by Steve Fisher
Betty stepped away, looked around a little blankly, then came to Grant.
Frances tittered, and the butler O'Malley and his wife exchanged looks.
Johnny West said: "I guess that's all for now. You can go to your beds." His young face seemed just a little tired.
Dorothy undressed and put on her robe, but she was not sleepy and for a long while she stood out on the little balcony of her room watching the water of the Sound, and the lights on the boats that were moving in and out. From somewhere she faintly heard the howl of a wolf and she thought it was strange that there should be wolves when New York City was only twenty miles away. There were other sounds, too, but she was impressed with the quiet of the country.
She went to bed.
She had thought she would sleep, but she could not. She thought of Rhea Davis. Rhea Davis strolling through her last performance, a thing over-burdened with the clumsy rhetoric of a playwright whose speeches were three pages long. The drama and fire of Rhea Davis now gone to dust.
She tossed and turned on the bed, and hours passed, she didn't know how many.
But when she heard the lock click on her door she became rigid. She was wide awake. She could not breathe and she lay there staring out through the soft dark light in the room.
She waited. The hinges of the door creaked, slightly. Blood pumped into Dorothy's temples. She felt herself trembling in every limb. The floorboard inside the door gave away with faint sound. Dorothy's fingers gripped at the sheets. There was sweat on her cheeks. She heard the footsteps moving, steadily now, across the room. A figure cast a shadow in front of the light from the window.
She screamed—shrilly. She kept screaming. She leaped for the side of the bed to get to the lights.
But the figure moved toward her. Cold hands gripped her arms and swung her about.
Then the hands were at her neck.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dorothy struggled, but the fingers at her neck tightened. She gasped for air. Her scream was choked. She felt as though she were suffocating. The hands were merciless. The grip tightened. She hit out at the figure, then she felt her legs buckling beneath her, and she was sucking at air.
She hit the floor and consciousness fled from her.
* * *
Dorothy opened her eyes. Everything was different. The lights were on. She was lying across the bed. Frances was sitting there dipping a cloth into a basin of water. Clifton was on the other side of her. She put her hand to her neck and moved her head from side to side. She coughed. She could see now that Johnny West was walking up and down the room.
Clifton's eyes were desperately bright. "You okay, kid?"
She whispered: "I—I think so."
Frances, her face pale, gulped, and said: "Boy, did you ever scream!"
"Shut up," said Clifton, and to Dorothy; "A doctor's coming. You were out about half an hour."
"That long?"
"That long," Clifton said. "The whole house is up. They were all in here for a while. The whole stinking tribe. Sam Tulley and Mike Wiggam went below to get a drink. They need it."
"Yeah," said Frances, "and the cook is so scared she's all packed. Only the cops won't let her leave. Mr. Smyth is—well, he is—"
Clifton snapped: "I said shut up." Frances rose. "You ain't so good. Telling people to shut up." She picked up the basin and cloth and left the room. She looked as though she was going to cry.
"She's frightened," Dorothy whispered, "you shouldn't have been so—"
"I'm sick of the whole thing!" Clifton replied. "We didn't ask for this. Bring us out here to kill us, that's all. We might better smother to death in Greenwich Village. I'd like to be doing something. I want to be doing something so long as I live on this earth, and all we're doing here is marking time while a stupid cop looks for somebody that's killing people. I'll write about this sometime. I'll make monkeys out of their law and order and investigation. I'll—"
Johnny West was there. "Right now though you can take a powder, Mr. Dell."
Clifton got up. "I can what?"
"Take a powder. Get out."
Clifton said: "When you get big enough to make me, I might."
West's eyes flickered dully. "I don't want to get tough with you. It's necessary that I talk to Miss Noel alone."
Clifton laughed bitterly. "Is it, though? Tough guy. Hick from the sticks."
"You're nervous, Mr. Dell."
Dorothy sat up. "I'm all right, Clifton. Please go."
He glanced at her. He was tense. His muscles were taut, like a bird's. He looked back up at West, then he turned and walked out. Dorothy put her hand to her head. There was an ache all through her, but the tension had eased and she realized now that she had been lucky to escape something possibly worse. Johnny West was lighting a cigarette. She saw how young his face was, but, too, traced faintly with lines. When he spoke his voice was soft.
"I want you to tell me what happened."
"There's nothing to tell," she said. "I was lying here when he came in—then all of a sudden I was screaming and trying to get to the lights and he stopped me. He choked me.”
"You say he."
"It felt like a man."
"Can you be sure?"
"Well," she said, "I think so."
"Did you see his clothing, any glimpse at his face or figure?"
She shook her head. "No. There was just a blur. A shadow. And I was frightened."
"Do you know why he came in here?"
She looked up. "No."
"You can think of no reason why anyone should want to kill you?"
She almost laughed. But she felt no humor. "No," she said.
"Clifton Dell was the only person you knew before you came here?"
"Yes, the only one." She paused, then: "But he—"
West broke in gently: "I want you to look around the room, Dorothy. It'd be best if you could get up. I want you to see if everything looks the same to you. Or if possibly something is missing."
She was looking at him now, and this was the first time she felt conscious of his personality. It rather shocked her. She was aware of something that was almost tangible between them. "I didn't say that you could call me Dorothy."
"Didn't you? I'm sorry."
She put out her arm so that he could help her up. "It's all right," she said. "I just—" She was standing now, and looking up at him.
"You just what?"
"Just—surprised," she answered lamely. Her legs felt wobbly and for a moment there was a dizziness in her head, but it passed.
Johnny West was looking around the room. "Is there anything unusual?"
"The closet door!" she said. "It's—" She crossed the room, moving slowly. Seeing the door open as it was brought something to her mind, though she could not at first remember what it was. She looked in and saw that all of her clothes were properly hung. Then she looked at the floor. "The shoes—" She went on:
"Yes. There was a pair of low-heeled walking shoes here this morning. I remember because they weren't there when I moved in."
"What kind of walking shoes?"
"A woman's."
"Didn't you notice anything else about them?"
"Well, no. They'd been worn some. Two or three months, I'd say. No more. Ah—"
"Yes?" he prompted.
"The heels looked new. Of course you can't be sure of a thing like that. They'd been walked on some, though not so much as the soles of the shoes. I seem to remember something like that."
"Did you notice the shoes Rhea Davis wore in New York on Monday?"
"No."
He stooped and went through the closet. He searched the room. The shoes were gone. She leaned on the edge of the bed and watched him. He walked out onto the small terrace, moved out of sight past the windows, then returned. His face was light.
"Well, we've got something." He flicked the cigarette out over the terrace. "The killer stole the shoes after Mrs. Davis' death. Or possibly even before. But he had to get rid of them quick
ly. Didn't want to be caught in the hall with them. Didn't want anyone to see him with them. Get it? So he walked from Mrs. Davis' room next door, across this terrace, to your room. He dropped them into the closet. Innocent enough. The average person wouldn't question the presence of a pair of shoes. He intended to return for them later. And did. See?"
"You mean that was what he wanted when he came in here?"
"Sure. Then you screamed. He got scared and choked you to shut you up. After that he grabbed the shoes and got out. His escape could have been the reverse of his other procedure-across the terrace and into Mrs. Davis' room, then out into the hall. Of course, the hall would have by that time been filled with people-" West snapped his fingers.
Dorothy began: "But how could a pair of shoes—?"
"Listen, do you want to go downstairs or something? I mean for coffee, or—something to eat? It's just possible the killer was forced to leave the shoes in Mrs. Rhea Davis' room again because of the screaming and people in the hall. Either that or he dropped them over the side of the terrace. I'm going to check."
He stepped back out onto the terrace and disappeared.
Dorothy felt just a little foolish. There was no reason why he shouldn't leave her abruptly, but for a moment there seemed to be an emptiness closing about her, as though he had left in his place only void space.
Frances must have put her robe on her while she was unconscious, because Dorothy was wearing it now, although she was in bare feet. She put on her slippers and tied the sash on the robe. She felt desolated. The room haunted her.
She went into the hall. There was only a dim light burning and she was a little frightened. She moved toward the tall, steep stairway. Grant Smyth was coming up the steps, three at a time. The gaunt Englishman's eyes were bleak. He hesitated.
"You are feeling better, Miss Noel?"
"Considerably."
"I'm so glad," he said. "Really." But she could tell that he was not thinking of her and that he was nervous. He fidgeted. "I say, have you seen my wife?"
"Betty? No, I—"
He patted her hand. "Of course. Of course. It merely occurred to me—" his voice wandered off. "I do hope you'll be—ah—"
"Yes," Dorothy replied, "I'm sure I will."
She went on down the stairs, and he continued up. Dorothy arrived on the main floor and walked through the study. Mike Wiggam was sitting there in a card game with Sam Tulley. A single lamp was shining over Tulley's chunky shoulder and onto the table. He looked up, smiled briefly, and would have said something, but she walked on.
She moved down the hall toward the kitchen, but there was argument here—Mrs. O'Malley's shrill voice, and the soothing tone of a policeman. Dorothy paused, and a room door opened. Frances peered out. "Oh, it's you." She flung back the door.
Dorothy looked into the tiny room. Frances had the lights on, and newspapers were spread across the bed. There was a pile of them at the foot of it, as yet unopened.
"I got the jumps," Frances explained. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"You didn't," said Dorothy.
Frances said: "Say, I'm sorry if I spoke out of turn upstairs."
"That was all right. Clifton was upset. You mustn't; mind him. You're reading?"
"I can't sleep," Frances said. "I might as well. I always; do that when I get the jumps. Or when I'm blue. I just; get newspaper moods. That ever happen to you? I save: all the papers that come to the house—Mrs. Davis got the: Times and Tribune—and then when I get one of these: moods I read and read until my eyes about fall out.. Sometimes I can follow a murder case right through to the finish. Other times I read all the movie pages until I get sick of Hollywood. You know. Whacky, I guess."
"No," Dorothy said. "That's a good idea." She felt sorry for Frances because she was so frightened that she; was actually trembling, yet she was trying to hide it. "The Times is a little heavy, though," she went on, more to: make conversation than anything else. "Don't you find! that?"
Frances made a passive motion with her hand. "Yeah. Do I ever get sick of it! But I've got a Journal in there. Last Thursday's. And one copy of the Mirror. I'm coming to those next." She grinned.
The servants' rooms were all off this hall, and now Dorothy saw Johnny West, who was moving toward her. Clifton was right behind him.
"Here you are!" said West.
"Find the shoes?" she asked.
"No. But I was worried about where you were. You should—"
Clifton moved in. "I'll take care of her."
West glanced over at him. "All right. That's okay, Mr. Dell. But I was talking to her. Just talking. Do you understand? And I don't like your lip butting into it."
"And I don't like your guts!" said Clifton.
West cocked his fist, but Dorothy threw herself against it. "Please!"
Clifton was standing with his legs spread. "Any time this fake wants to get hard, honey. Any time he thinks a cop's badge—"
Grant Smyth swung into the hall. His lean face was almost haggard. His hair was wet with sweat and like matted straw on his head. "Has anybody seen Betty? Has anybody at all seen her? I'm worried. She's been missing for an hour." He was looking at Frances. "Have you seen her?"
"I—"
"I can read your face," said Grant. "For the love of God, tell me where she is!"
Frances looked around, and then she nodded toward the door across the hall. Grant whirled about almost aghast. Dorothy turned. Both Clifton and West were watching now. Grant jerked open his collar and sucked air into his lungs. He moved forward and turned the knob of the door. He pushed the door back.
Betty stood there. She was pale. She was wearing her hat and coat. Roy stood deeper in the room garbed in uniform. There was a packed suitcase standing on the narrow cot. Betty's eyes were dull with surprise, but the chauffeur, whose ears were better, was emotionless.
Grant Smyth was still sucking for breath, and a red flush was creeping up into his cheeks. "I—I say, old man," he whispered, "this—this isn't cricket, really it—" He passed a hand across his face. He tried to laugh—but it was an empty cackle. "Of course, Betty, you—you came to pay the man his salary. You—" She didn't hear a word. She said: "Roy and I are going away."
CHAPTER EIGHT
There was the intensity of a terrible minute, and then it was over, as though an earthquake had come and gone, and Dorothy, and the rest of them here were still standing, all too dazed to comprehend. Grant's face was immobile, but stupidity began to show through it; and his mouth gaped, just a little, and it was so apparent that he knew no other emotional outlet than crying, that Clifton put his arm around the tall Englishman's thin shoulders, and said: "She's crazy, boy, that's all. You need a drink." But Grant did not move, he kept staring at Betty, slim and frightened, her face equally blank as her husband's.
West said: "You, Roy, get out of there."
Roy moved into the hall, his hair like patent leather, his sleek face shining; he walked ahead of West and down the hall out of sight. Betty turned from Grant and watched bleakly after Roy. Then she spoke, her voice was high-pitched, as though she wanted her nearly deaf ears also to hear what she was saying.
"We love each other, Grant; I'm sorry."
Grant opened his mouth to say something, but he could not, and Clifton led him off after West and Roy, and Betty still stood there. Dorothy watched her. Betty said, loudly: "Have you a cigarette?"
It was Frances who answered: "I have," she said, and she got one and handed it to Betty, but it was obvious from the maid's expression that she held nothing but contempt for Mrs. Davis' daughter now. She presently went back to her newspaper; Dorothy walked down the hall with Betty. Betty faltered a little, so that eventually Dorothy had to take her by the arm.
They came into the living room. Grant was sitting here, his head in his arms, and Roy was standing, smoking furiously, the end of his cigarette red, and too hot. Mike Wiggam and Sam Tulley had stopped their card game to watch. Clifton was standing at the French doors with his back tu
rned to everyone else.
Johnny West was talking. "How long has this—this personal acquaintance with Mrs. Smyth been going on?" he said.
"I refuse to answer that," Roy replied.
"Why?"
"It's not necessary. It would only drag Betty's name into—"
West snapped: "You refer to her as Mrs. Smyth! And never mind about where you drag her name. That hasn't seemed to cramp your style before. How long has she been in love with you?"
"Well, two weeks, I'd say."
"How did it first come about?"
Roy said, "I met her accidentally on the porch one night after everyone had gone to bed. She couldn't sleep and was walking around. I used to sit on the porch at night and smoke."
"I see. Did you meet her there again after that?"
"Three or four times. We didn't talk much because we'd have to talk loud and people might have heard us. We just stood there enjoying the nights, and gradually, well—it was an honest thing, I'll say that! It's not what you're trying to make it out as being."
"I can see that," said West bitterly. "When did you first discuss your plans for going away?"
"Just a couple of days ago. Sunday, I think."
"Sunday. Mrs. Davis was poisoned Monday."
"That has nothing to do with—" Roy's cheek tips turned red.
"No. Of course not. But you were aware that Betty would have been married several times over if it hadn't been for her mother, who stopped her. You were well acquainted with the fact that Betty is both-ah-shallow and flighty. You knew so long as Mrs. Davis lived that you could not go on with Betty."
"That's true."
"So you killed—"
"That's not true. Her death just came along. It cleared the way for Betty and myself and—"
"It cleared the way too for a lot of money, didn't it?" roared West. "Betty was her mother's only heir. You knew that, didn't you? That with Mrs. Davis dead a glib tongue could persuade Betty Smyth to do almost anything—even divorce her husband, and that once you were married to her—"
