Fire Will Freeze

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Fire Will Freeze Page 14

by Margaret Millar


  “I don’t know. There were no marks on her. She apparently fell or was pushed over the second-story balcony.”

  Dubois leaned forward. “But surely a fall in soft snow wouldn’t kill her?”

  “The balcony’s very high. See how high the ceilings are in the house.”

  “But even so . . .”

  “And perhaps she had heart trouble,” Isobel said, “and died of shock as she fell.”

  “That is possible. This balcony runs along the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Both sides?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which side did she fall from?”

  Isobel pointed. “Outside the library. It happened during the night. Paula Lashley heard her scream.”

  “I must become acquainted with these people,” Dubois said. “Who was occupying the room directly above the library?”

  “She was, Floraine herself.”

  “And the next room?”

  “Miss Rudd.”

  “I am full of questions,” he said, smiling. “I am interested in mysteries. So profound a one as this makes me forget I am a guest here and have no right to ask questions.”

  “You’re not my guest,” Isobel said dryly. “Ask away.”

  “It seems odd,” he said, “that Miss Rudd who lived amicably alone here with her nurse should decide to kill her. You agree?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope I may see Miss Rudd. One can estimate many things about a person from his or her appearance. Character is written on the face. I find Mr. Crawford, despite his unfortunate manners, an eminently honest man who is still emotionally immature. He could be persuaded, I fancy, to play cops and robbers. He is still a boy.”

  “Well, he has some very boyish habits,” Isobel said wryly. “And I don’t believe you can read character from faces. You don’t look like a cross-country skier, for instance.”

  “Perhaps you’ve never met any.”

  “I’ve met athletes. They don’t look or talk like you.”

  He laughed. “Perhaps I looked and talked like this before I became an athlete. Your filing system is too simple, Miss Seton. You have no file marked ‘miscellaneous.’ ”

  “I’ll whip one up,” Isobel said, “and you may be the first one to get into it.”

  “Thank you. Who has been taking charge of the group since you arrived?”

  “Taking charge?”

  “Yes. There is always someone within a group who decides what the others will do or eat or wear or talk about.”

  “Not in this group. I’ve tried. I wasn’t a success, thanks to Mr. Crawford’s heckling and the natural laziness and selfishness of most of the others. The difficulty is that none of them has any sense of responsibility. A woman is killed—but it’s nobody important. A bus driver disappears, we are shot at—but the driver doesn’t matter to them personally and no one was hurt from the shooting. You see?”

  “I see.”

  “I didn’t mean to tell you all this, but since you are here you might as well know what you’re in for.”

  “I shall not be here long.”

  “That’s what we thought,” Isobel said. “But here we are. Would you like some more tea?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Dubois said.

  Isobel found Crawford in the kitchen alone. He was standing on a chair peering into the top cupboards, making groaning noises.

  “What are you looking for?” Isobel said crossly. “Or shall I guess?”

  “You guess,” Crawford said.

  “Miss Rudd?”

  “Nope.”

  “Weevil killer?”

  “Getting close.”

  “Crawford Special?”

  “You have it,” Crawford said. “I am looking for some of that nice fiery liquid that makes Crawford feel he is a king among men.”

  “I thought Crawford always felt that way,” Isobel said. “It’s Crawford’s acquaintances that have to be convinced. Move over. I want the teapot.”

  Crawford stepped down from the chair and watched her pour out the tea.

  “Is that for our skiing champ Dubois?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nice-looking fellow, Dubois, but he hasn’t my rugged charm. Of course that’s only my opinion.”

  “You said it,” Isobel replied coldly. She started to walk away, then turned around again and faced him, frowning. “Mr. Crawford, I want to talk seriously to you.”

  Crawford leered at her. “Ha, I knew you’d come around to my way of thinking about me.”

  “Did you take away the bus driver’s coat from the closet?”

  “Yup.”

  “What for?”

  “I wanted to examine it in the privacy of my bedroom.”

  “I don’t believe it. As far as I can see you’re trying to prevent anyone from finding out anything about anything.”

  “Fine, flowery English,” Crawford said. “And don’t breathe on the champ’s tea, Isobel, you’ll freeze it.”

  “You are deliberately, willfully, hindering investigation to protect yourself. You don’t want me to find out anything about you . . .”

  “You go carp at the champ, Isobel. I’m busy.”

  “Stop calling him the champ! He’s a very nice, polite, sympathetic and intelligent man . . .”

  “You’ll get over this infatuation, Isobel, and then you’ll come back to me. He is dross and chaff, flotsam and jetsam, a homewrecker . . .”

  The door slammed. Crawford gazed at it, grinning. Then he started to whistle and climbed back on the chair and resumed his search for another bottle of brandy. He didn’t find any brandy but he found a pint of Seagram’s rye. With the bottle in his pocket he went upstairs very quietly, and into Isobel’s room. He caught sight of his face in the mirror above the fireplace. It was stiff and triumphant, and he smiled at himself. He was in a tight spot and it excited him, made him reckless.

  He moved quickly around the room, with the smile still plastered on his face and the blood racing through his veins.

  In three minutes he had found what he wanted, and five minutes after that it was destroyed.

  He stood watching the flames leap up the chimney and his triumph bubbled up in his throat. It wasn’t the triumph of winning because he hadn’t won, and there was a good chance that he wouldn’t win—but he liked the challenge, he liked to out-talk and out-think other people, he liked to fight, even when the breaks were all against him as they were now. From the time he had tried to start the bus and failed, his luck had been out.

  But he always bounced back somehow. Even Floraine’s death, after the first shock was over, had exhilarated him in some strange perverse way—he knew now he had a mortal enemy in this house, someone who knew him and what he was and someone he didn’t know.

  A mortal enemy. Someone who wore a mask like himself, but not so subtly as he wore his. You had to be subtle to carry things off as he did, telling the truth in such a way that you weren’t believed. He was good at that. He had fooled Isobel Seton.

  Or have I? he thought in a moment of self-doubt. Have I fooled her? Or has she fooled me? I’d better watch my step.

  It would be funny if it were Isobel. Funny and damned exciting and dangerous.

  He went back into the hall and stood for a minute, listening. The others were all downstairs. He could search their rooms now if he wanted to, but he knew it wouldn’t be any use. He was up against someone too clever to leave behind any evidence that would crack the mask.

  I’ll have to think, think, he said silently, but there was this queer excitement in his head that prevented him from thinking, and he had had too much brandy.

  I’ll go down and tell them all that I’ve moved the body, he thought, I’ll get them circulating around again and watch. Perhaps I’ll get them looking for Frances and give
them something to do. It will be safer for me not to have them all together.

  At the thought of Miss Rudd he frowned suddenly and some of the excitement left him. He had been afraid of her. She had been after him with that chair . . . yes, she’d better be found. And he didn’t want to be the one to find her.

  Upon reaching the dining room he discovered that the rest of the group shared his feeling very strongly.

  “I think it would be far, far better,” said Mrs. Vista, “if we all remain in one room and leave Miss Rudd the rest of the house. Don’t you think so, Anthony?”

  Mr. Goodwin thought so, yes.

  Mr. Hunter coughed gently and said, “I shouldn’t mind looking for Miss Rudd, but I shouldn’t like to find her.”

  “Oh, Poppa,” Joyce said petulantly. “You’re always trying to spoil things for me. I think Mr. Crawford is perfectly right. But if we’re going to look for her we shouldn’t go alone, but in pairs.” She looked across at Chad Ross and gave him a dazzling smile. “What do you think, Mr. Ross?”

  Chad Ross, receiving a long cold stare from Paula which followed the dazzling smile, said, “No. I mean yes.”

  Paula raised her brows. “Just what do you mean?”

  Joyce smiled sweetly at her. “He means he’s agreeing with me.”

  “Don’t fight over him, ladies,” Crawford said dryly. “I don’t think he can handle both of you.”

  Chad looked at him. “You can, I bet.”

  “I’d die trying.”

  “Are you being coarse?” Mrs. Vista said, gazing at him sternly. “I don’t approve of coarseness, especially in the dining room, in front of minors. Anthony’s poems are sometimes brutally realistic, but never, never coarse, are they, Anthony?”

  Mr. Goodwin said no, never.

  “Who cares about his poems?” Maudie said irritably.

  Mrs. Vista and Mr. Goodwin exchanged sad and knowing glances.

  “A philistine,” said Mrs. Vista.

  “Quite,” said Mr. Goodwin.

  “Hoi polloi.”

  “Definitely.”

  “An ignoramus.”

  “The very word.”

  “Are you talking about me?” Maudie demanded. “You triple-chinned, fat-headed old drizzle-puss?”

  “Now, Maudie,” Herbert said. “Now, angel.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Crawford said. “I thought we were talking about Miss Rudd.”

  “You frog-faced, bat-eyed stinkaroo,” said Maudie.

  “The instant I laid eyes on that woman,” Mrs. Vista said regally, “I knew her for what she was. She is coarse.”

  “Now, now Maudie,” Herbert said. “Remember your heart. Remember your blood pressure.”

  “Remember Miss Rudd?” Crawford said.

  “Remember Pearl Harbor,” Gracie said brightly. “I think this is a cute game.”

  “Shut up!” Crawford roared. “Everybody shut up except me!”

  Crawford’s voice being what it was, everybody shut up more from shock than a willingness to oblige.

  Crawford continued, more quietly, “Personally I don’t care whether Miss Rudd slits all your throats. The only throat I’m anxious to protect is my own because the Crawford tenor is famous in bathrooms from coast-to-coast. So if nobody else wants to find her, I do and I will. And when I find her I’ll give her my gun to play with, run like hell into my room, lock the door and let her shoot up the works. How do you like that for a cute game?”

  There was a silence. Then Mrs. Vista said thoughtfully, It sounds rather—strenuous. I think perhaps, with certain exceptions, we should all help Mr. Crawford to look for Miss Rudd. One of the exceptions will, naturally, be myself. I no longer possess the necessary élan for such pursuits, to say nothing of the necessary joie de vivre and feu de joie.”

  Mr. Goodwin blinked and said he too lacked these three necessary qualities; but after being hauled to his feet by Crawford he admitted he might work them up. Since Mr. Goodwin’s case was settled, he wandered out into the hall and stared helplessly up and down. Confronted by space free of Miss Rudd, he took heart and ventured to open a door which looked promising. It happened to be the library door—Mr. Goodwin was not fortunate in these matters—and he closed it again very quickly. Floraine was not a sight calculated to cheer the heart, and Mr. Goodwin retreated to the dining room looking bilious.

  “Back again?” Crawford said grimly.

  “My dear Anthony!” Mrs. Vista exclaimed. “Your face is positively mildewed. Really, we cannot take chances with your health. Poets are so delicate. You must remain here with me.”

  “I want to go with Chad,” Joyce said.

  “You shall go with me,” Mr. Hunter said.

  “No, Poppa, you’re so dull.”

  “I have never been considered dull.”

  “People were just too polite to say so, Poppa.”

  “Shut up!” Crawford roared again. “And get out! All of you! Get—out—of—my—sight! scram!”

  There was a general movement towards the hall. In less than a minute Mrs. Vista found herself alone with Maudie.

  Mrs. Vista sniffed audibly and turned her eyes to the ceiling.

  Maudie drew in her breath.

  “You addle-pated, bulbous-nosed old bat.”

  “Coarse,” Mrs. Vista said sadly, with her eyes turned upwards. “A very coarse little bitch.”

  13

  Dubois surprised and displeased Isobel by quite suddenly going to sleep in the middle of one of her sentences. He lay with his head propped against the back of the chair, but even in sleep his body seemed to have a watchful rigidity.

  She waited, hoping the banging of the radiators or the shuffle of feet and the sound of raised voices from the hall might waken him again. She felt lonely without him. His self-assurance calmed her.

  Finally she rose and went out into the hall and found Mr. Goodwin. The others had disappeared, either up or down, and Mr. Goodwin, for lack of anything better to do, was trying to play a tune on the crystal chandelier by tapping it with his cigarette holder.

  When he saw Isobel he dropped the cigarette holder and looked sheepish.

  “Yes?” Isobel said curtly. “What are you supposed to be doing?”

  “Precisely my question,” Mr. Goodwin said. “What am I supposed to be doing? Nobody told me.”

  “Well, think of what the rest are doing and do that. Where are they all?”

  Mr. Goodwin shrugged. “Here and there. Looking for Miss Rudd. Waste of time.”

  “Why a waste of time?”

  “It’s her house. Probably she knows plenty of nooks and crannies where she can hide, supposing hiding is desirable, as no doubt it is.”

  “This isn’t a nook-and-cranny house,” Isobel said. “She’s probably just in a closet upstairs.”

  But when Crawford and Joyce and Chad and Mr. Hunter came down they were willing to swear that Miss Rudd was not upstairs. Every available space had been searched, including the bathroom and the back staircase, and Miss Rudd had not appeared.

  “It’s damn funny,” Chad said. “If she was a normal person I’d say she was tricking us some way, making monkeys out of us. But—this is the third one.”

  “Third one?” Joyce echoed.

  “Third one to disappear,” Chad said slowly.

  Joyce’s eyes widened. “She wouldn’t be out in the snow?”

  “No,” Crawford said. “I looked out of all the windows and there were no marks on the balcony and no marks below, and it hasn’t snowed since she disappeared.”

  “The third floor,” Isobel said. “Perhaps that door really does open and it fooled us.”

  Both Crawford and Mr. Hunter disagreed with her.

  “Maybe Paula and Herbert and Gracie have found her down in the cellar,” Joyce said.

  But when Pau
la and Herbert and Gracie came back Miss Rudd was not with them.

  “This is insane,” Isobel said shrilly. “She must be somewhere. I’m going to look myself.”

  “Go ahead,” Crawford said. “If you think you’re so much better at it.”

  “Will anyone come with me?” Isobel said. “Mr. Goodwin?”

  “Me?” Mr. Goodwin said.

  “Comic relief only,” Isobel said coldly. “I need some to steady my nerves.”

  “Oh, quite. Know just how it is. You find me amusing?”

  “You’ll never know,” Isobel said and walked off down the hall with Mr. Goodwin trailing behind her. The others watched in grim silence.

  How often have I been down in this cellar now, Isobel thought, pausing at the top of the stairs. I practically live here. But I can’t get used to the smell.

  Mr. Goodwin noticed it, too. “Lime,” he said. “Like a morgue.”

  “And rotting potatoes.”

  “The macabre note, yes,” Mr. Goodwin said, advancing carefully into the main room.

  “I’ve already searched this room,” Isobel said. “There’s no place for anyone to hide.”

  “The trunks?”

  “I’ve looked there before,” Isobel said, barely glancing at them.

  Mr. Goodwin went and looked at the trunks. “I haven’t seen a trunk like this for years. Reminds me of when I was a boy . . .”

  “Were you ever a boy?” Isobel called from the next room.

  There was a long and noticeable silence after this, no sound at all from Mr. Goodwin.

  Now what? Isobel thought and came back into the main room.

  The lid of the trunk was open and Mr. Goodwin was crouching beside it, like a tiger motionless before its prey. But his face was dreamy.

  “She is here,” he said in a deep strange voice.

  Miss Rudd seemed small in death, and helpless. The wild look had gone from her face and she was only a little old woman curled up in a trunk to sleep for a time. Her eyes were closed and her hands were clasped under her chin, and her tongue stuck out of her mouth in a roguish way.

  “She was a child,” Goodwin said, “a child who lived too long.”

  It was a gentle epitaph. Isobel began to cry almost without sound.

 

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