Fire Will Freeze

by Margaret Millar

  “Tired?” he said.

  “Sure. What in hell do you expect?” Rudd said. “How about trading for a while?”

  “That is suitable to me if you give me your gun,” Dubois said. “A disadvantage must be balanced by an advantage.”

  Crawford patted his pocket and laughed. “The gun stays by me.”

  “As you say.”

  “I’ve got you, haven’t I? You can’t make time with me, but try going without me . . .”

  “You are too emotional,” Dubois said flatly. “Come along. Someone may have found the bus by this time, even though I left it on a side road.”

  “I suppose you’re still blaming me for not being able to start it,” Rudd said. “The engine was screwy.”

  “Excuses are nothing to me. I meet them every day.”

  “You bungled worse than I did!”

  “I was unable to continue in the blizzard, and my foot was nearly frozen. And I had had nothing to eat and no rest all night.”

  “So you came back,” Rudd jeered.

  “I came back, yes, hardly expecting that you had brought guests with you.”

  “I told you. It was inevitable. I couldn’t help it. If you’d let me drive the bus in the first place none of this would have happened. You could have gotten out of the bus, picked up the skis and supplies from Floraine and continued on your way north. And I could have driven right on to the Chateau. The police didn’t want me then. I was safe. I would have been just another one of the guests.”

  “I did not trust your driving,” Dubois said. “Events proved me correct, did they not?”

  “The whole scheme was screwy in the first place.”

  “There was no time for other arrangements,” Dubois said harshly. “And there is no time for talking now. You do not seem to realize the danger.”

  “Danger, hell!” Rudd said with a laugh.

  “You will be wanted for murder,” Dubois said quietly.

  “They’ll never catch me. I’ll get out of the country. I had to kill that bitch. She was giving me away. She was calling me Harry, and she’d found the newspapers Floraine had saved.”

  “What newspapers?”

  “The ones with your picture in,” Rudd said. “Isn’t that cute? Floraine saved them. Maybe she wanted to look at your pan now and then for inspiration. My hero Jeanneret! The little French Fuehrer! Maybe I should have kept the papers for a laugh instead of burning them in Isobel’s room.”

  “Shut up,” Dubois said, “and come along.”

  They moved on, more slowly now. Rudd felt the excitement, the exultation in danger, leaving him. It was as if he were bleeding somewhere inside him, and the blood kept pouring out of his head leaving it blank and fuzzy.

  He jerked his head back and forth to keep the blood there, to whip himself up. Then he shaded his eyes with his hand and looked around him. To the left he saw the smoke rising from a lumber camp miles away.

  He grinned and thought of himself as Mr. Aldington, lumber man. I was a good Mr. Aldington, he thought. I like that name. I’ll have to use it again. I’ll bet that guy Hearst was surprised. I gave him a hell of a dose, maybe he’s not awake yet.

  He found he could get along faster if he kept thinking of things, dangerous exciting things that made the laughter form inside him.

  Frances, now. It was funny how that had happened. Isobel had told him to go down into the cellar and fix the furnace. And he had, and there was Frances, hiding behind the furnace. She had said, “Harry, you thief, you murderer!” and she’d come out with a poker in her hand. So he killed her. He hardly felt the strain on his muscles, she stopped breathing so easily. But it was funny, because Isobel and Jeanneret had both been down in the cellar and hadn’t noticed her there.

  It was easy to put her in the trunk. She was light and small. But when she was all curled up in there he didn’t like the way her eyes stuck out like marbles. He forced the lids down over them.

  If they ever find out I’m Harry Rudd, he thought, that will be their clue. I closed her eyes. Because she was my sister. Like hell that was my reason.

  He should have killed her long ago. She was a nuisance. He had to pay good money to have her taken care of—her money, sure, but it didn’t do her any good to have money. And she was crazy. Funny how it made you feel, to have a crazy sister. Sometimes when you weren’t feeling good you even suspected you might be crazy, too. But don’t think about that. Think of you. Think of danger. Think of blood and snow and sun.

  Too bad he had to leave the country before he could get Frances’ money. But that didn’t matter much, he could always get money some place, he was clever. Damn clever.

  The best trick of all had been getting them to look for Frances when he knew she was dead. It gave him a perfect excuse for going away with Jeanneret—they had to go for help. It made the escape easy.

  Too bad he couldn’t stop laughing there at the end . . .

  Dubois had stopped suddenly and was pointing his finger to the left.

  “Look,” he said. “Look over there, southeast. Do you see anything?”

  “Smoke,” Rudd said, shading his eyes.

  “No. Something moving.”

  “Smoke moves.”

  “Yes. Yes, I guess it is smoke,” Dubois said uneasily. “My eyes are badly affected by this sun.”

  “Yes, it’s strong,” Rudd said, and there was something in his voice that made Dubois stare at him. But there seemed nothing unusual about Rudd, he always had the crazy glitter in his eye. He’d never attempt anything on me . . .

  Smoke, Rudd thought, he thinks it’s smoke.

  He looked again, and the smoke was there, too, but there was something else, like a moving fountain of snow. A snow-plow truck, Rudd thought. It was coming at them at right angles, and if it moved fast enough they’d be cut off.

  We’ll be cut off, Rudd thought, but that won’t matter to Jeanneret. He can ski ahead, he can ski faster than a truck can go on these roads. He wouldn’t even have to follow the roads. Jeanneret was all right. He had the skis.

  But I have the gun. And if I have the gun I can have the skis.

  But he’d have to watch Jeanneret, wait for his chance. Jeanneret was smooth and suspicious. And strong. Strong as an ox, but bullets can kill an ox. He wasn’t as strong as a bullet.

  It would be pleasant to kill Jeanneret and see his blood running out of him and making red slush of the snow. Maybe it was even his duty to kill him, to still that voice which sounded like Hitler’s when he was excited, the voice that swayed peasant and student alike. Little Hitler. Little traitor.

  I will kill him. I will kill him because he is a traitor and because I don’t like his face and because I want his skis. I have three reasons. That is enough.

  He turned and saw that Jeanneret was looking at him and that Jeanneret was afraid.

  “It’s not smoke,” Rudd said. “I think it’s a truck. I think I want your skis.”

  Jeanneret did not speak. His hands seemed limp on the poles and his eyelids were twitching.

  “I think I’ll kill you,” Rudd said. His hand was in his pocket and the butt of the gun was smooth and hard and satisfying.

  “Don’t be crazy,” Jeanneret said. “Don’t be crazy . . .”

  “I’m not crazy. My head feels very clear. I feel very good.”

  “Don’t . . . I paid you. I paid you. You can’t turn on me. I paid you! Don’t—don’t . . .”

  He fell forward on his knees with his arms outstretched.

  “I feel swell,” Rudd said. “Little Hitler, here it is.”

  Jeanneret toppled, almost without sound, clutching his heart with his hands. The blood spurted out between his fingers.

  Rudd stood motionless, watching him. He did not even put his gun back in his pocket but held it, prepared to shoot again. The blood fascinated him.
It was like melted rubies.

  Jeanneret died without a groan. Rudd touched him with the tip of his snowshoe.

  “French Canada for Frenchmen,” he said, laughing. “Here’s your part of French Canada. Six feet by two feet. That big enough for you? Sure it is. You’re not as big as you thought you were. One lousy little bullet. A cinch, Jeanneret. Heil, punk.”

  He put the gun back in his pocket. In the southeast the moving white fountain looked bigger. He was sure now it was a truck. Maybe with a policeman in it. Maybe Hearst had wakened sooner than he expected him to.

  He bent over and took off his snowshoes. There was blood on the tip where he’d touched Jeanneret.

  He slipped the pole straps off Jeanneret’s wrists and the blood dripped down the poles. He rolled them over and over in the snow to get the blood off. Then he took the skis off Jeanneret’s feet and tossed them to the side.

  He buried Jeanneret by pushing him into the snow as deep as he’d go and when he wouldn’t go any deeper he stood on him, balancing himself with the poles.

  They”ll find him some time in the spring, Rudd thought. And by that time—hell, by that time I’ll be in South America, or Florida. I think I’ll be Mr. Aldington in Florida.

  He pushed some more snow on Jeanneret’s body and said again, “Heil, punk!”

  Then, almost without hurry, he began to put the skis on.

  The snow-plow truck was coming closer, but he didn’t look at it again until he was ready to leave. Then he thrust the poles into the snow, and with his head raised in challenge he shouted:

  “Come and get me! Come and get me, you bastards!”

  He slid ahead, laughing to himself. His head felt clear and there were noises inside it like the bells of danger.

  16

  The sound of the shot reached the veranda like the snapping of a thin thread.

  Chad said, “We’ll go inside now. No sense in waiting . . .”

  “What was that noise?” Mrs. Vista said.

  “How should I know?” Chad said. “Come inside.”

  Paula looked at him levelly. “You know what it was. It was a . . .”

  “Dry up,” he said.

  “It was what?” Mrs. Vista said irritably. “Speak up, girl.”

  “It was a shot,” Paula said.

  Mrs. Vista blinked. “A shot? A gun, you mean?”

  “Probably some farmer shooting rabbits,” Chad said. “Sound travels quite a distance in this air. Nothing to get excited about. Let’s go inside.”

  Mrs. Vista gave him a glance from her shrewd little eyes, but Chad’s face remained expressionless. Perhaps it was a farmer, she thought, and even if it were not it was far, far better to believe it was. She took Mr. Goodwin’s arm, and leaning on it heavily she followed the Thropples and Mr. Hunter back into the house.

  “Go in, too, Paula,” Chad said flatly.

  “Are you coming?”

  “Later.”

  “Why not now?” She nodded her head in the direction of Joyce who stood at the far end of the veranda, her eyes still fixed on the horizon. “Because of her?”

  “No,” Chad said. “I thought you and Miss Morning could go up and attend to Isobel.”

  Paula hesitated and her face looked sulky and defiant.

  “I didn’t like the way she looked,” Chad added.

  “You’re just getting rid of me.”

  “That’s what you want, isn’t it? Be reasonable just this once. Let your right hand know what your left is doing.”

  A slow flush spread over her face. Then, without any warning, she raised her hand and dealt him a stinging blow on the cheek.

  “That’s what my right hand is doing,” she said in a high tearful voice.

  “All right,” Chad said quietly. “Now how about your left? You got that figured out, too?”

  She raised her left hand and then dropped it wearily and walked into the house. Her face was pale and stiff. I’ve hit him. I’ve hit someone. I haven’t any control. I’m jealous, jealous—I love him . . .

  She began to cry and whisper through her sobs. “I love him. I love him. I’m jealous of him and I love him.”

  “Sure you do,” Gracie said from the staircase. “And so what. Are you coming?”

  Sniffling and wiping her eyes, Paula followed Gracie slowly up the steps. When the door closed behind Paula, Chad walked quickly over to Joyce.

  “Can you still see them?”

  “One of them,” Joyce said. “Crawford had the gun, so I guess what I see is Crawford, or Rudd.”

  Chad scanned the horizon but could see nothing. “You have good eyesight, haven’t you?”

  “Of course,” she replied, without turning. “Inside and out. I think Rudd is crazy. He acts like a maniac.”

  “What if he’s killed Dubois?”

  Joyce turned then and gave him a half-pitying smile. “That wouldn’t make any difference to us. You don’t suppose Mr. Dubois intended to send help to us, do you? You are very naïve.”

  “What in hell are you talking about?”

  “Naïveté seems to be as congenital as color blindness. I really believe I was sophisticated at two. I don’t suppose Dubois is even his real name.”

  “Go on,” Chad said grimly.

  “As soon as I saw him,” Joyce said in a dreamy and exasperating voice, “I recognized the pimples at the back of his neck. And of course, even aside from that, pure logic indicated that he would have to be the bus driver.”

  “I suppose you were as logical at two as you were sophisticated.”

  “Naturally,” Joyce said modestly. “I mean, Dubois’ arrival was coincidental. I don’t suppose many skiers do get lost, and it seemed far too peculiar that we should lose a bus driver and find a lost skier. You understand?”

  “You make it very clear. All except one point: why didn’t you tell us?”

  “Why should I? I knew everyone would get all emotional and obscure the issue. And the issue was, if Dubois and Crawford were a pair of crooks and murderers, it would be better to have them out of the house. Simple logic, again.”

  “Yes,” Chad said weakly.

  “Because, of course, we were not actually uncomfortable here except for the presence of a murderer. Now that Rudd is gone we shall calmly await rescue.”

  “And you knew about Dubois right from the start?”

  “Not actually right at the start. But certainly when he faked being sick at the table. And then it was Crawford-Rudd who hurried to take him out.”

  “Why?” Chad said. “Why fake it in the first place?”

  “That’s one point I don’t quite see,” Joyce said, frowning. “I think it had something to do with Miss Seton. We’ll have to ask her.”

  But Miss Seton was in no condition to answer questions. She slept on, oblivious to the cold wet towels on her face and the urgent commands of Gracie to wake up.

  “Maybe she’s dying,” Gracie said. “Maybe they poisoned her.”

  “Hush up,” Paula said. “She’s been doped, I think. We’ll have to walk her.”

  “Walk her?”

  “Walk her. Make her walk up and down the room to wear off the drug.” Paula leaned over the bed and put her arm under one of Isobel’s shoulders and raised her to a sitting position. “Gracie, take her on the other side. Now pull her up on her feet.”

  “I don’t think this is such a good idea,” Gracie said, and after a time Paula was forced to agree. Isobel sagged at every joint and though she looked slender she was tall and weighed more than her appearance suggested. They let her fall back on the bed.

  “One of her eyelids moved,” Gracie said. “Maybe if we flung her around a little more she’d wake up.”

  “Bring more wet towels,” Paula said. She began to move Isobel’s arms up and down, and after ten minutes of this and more co
ld towels Isobel’s eyelids began to flicker noticeably.

  “That’s the girl!” Gracie shouted encouragingly. “That’s right! Wake up!”

  Isobel winced and put her hand slowly to her head. “My God,” she whispered. “Who—is—doing—that—shouting?”

  Then she opened her eyes and saw Gracie and remembered everything with a rush.

  “Where is he?” she said. “You didn’t—you didn’t let him go?”

  “Well, we sort of had to,” Gracie explained. “He just sort of left.”

  Isobel tried to struggle out of the bed, but there was a curious heaviness in her legs and arms and she had to lie back again, exhausted.

  “He wasn’t Dubois,” she whispered urgently. “He wasn’t a skier. He was Jeanneret. The picture in the paper—he was Jeanneret.”

  “Well, my goodness,” Gracie said. “What of it? You don’t think my name is Morning, do you? Matter of fact it’s Murphy.”

  “Keep quiet,” Paula told her crisply. She looked down at Isobel. “You’d better not try to talk. It won’t do any good. They’re both gone, Dubois and Rudd.”

  “Rudd?” Isobel said. “Rudd?”

  “Crawford.”

  Isobel closed her eyes again.

  I am tired, tired, she thought. I mustn’t think now. I will not think about him. I will not think how even talking to him was exciting—no, don’t think. Don’t think.

  She moved her head and a slow ache spread through her whole body.

  He lived in another world, she thought. He carried it around with him, inside him, and if you looked in at it you were afraid and fascinated and excited all at once.

  “Where is he?” she said at last. “Where is he now?”

  “They went off together,” Paula said, “he and Dubois.” She thought with a shock: why, she loved him, perhaps the way I love Chad. And he is a murderer . . .

  She said to Gracie, “I think we’ll leave her alone for a while. Could I bring you something, Isobel?”

  “No,” Isobel said. “No, nothing.”

  “I’ll stay here,” Gracie said.

  And she did stay. She sat quietly in a chair for some time, not looking at Isobel.