“I’ll do it,” Paula said listlessly.
“Well, I should think so,” Mrs. Vista said in a tone of indignant righteousness. “I cannot be everywhere at once, and Mr. Crawford must be fed adequately before he sets out to risk his life for us.”
It was apparent that Crawford had been working on Mrs. Vista with some success. It was also apparent, later on, that as Crawford’s stock went up Mr. Goodwin’s went down. There was a strange speculative expression in Mrs. Vista’s eye when she gazed at Mr. Goodwin across the table.
Mr. Goodwin, aware of the expression and conscious that he was slipping, chewed his beans and bread very mobilely, and let a glazed look come into his own eyes. It was Mr. Goodwin’s composing look, but far from having the desired effect, it caused Mrs. Vista to wince quite audibly, and turn her attention to Crawford, the hero of the day.
Crawford was doing his best to look like a hero, and except for the occasional wink he gave to Isobel, he was succeeding.
No one paid much attention to Dubois, and this fact Isobel found strange until she studied him more closely. He seemed to have changed, he looked smaller, almost inconspicuous, and he ate quietly and without interest. Whereas before his quietness had had an effective, almost a sinister, quality, now he appeared merely an ordinary man who didn’t want to talk.
Isobel was affected by the change in him. It forced her to doubt her own impressions of him or else to credit him with extraordinary acting talent.
Or perhaps he really has changed, she thought. Perhaps Crawford really scared him.
She turned her head to look at Dubois and caught his eyes on her. He was regarding her with a blank impassive gaze, as if he had never met her before or knew her so well he was bored by her.
Then he lowered his eyes again and resumed eating.
She said, “I hope you won’t find it too difficult taking Mr. Crawford with you.”
He shrugged, without looking up from his plate. “I am happy to help you,” he said.
“Is there any danger?”
“I think not. This part of the country is sparsely populated but not desolate. I will direct myself by the sun.”
Although he had replied politely enough to her questions, Isobel felt rebuffed and uncomfortable. He seemed to have drawn a curtain over his own personality and the curtain was as opaque and strong as steel.
Isobel thought, I’ve felt like this before—somewhere—the same impassivity.
She stopped eating suddenly and her knife clattered to the floor. I’ve seen him before, she thought. I’ve seen his picture somewhere.
Dubois leaned down to pick up the knife and when he handed it to her their eyes met again.
He put his hand over his heart suddenly and let out a small groan and began to sway in his chair.
“I’m—sick,” he said in a painful whisper. “Help me—help . . .”
He lurched to his feet, his hands clutching at Isobel’s shoulders for support. His fingers dug painfully into her flesh.
“. . . help me!”
He was deathly pale and there was stark fear in his eyes.
14
In an instant Crawford was on his feet and had reached out and grabbed Dubois’ arm. He hurried him out of the door, with Isobel supporting Dubois’ other arm. Crawford moved so quickly and quietly that the others, deep in conversation, barely noticed that Dubois was sick.
They put him on the chesterfield in the sitting room and Crawford opened the bottle of Seagram’s and forced some of the rye down Dubois’ throat. Dubois spluttered and groaned and tried to sit up.
“Lie down,” Crawford said. “Drink this.”
Isobel, frightened and puzzled, stood behind the chesterfield. “What’s the matter with him?” she asked Crawford.
“How should I know? Can you get some water or something?”
Dubois was moving his mouth but not a sound came from it.
Isobel fled from the room and came back in a minute with a glass of water.
There was no one there.
She stood, frozen, only her eyes moving around the room, frantic and wild. Then her hands began to shake and the water splashed out of the glass on her arm. But she did not feel its wetness or coldness, there was no feeling in her at all except a powerful fear which weighed her feet and chilled the back of her neck like cold wind.
“Mr. Dubois,” she said, and her voice came out of her mouth in a thin trickle. “Mr. Dubois, where are you?”
Turn and run, a voice screamed inside her, turn and run, run . . .
Isobel felt the slight movement behind her and half turned.
“Don’t move,” Dubois said.
She knew, without thinking, that he had been behind the door waiting for her to come back.
“So you know me,” Dubois said. “I saw you recognize me suddenly at the table.” Isobel felt her knees folding and a swift black curtain blowing over her eyes. She seemed to float to the floor, feather-light, and the floor was soft as a pillow. She closed her eyes gratefully.
She did not feel Dubois picking her up and carrying her out into the hall. He staggered under her weight, and cursed, and began mounting the steps. Someone came into the hall below, and Dubois stopped halfway up and saw that it was Chad Ross.
“She’s fainted,” he said to Chad. “I’m taking her to her room. The strain has been too much for her.”
Chad stared, but said nothing, and Dubois continued on his way. Isobel did not stir.
He put her down on the bed in the first room he came to. When he saw that she was still unconscious he left her for a moment to pour out a glass of water from the water pitcher.
He poured the water and came back to her and tried to force her mouth open. She moved slightly.
“Here,” he said. “Drink this up. You fainted.”
Her eyes fluttered and opened a little, and he saw by the fear in them that she was fully conscious.
“Drink it up,” he said. “You don’t have to be frightened of me.”
“No! No, I won’t drink it!” She wanted to scream but her throat seemed paralyzed and she spoke in a whisper. “No! No.”
“Don’t be childish,” he said gently. “You cannot harm me by knowing who I am, and I have no desire to harm you.”
She sat up and tried suddenly to push the water away so that it would spill. But he was prepared for this and drew his hand back quickly.
His other hand came around the back of her neck and she felt her strength leaving her. The water trickled down her throat and he didn’t ease the pressure until it was all gone. Then he set the glass down carefully, and with no emotion at all he put one hand over her mouth and with the other held her arms.
“You’re going to sleep now,” he said evenly.
He waited until her eyelids began to close and he no longer felt her muscles struggling against his hands. Then he rose from the bed and went calmly out into the hall and closed the door behind him.
When he reached the first floor he found the other women huddled together in the hall.
Paula turned to him and said huskily, “Please. Please hurry. We have to get out of here.”
Dubois said, “Where’s Crawford?”
“He’s getting ready,” Paula said. “You’ll have to help us, Mr. Dubois.”
“Of course,” he said politely. “I am quite ready to leave when Crawford is.”
“Do you feel better, Mr. Dubois?” Mrs. Vista asked.
“Oh, yes, thank you. I just felt faint for a moment,” he said.
He turned away with an impatient twitch of his shoulders. He went down into the cellar and began to put on his heavy jacket, moving quickly and precisely. He did not even glance at the trunks when he passed them.
There was too much fuss about death, he thought.
He brought his skis inside through the cellar door and examined the
m and brushed off the snow. Then he slung his poles over his shoulder and went upstairs again. There was no use thinking about death until the very moment it struck you . . .
Crawford was at the front door, attempting to fasten the snowshoes to his shoes. He had his overcoat on and a scarf tied around his head and he was in a savage mood.
“You are ready?” Dubois said.
“No!” Crawford barked. “Somebody get these goddamn women off my neck.” He glared up at Gracie. “Do you have to stand there watching me?”
Gracie took a step back and said helplessly, “I only wanted to . . .”
“Shut up!”
“You are still not learning politeness,” Dubois said mildly. “But perhaps this is not the time to demand it. You are fastening the thongs improperly. Shall I assist?”
“I’ll do it myself,” Crawford said roughly. “Just tell these dames to beat it.”
“We were just giving you a send-off,” Gracie said with resentment. “You big piece of cheese.”
She felt Joyce Hunter’s hand on her arm.
“Don’t,” Joyce said in a low voice. “Don’t antagonize him.”
“Well, who does he think he is?”
“Hush.” Joyce scowled at her. “Where’s Miss Seton?”
Gracie’s eyes widened and she looked around the group.
“Where’s Isobel Seton?” she asked loudly.
The rest looked at each other blankly. Finally Chad glanced dryly at Dubois and said, “She’s fainted, I believe? You carried her upstairs?”
“That is correct,” Dubois said blandly. “She was much affected by the excitement. She will be better after a time.”
Gracie stared at him. “Yeah? She’s not the fainting type and she wouldn’t have missed this for anything.”
Dubois said, “I am sorry I have no time to convince you. You are welcome to go upstairs and find out for yourself.”
“I’ll do that,” Gracie said. “And don’t try to leave this house until I find out if she’s all right!”
Crawford straightened up and glared at her. “Who in hell are you talking about? Christ, I can’t move in these things! Look at me.”
“They’re not for walking on floors,” Dubois said, and turned back to Gracie. “I am waiting for you to reassure yourself about Miss Seton. I have no time to waste. Please hurry.”
With a defiant toss of her head Gracie ran up the steps. Dubois called after her, “I placed her in the first bedroom on the left.”
She found Isobel lying on the bed. She was breathing quickly and her face was pale, but she appeared to be all right.
Gracie said, “Isobel, you’re okay? Hey, Isobel?”
Isobel did not stir. That’s some faint, Gracie thought uneasily, but what else could be wrong?
When she came down again Crawford was still cursing about his snowshoes and Dubois was opening the front door. The sun streamed in, jeweled with snow. Dubois’ breath came out of his mouth like smoke as he leaned over to fasten his ski straps. When he saw Gracie he said, “You are satisfied? Miss Seton is perfectly all right?”
Gracie muttered, “Y-yes.”
Mrs. Vista was bustling around Crawford, making hysterical little noises. “Be sure and come back—so upset—so grateful if you would rescue us.”
Crawford tightened the scarf over his ears and stepped out on the veranda. “How grateful?” he said. “And in what language?”
Mrs. Vista’s hysteria disappeared, as always, at the mention of money.
“You shall be paid,” she said, rather stiffly, “and paid well.”
Dubois was already out in the snow, flexing his knees and jabbing the ski poles into the snow. It was hard and crusty, with a layer of soft fine snow on top.
If I were alone, he thought, I could make speed on this . . . If I were alone . . .
Crawford stumbled down the steps after him, but he didn’t curse, he was hardly aware of the snowshoes any longer because he was wondering how much money Mrs. Vista would pay him.
If I were alone, he thought, I could work this both ways. I could disappear by myself and go back to Mrs. Vista later for the money when everything had blown over. She’d be fool enough to give it to me . . .
“Hurry up there,” Dubois said.
“Sure,” Crawford said. He could feel the gun swinging against his thigh as he moved. Every time it bumped him he felt the excitement rising in his throat like bubbles.
This is swell, he thought, this is a wonderful feeling. I can do anything, anything, anything . . .
It was always other people who bungled things. After this he’d go on his own. He’d be alone, free. He wouldn’t have to plan anything.
His eyes glittered as if they were bright with tears.
Dubois said quietly, “Not planning anything, are you?”
Crawford’s teeth showed in a smile. “Not a thing. Are you?”
“I shall be watching you,” Dubois said. “Your eyes give you away.”
He gripped his poles and skied off across the snow. Crawford began to walk.
“Good luck!” Paula called from the veranda. “Good luck!”
Crawford waved, and turned, following in Dubois’ tracks. He moved slowly at first and Dubois was forced to lean on his poles and wait for him.
“Glide!” he shouted. “Don’t lift your feet far off the snow!”
Crawford moved on, faster now, in a smooth walk almost like a dance. The snowshoes kept him on top of the crusted snow.
“Get going!” he said to Dubois. “I can keep up with you! I can keep up!”
The gun swung and bumped against his thigh, and an exultant laugh pushed up from his stomach and rang out in the still clear air. I can keep up. I can do anything, anything. Jesus, Jesus, this is swell.
The people watching from the veranda were suddenly quiet. Crawford’s laughter struck their ears and cut into their memories.
“Look at him!” Maudie shrieked suddenly. “Look at his face! He’s not going to come back! He’s running away! He’s not coming back.”
Crawford turned and the sun caught the gleam of his teeth and the air echoed with his sharp shrill laughing.
“Come back!” Chad shouted. “Back! Come back!”
Dubois did not even turn his head and Crawford was gliding ahead again, his head thrust high as if to meet the challenge of the cold and the sun and the brilliant air he breathed.
Chad leaped off the veranda and began to plod through the snow after them, but he could barely move in it. It was as thick and soft and treacherous to the feet as quicksand. He kept shouting and waving and calling Dubois’ name. Then with a faint cry he toppled into the snow and disappeared from view.
When he stood up again he brushed the snow from his eyes and mouth, and with a weary gesture of his shoulders he made his way back to the veranda.
“It’s no use,” he said.
For a moment there was a hushed despairing silence in the group.
“But I offered to pay him,” Mrs. Vista said at last. “I’m sure he’ll come back.”
Joyce was watching the two figures move across the snow, her face expressionless.
“Of course,” she said slowly. “Of course he’s not coming back. You know who he is now.”
“That laugh,” Maudie said. “It sounded like her.”
“Of course,” Joyce said. “He’s Harry Rudd. He’s her brother.”
“Her brother,” Gracie said huskily. “Then she was right. She wasn’t as crazy as you all thought she was.” Her voice rose. “I knew she wasn’t! Don’t let him get away! He’s a murderer!”
Paula said, “There’s nothing we can do. We’d better go back in the house and wait.”
“Wait for what?” Mrs. Vista said bitterly.
“Mr. Dubois will send someone to rescue us,” Paula said
. “I’m sure he will.”
But no one moved from the veranda. It was as if they had to keep Crawford and Dubois in sight as long as they could, they had to preserve this contact with the outside world. They squinted against the sun and watched the two figures become smaller until they were like ants on a sheet of paper stretching to the horizon, its whiteness broken only by scattered etchings of black winter trees.
15
Crawford began to breathe heavily and there was a sharp pain in his lungs when he drew in the cold air. He stopped a minute to put his hand to his heart.
Across from him Dubois instantly braked his skis. “Don’t,” he said. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
“Look who’s talking,” Crawford said. “Very suspicious, aren’t you?”
“That is correct.”
“Maybe you’d like me to keep my hands in the air?”
“Very much, but I shall not ask you to. You have been useful, Rudd. I hope you have sufficient sense to keep on being useful. Shall we start again?” He did not move until Rudd did, and this time he shortened the distance between them so that they went along side by side about two yards apart.
Rudd was tiring, he could see that. He’d have to be allowed to rest frequently. If they both had skis they could be at Chapelle in two hours. As it was they’d have to take a chance and make for Gauthier’s farm. Gauthier was a fervent member of the French Canada for Frenchmen organization and he’d better be willing to prove his fervency. Perhaps they could both stay at Gauthier’s for a time, or perhaps Rudd had better be left there alone.
“Where are we heading?” Rudd said, as if aware of Dubois’ thoughts.
“Marcel Gauthier’s,” Dubois said.
“All right.” Funny, Rudd thought, I never even asked that before. I’m so used to his planning, so used to trusting him. But from now on, that’s out. I’m me, and to hell with him.
His legs were beginning to ache from exertion. He hadn’t been on snowshoes since he was twenty—probably these same snowshoes, he thought—and the sight of Dubois skimming lightly over the snow on skis filled him with resentment.
He paused again, panting, and just as he had before, Dubois stopped on a dime and looked across at him.
Fire Will Freeze Page 16
