”

  “I don’t know. Where does this road go anyhow?”

  “It joins a paved one up above. Why?”

  “There was somebody on it a few minutes ago. Went up the hill. Anybody live up there?”

  Dane was thoughtful.

  “Maybe somebody who lives back in the country. Only empty summer places near. How long ago was it, Tim?”

  “Ten minutes or so. I didn’t see who it was. It’s kind of rough walking. Heard him stumble.”

  “Stay here. I’ll go up a bit. It’s too hot to sleep anyhow.”

  The lane was rough walking. Dane had no particular reason for climbing it. There were a dozen possible reasons for someone to be out at one o’clock in the morning. But the exercise was good after his long trip in the plane, and there was a slight breeze now coming down from the hills. He went on, without any attempt at caution, cheerful because his leg responded well and his muscles had not lost their tone. When he reached the upper road he turned left, by a sort of automatism. The deserted house lay there, shielded by its overgrowing shrubbery and trees and faintly outlined in the starlight. It had no interest for him. It had served its purpose. And he had walked far enough.

  It was when he turned to go back that he saw the light by the stable, low down and moving slowly. It was swinging around, forming small circles, then going on, as if searching for something on the ground. He watched it for some time before he started cautiously toward it He was badly dressed for working his way through the underbrush. His slacks caught on briers and his slippers did little to protect his bare feet and ankles. His long training helped him, however. He was within fifty feet of the stooping figure when a branch caught his sleeve and broke with a loud snap.

  He never heard the shot. Something hit him on the head and he felt himself falling. He lost consciousness at once.

  Carol was awakened that night by the telephone beside her bed. Out of sheer exhaustion she was sleeping heavily. The radium dial of her clock as she fumbled for the instrument showed it was two o’clock, and her voice was thick as she answered it.

  Dr. Harrison was on the wire. He sounded apologetic.

  “Is that you, Carol?” he asked. “I thought I’d better call you up. We’ve had another accident, if you can call it that. Nothing to frighten you,” he added hastily, “but Major Dane’s been hurt.”

  The room swirled around her. By a great effort she controlled her voice.

  “How badly?”

  “It’s not very serious. He’s still out. We’re taking pictures, but apparently there is no fracture. He’ll do nicely, but I thought I’d better let you know.”

  She was trembling now.

  “What happened to him, doctor? Don’t tell me it’s another—” Her voice broke. “Someone attacked him. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “He was shot. Just a crease along the head, but he’s had a narrow escape. He probably fell heavily, and that didn’t help things.”

  She was out of bed by that time, still holding the receiver.

  “I’m coming down,” she told him. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  She heard him saying urgently that she was to stay in the house, that apparently nobody was safe. But she put down the receiver while he was still talking. She dressed frantically, although some remnant of caution remained in her. She went to find Tim, but Tim was not in his room. She found him in the hospital when she got there, pacing the hall downstairs like a wild man. “Goddammit, I let him go up that hill myself! Me, Tim Murphy!” Then, seeing her face, he made an effort at control. “He’ll be all right, Miss Carol. He’s been through worse than this. Has more lives than a cat. Just remember that.”

  She sat down, because her knees would not hold her. The hospital was wide awake and active, nurses hastily roused and busy, and an intern coming out of the X-ray room with plates in his hand. He gave Carol a nod.

  “Looks all right,” he said reassuringly. “Had the hell of a wallop, of course.”

  Tim thrust himself forward.

  “We’re seeing him,” he said aggressively. “I want to know who shot at him. Then I’m going out and get the—” Here his language became unprintable. He used a few army words not common in polite society, and added some of his own invention.

  The intern looked amused, Tim’s costume and language both being on the lurid side.

  “No objection to your going up, I imagine,” he said genially. “Dr. Harrison’s expecting Miss Spencer anyhow. Only”—he added with a grin—“I’d advise you to do your talking now. I can take it. Dane can’t.”

  They followed him to the elevator, Tim indignant but silent, Carol beyond speech. Dr. Harrison was in an upper hall, and he examined the plates by the light of a nurse’s desk lamp before he spoke to them. He looked up cheerfully.

  “No fracture,” he said genially. “Just a scalp wound. He’ll come around pretty soon, I imagine.”

  Some of Tim’s fury abated. As for Carol, she drew her first full breath since she had heard the news, although Tim’s story did not help much. He told about Dane’s appearance, his decision to walk up the lane, and then of hearing the shot. When Dane did not come back he had started up the hill. He saw nobody, heard nothing. He had a flashlight but “all those places are grown up like nobody’s business.” Anyhow, he was still searching when he heard the siren of Floyd’s car. It had stopped near him and Floyd and Mason got out. Floyd had pointed a gun at him.

  “Like to scared the life out of me,” Tim said. �
�Thought I’d shot somebody. Wanted to know what I was doing there, and where was the man who’d been killed. I almost burst out crying. ‘I’m looking for Major Dane,’ I said. ‘He came up here and he hasn’t come back.’ He didn’t trust me even then. He took my gun and saw it hadn’t been fired. Then he led the way back to the stable.”

  Carol was trying to make a coherent pattern of all this.

  “But—Floyd?” she said. “How did he know?”

  “Got a telephone message. It said somebody was dead by the stable at Pine Hill. Can you beat it? How many people were up there tonight?”

  It was some little time before they were allowed in to see Dane. He was not alone. Alex was standing like an infuriated guardian angel over the bed. Nobody spoke. Dane’s eyes were closed, but as Carol moved to him he looked up.

  “Hello, darling,” he said. Then something strange about the situation roused him. “What the hell happened?” he said. “Where am I?”

  “You’re all right, Jerry.”

  He gave her his old sardonic grin.

  “That’s what you say,” he said, and closed his eyes again, his mind was slowly clearing. When he looked up a few minutes later only Alex was in the room. Dane motioned to him, and he came over to the bed.

  “Soon as it’s daylight,” he said cautiously, “go up to Pine Hill. Take Tim if you can. Anyhow, get there before Floyd wakes up to it.” He paused. Talking was still an effort. “Whoever shot me was hunting something on the ground by the stable there. Better bring everything you find.”

  It was still dark when he was left alone to sleep if he could. Alex went unwillingly, leaving Dane’s gun on the table beside the bed, and carefully locking the window which opened on a fire escape. But Dane did not sleep. His head ached and his mind was working overtime. He lay still, his eyes closed, and carefully put together what he knew and what he suspected.

  The bandage interfered with his hearing, however, and he was not aware that his door had opened softly. Only a sort of sixth sense told him he was not alone in the room. He did not open his eyes at once. Whoever it was came nearer, and then paused beside him.

  He looked up then and reaching out a muscular hand grabbed the arm poised above him. His own automatic dropped on the bed, and Elinor Hilliard gave a faint scream and would have fallen had he not held onto her. In the faint light she looked paralyzed with terror.

  “Just what were you trying to do?” he said. “Kill me?”

  She shook her head.

  “What are you going to do with me?” she said faintly.

  “Send for Floyd, I imagine.” His voice was hard. “You’ve got away with a good bit, Mrs. Hilliard. You’re not getting away with this.”

  He released her. She dropped into a chair, her face chalkwhite and her teeth chattering.

  “I wasn’t going to shoot you,” she said. “You said I’d have to go to court. I just thought—if you’d keep out of things until it’s all over—”

  “Until Greg’s convicted?”

  “They’ll never convict him. His record’s too good. It was all circumstantial evidence anyhow.”

  Her color was slowly coming back. He was holding the gun, and she made no attempt to escape. He could see her better now, the thin scum of cold cream still on her face, the silk negligee, but he was pitiless and scornful.

  “All along,” he said, “you’ve been playing a game to save your own skin. I’m sick of you. If you didn’t know certain things I’d hand you over to Floyd at once. I may yet. Now I want the truth. Who killed Marguerite Barbour?”

  “I don’t know,” she moaned. “That’s the truth. You can arrest me if you like. I still can’t tell you.”

  He believed her. He did not like her. He wanted to take her lovely cold-creamed throat and choke her to death, for her heartlessness and selfishness. But this was the truth and he knew it. His head was aching damnably. He lay back for a minute and closed his eyes.

  “What do you know about Greg’s marriage?” he asked. “Had he any enemies?”

  She seemed surprised.

  “I wouldn’t know. I suppose so.”

  He looked at her.

  “Could it have been a trap?”

  “Of course it was a trap. That little bitch—”

  “I don’t mean that,” he said, his voice tired. “Suppose someone wanted to get rid of the girl, and Greg was drunk. It would have been easy, wouldn’t it? Greg had money. If she was told that—”

  But she didn’t know even that. He took her again, slowly and painfully, through the night of the murder. She answered him as though she was sleepwalking, but at one question she roused.

  “Did you see anyone in the lane when you arrived that night? At or near the lane?”

  “Near it, yes,” she said. “But it couldn’t have been important, could it?”

  It was daylight when he let her go back to her room and her bed, with a warning.

  “Even money can’t buy you out of some things,” he told her. “And I’m not forgetting tonight. I don’t forget easily. You’re coming out with all you know when the time comes—unless you want your husband to learn about this.”

  She crept out like a whipped dog, and he managed to get up and lock the door behind her.

  He was wide awake and much improved the next morning when a nurse brought him a shoe box, closely tied with string. She was curious. She stood holding it in her hands, weighing it tentatively.

  “Not flowers,” she said smiling. “Not food. Maybe tobacco. You’re not supposed to smoke, you know.”

  “I doubt very much if it’s tobacco,” he told her, and put it aside until she had gone.

  Tim and Alex had taken him literally. He eyed with extreme distaste the collection of old horseshoe nails, dingy buttons, the eroded leather handle of a riding crop, and a rusted shoe horn. In the bottom, however, he came upon treasure. He covered the box and put it on the table beside him.

  By afternoon he was sitting up in bed, resenting the skullcap bandage on his head and demanding his trousers and some food. But about the shooting he was oddly reticent. He had walked up the lane, thought he heard someone moving at Pine Hill, and had gone in to investigate. Floyd, puzzled and annoyed, looked at him shrewdly.

  “You didn’t only hear someone moving, Dane,” he said. “You saw whoever it was, didn’t you?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “But you’ve got a damned good idea who it was, haven’t you?”

  “What makes you say that? How much can you see of a man behind a flashlight?”

  Floyd got up out of his chair, his face flushed with anger.

  “I don’t want to go after a man in your condition,” he said, “but all along, Dane, you’ve been holding out on me. Either you’re coming clean now or I’ll arrest you as an accessory to murder. Greg Spencer wasn’t alone when he killed that girl. If you know who helped him—”

  “I’m sorry, Floyd,” Dane said soberly. “Maybe I underestimated you at the beginning. You’ve done a smart job, and it isn’t your fault you’ve been off on the wrong foot all along.”

  “You’re crazy,” Floyd shouted furiously. “I’ve got Spencer, and you know it. He’ll go to trial, and he’ll be convicted.”

  Dane only lay back and closed his eyes, leaving Floyd to depart in helpless rage. The chief went back to his office and sitting at his desk went over his case against Greg. It was fool-proof, he thought: the motive, his engagement to marry again, his lack of any alibi in New York, the accurate knowledge by the killer of the house where the body was found, and Greg’s presence in the town when Lucy Norton died. Even the child, he thought. It all fitted. Why the merry hell had Dane said he was off on the wrong foot?

  After a time he called the district attorney on the phone.

  “What do you make of this attack on Dane?” he said. “Fit in anywhere?”

  Campbell was in a bad humor.

  “Not unless he did it himself!” he snapped. “It’s playing the devil with the case. The governo
r’s been on the wire. Seen the papers?”

  “Don’t want to see them,” Floyd said curtly, and hung up.

  Late that night Dane, still nursing a bad headache and a considerable grouch, was roused by cautious footsteps on the fire escape outside his room. Alex had at last gone home, after locking the window and drawing the shade.

  “Bad room to give you, sir,” he said. “Don’t trust that fire escape. Someone’s gunning for you, and no mistake.”

  Dane laughed.

  “Go home and go to sleep, Alex,” he said. “That shot wasn’t meant to kill me. It was meant to scare somebody off. Or anybody.”

  Alex stalked out, but not before he had once more placed Dane’s automatic on the table beside him. It was still there when, shortly after midnight, Dane heard cautious footsteps on the fire escape outside. He took the gun and sliding out of bed, stood beyond range beside the window. He was there when the steps reached the top and someone rapped carefully on the windowpane.

  Whoever he had expected—and he had expected someone—it was not the young voice which answered his challenge.

  “It’s Starr,” it said. “From the press. I have some news for you.”

  Dane unlocked the window, and Starr crawled in. He looked excited, and as Dane stood by he drew a piece of paper from his pocket. Dane read it without expression.

  “Came through two hours ago on the teletype,” he said, grinning. “See it in the paper in the morning! Queer story, isn’t it?”

  Dane looked tired.

  “It happens, you know. It’s a queer war. May I keep this?”

  “Sure. I copied it for you. That’s not what I came for, anyhow. I guess I’ll have to plead guilty to entering and stealing. I was in the yellow room at Crestview the night the Hilliard woman was shot. I wasn’t the first,” he said defensively, seeing Dane’s face. “I was over here late. The night telephone operator is a friend of mine.” He flushed slightly. “I was on the main road when I saw the ambulance come out, and then another car. Well, I’m a newspaperman. What would you have done?”

  He waited until Dane got back into bed, then he repeated the story he had told Carol in the bar. At the end, however, he grinned sheepishly. He pulled another paper out of his pocket and laid it in front of Dane.