by Frances
She was on her feet again, running again—a crazy, staggering kind of running. As she ran she could hear a kind of whimpering sound. Somebody was crying, sobbing, in protest—in fear. I am making that strange, hurt sound—I’m the one who’s making it.
The storm had seemed certain to go around them; he would have bet it would miss them altogether. And then, at the last moment, it had turned like an angry, beset cat, and swiped at them. And proved to have the sharpest of claws.
Otherwise, all according to Hoyle. Nobody would harm the girl when people—when the house tourists—were around. She would leave when they left. And—nobody would harm her anyway. What good would it do anybody? Shapiro had been convinced of that, and convincing about it. It was not as if she knew anything, could tell anything, about the big thing. If she knew who killed Grace Farthing—sure, then she might be in danger. But she could testify, and with only her word against other words, to fraud. (And there was some question, actually, if it was even fraud.) And they still couldn’t tie the two things together. And Shapiro wanted to see Graham before he talked to Keating.
But the storm had come just before five, which was the time she would have left. There was no harm in going around and picking her up—no urgency about it, but no harm in it. She’d parked her car some distance away from the house, to give more room for paying guests. In this, it probably was mired where she’d left it.
The MG bucked in the gale. Water streamed over the windshield. Lights on, Bob Oliver drove the little car doggedly through the storm, toward Battle Street. If this kept up for long they’d have flooding.
XIV
Beyond the old orchard, the ground sloped down. She ran downward, flailed by wind and rain. Ahead was a stone fence, with a tangle of bushes against it, with ivy covering it. She could not fight through that. The bushes would trap her. She turned to her left and ran along the wall, at the edge of the mowed area.
She did not look back. He would be in the old orchard now. When the ground sloped down she might, for a few seconds, have been out of his sight, but he would see her again by now. But there was no point in looking back. Run—that was all that was any good. Run with the wind behind. Run until—until he caught her. Until he shot her, running. He had held a gun. He had used it as a club in the house, but now—
There was a gap in the stone fence. It was miraculous that there was a gap there. She turned, ran through it—and beyond the ground pitched down abruptly. She began to fall. She reached desperately for something, for anything, as she began to fall downward through underbrush. Her hands grasped air. But then one hand found the slender trunk of a young tree. She swung on the tree for a moment, and pain shot through her shoulder. But she did not fall.
This lower field had not been touched for years. It was a tangle of bushes, of trees standing and trees fallen. She began to go on, but could not run now—could only toil down the slope, clutching trees, clutching bushes—creeping low under partially fallen trees, going wide in search of spaces between thorned bushes. They clutched at her. Slow—desperately slow. But he would be slowed, too, and the density of the undergrowth was a kind of shelter. Shelter, a little, from the wind. And—it would make it harder for him to shoot, to kill.
The storm now seemed directly overhead. The lightning was almost uninterrupted. There was a clap of thunder which was without the roll of distance; which was sharp and near as an explosion, and with that the lightning seemed all around her—and ahead, not more than a hundred feet, the tallest tree was for an instant lost in fire and then, revealed again, was only half a tree.
Don’t take shelter under trees. Don’t— What was the use of that? She went on, still going down.
At first, the earth was firm under her feet. Then the undergrowth lessened but ahead were hummocks of coarse grass. Between them water ran. In a moment she was wading and her feet were sinking into mud.
This was swamp. Painfully, she lifted herself to one of the grass hummocks. It was a little firmer, but her feet sank into it. Not this way—with this rain, with water pouring down from the fields above, the lower part of the swamp would be impassable; would swallow her. She stood on the soft hummock and braced herself against wind and driving rain.
Back the way she had come, the ground was firm. Ahead, there were only the hummocks of swamp grass, tiny islands in deepening water. But the way she had come was the way Keating would come—Keating with his gun.
She looked back and did not see him. But she could see only a little way, uncertainly, through the undergrowth. He might be—he might be only feet away. She listened. That was futile. Wind and rain and rolling thunder—a man’s progress through brush would be unbearable in that.
She struggled back to the firm ground. She went to her left along the edge of the swampland, went slowly, step by step, climbing over fallen trunks of trees, crawling under them—slow—slow—slow. A mockery of flight. A tangle of bushes—bushes with thorns—blackberry bushes, she thought, numbly—she had to go some distance up the slope to get around them. She swore at them in her mind—damn you, damn you, damn you. Let me go, let me go—let me through!
She no longer knew where she was in relation to the house she had fled from. Below it, certainly—moving along now—staggering along; for all she knew staggering in circles—on the far side of the wall which bounded the orchard field. Moving now into the wind. But it did not reach her so harshly here. Moving—
Moving, and it was a second miracle, on a path. Path? Why would there be a path here? Who—deer! Deer make trails through undergrowth, have their ways of going. This trail led twistingly, but led, for the most part, up the slope. Or, rather, diagonally across it, climbing slowly toward— Toward what?
She could move on it, at any rate. She could not run any more. She had no strength left to run. One step—one step—one step. On the path, into the driving rain. A step—a step—a step. Bending against the rain, climbing a path made by the hooves of shining deer. Where do deer go when it rains like this? Where—
There was a wall ahead—a stone fence with a gap through it—a gap narrow, unplanned. The path ran into the gap. She followed the path. And, beyond the fence, there was a road—a narrow road, graveled, untarred. A road! She slid down a bank from fence to road and looked up and down the road.
It was the lane she had parked on. And—there was her car, only a hundred yards away. She stood for a moment and looked at the waiting car and tried to pierce through the numbness of her mind. Why, she thought, it’s my car. She began to walk toward it. My car, my car, my car, her feet said. All she had to do was to get into her car and drive home and put on dry clothes and—
She went into the ditch by the side of the road and thought, Yes, it’s parked on firm ground, and opened the door of the driver’s seat.
“A nasty day to be taking a walk, Mrs. Williams,” Howard Graham said. “You could catch pneumonia, easy as anything.”
Graham was behind the wheel.
She drew back.
“No,” he said. “Get in, Mrs. Williams. No use getting any wetter than you are.”
“You’ll take me home?” she said.
“Surest thing you know,” Howard Graham said. “Anyway, soon as we all have a little talk.”
The rain was slackening. Lightning still flashed and thunder grumbled, but now both came from the east. Probably in the west the clouds were breaking—there was a faint glow in the rear-view mirror of the MG, traveling east on Battle Street; pushed by the wind. But the wind, too, was subsiding.
At the intersection of Battle Street and Teller Lane, Robert Oliver slowed the car. A little way down the lane Lois’s car had been parked earlier. It wasn’t now. So—another wild-goose chase. She’d had sense enough to get to the car, get toward home, before the worst of the storm broke. If he had had as much sense, he would have gone to her bright house and waited for her there—and told her there that Shapiro had found the loose end in the tangle and was ready to pull on it.
He could turn here
at the lane and go back. The MG almost stopped. What the hell, Bob decided. He might as well, having come this far, go on to the Montfort driveway and turn there. And make sure. He went on and suddenly the sun came out—a low sun, hot behind him.
The driveway at the Montfort house was narrow; ran beside the house and beyond it, to the garage in the rear. Bob turned the MG into it, preliminary to backing out of it. He stopped abruptly. Lois’s Chrysler blocked the drive. Its taillights glared red in the slanting sunlight.
Bob cut the MG’s motor and got out and looked through the rear window of the Chrysler and saw it empty. He crossed soggy lawn and went up onto the porch of the low old house. He reached toward the bell push and, at the same time, looked through the small square of glass in the door. Instantly, reflexively, he stepped backward and to the side—tried to move without sound; hoped that Keating hadn’t seen him.
Keating was sitting on the staircase, about a third of the way up. Seated so, he would see anyone who looked through the glass square in the door. If he happened to be looking.
Bob could only hope he hadn’t been. And that there was another way into the house. There was no use walking, unarmed, straight toward a man who cuddled a revolver in both hands, as if it were a kitten he petted.
Only as he led her across the sodden grass from the car toward the door had Lois tried to wrench away, to run again. It had still been raining then, as if it would never stop. Her try to free herself had seemed, in the moment of its making, unreal, as now everything seemed unreal. There was a great dullness in her mind. It was as if the beating rain, the tearing wind, had hypnotized her.
“Don’t do that,” Graham said, and his tone was testy, which was incongruous. “Nobody’s going to hurt you.” Which was, she dully knew, a lie. His hand was harsh on her bare arm, hurting on her arm. He had forced her across the narrow porch, and pushed the door open with his free hand, and forced her into the house.
The body of Ella Harbrook lay as it had lain before, at the foot of the stairs. Graham did not loosen his grip. He kicked the door closed behind them and then said, loudly, “Keating!” There was a moment and then Keating came to the top of the stairs, and part way down them. As he came down he took the revolver out of his pocket. He had changed his clothes since he last came down the stairs, revolver held like a club.
“So,” Keating said. “I was right, wasn’t I? Walked into it. Only one way out, like I said. Only the deer path. Since she’s not a duck.”
He looked at her. She was, but still dully, conscious of the summer dress plastered to her body, of the skirt, rent at the waist, falling away from brown legs. With her free hand she tried to pull the fabric loose from her body.
“She walked into it,” Graham said. “Listen, Keating—”
“You told me,” Keating said. “It’s too late to go holy on me.”
“You must like it,” Graham said. “Like killing. There wasn’t any need—nothing in the plan—”
“You say,” Keating said. “You thought, maybe. Maybe you didn’t know it all, Howdy. Good old Howdy. In it up to your neck, all the same.” He looked at Lois. “Too bad about her,” he said. “Shame to waste anything like that. But—there you are. It’s your own fault, lady. Kept your pretty nose out—”
“You’re crazy,” Graham said, and spoke loudly, with an odd cracking sound in his voice. “I won’t—” But he stopped and stared at Keating. Keating sat down on the steps and cuddled the revolver. He seemed to be waiting for Graham to finish, and, when Graham did not, nodded his head.
“You will,” he said, then. “Tell me another way. Only—we haven’t got all night. You’re hurting the lady’s arm, Howdy. No reason to do that.”
The sun had come out, suddenly. A narrow shaft of sunlight came through the glass of the door and fell, sharp, on the wide flooring boards of the hall. Lois looked down at it, because she didn’t want to look at Keating. The shaft of sunlight was momentarily interrupted, shadowed. A scudding cloud—a cloud with an unexpected shape. If she could only remember what the shape was—
“No help from me,” Graham said, in the same high voice. It was as if he shouted to convince himself.
“Yes,” Keating said. “The old woman’s heavy. Have to tuck her in the car, nice and snug. You’ll help. Why not? It would make me very cross if you didn’t, Howdy. And—who’d believe you weren’t in all the way? Didn’t see the obvious until afterward? Particularly since it was you brought the pretty lady back? You’re in it up to your neck, Howdy. Maybe—over your head?”
He moved the revolver back and forth. It moved as a coiled snake’s head moves, before the snake strikes.
He had jumped from the porch. Feet make sounds on boards, and now the evening, suddenly, was quiet—only, far away to the east, did thunder still rumble to itself. He landed on wet turf and landed running—running around the house. It would have to be that way. Kitchen door—that would be it. If there was a rear staircase to the second floor—that would be perfect. That way he might be able to come down behind Keating and—
There was no use trying to work it out ahead of time. Get in, first. Then see. A kitchen door—
Steps up to a narrow porch, to a stoop. That would be it. A door at the top of the steps, off the porch. Listen, I’ll make a bargain—a bargain with anybody. Let the door be unlocked. Because if I have to force it the noise— Let it be unlocked!
He pushed the door. It opened inward. There was a little squeak as it opened, but that shouldn’t carry far. (A bargain with anybody. Don’t let them hear!)
Robert Oliver stood on his left foot and took off his right shoe and put it very carefully on the floor. He took off the other shoe. He went, on the balls of his feet, along the passageway to the living room. There was a carpet in the living room; he could walk in better balance and still soundlessly. If the door from living room to hall was closed—well, he’d have to chance it. Have to move fast and maybe the surprise—
If it was open, or ajar, he might wait out of sight until the chance looked best. He—
The door was open. He moved sideways to the wall and went along it, so that he was not in the direct line of vision from the hall. He could be seen if anybody was looking. If he made any sound he could be looked for, seen. While he was still deep in the room, too far away.
Hug the wall. Hug to the wall in which the door was set. Move along that wall until he could just see around—
Lois—God, what had they done to Lois?—and Howard Graham were standing side by side, facing Keating, who still sat on the stairs, still moved a gun from side to side. They stood as if they had been summoned before a judge.
“Put them both in the car,” Keating said. “You’re not very bright, are you, Howdy? Knock the girl out, of course. I know a fine place—good deep water and a steep drop. Then all you have to do is reach through the window and push the “D” button, Howdy. And—whoosh! That way, you won’t get the notion—the way the old lady did—of maybe getting out from under. Saying you didn’t have the least idea that anybody was going to get hurt and—see what I mean, Howdy?”
He stood up, then. He said, “We’re wasting a lot of time. Grab her, Howdy.”
Lois had not moved. She seemed not to have heard. For an instant, Howard Graham hesitated. Then he closed a hand, hard, on Lois’s bare arm, and twisted her to face him, and took her other arm in the same hard grip and held her so, facing him, at arm’s length. Her back was to the staircase and Keating came down it and lifted the revolver.
Bob Oliver leaped—flung himself through the door at Keating. Keating whirled and as Bob reached him, grappled for him, brought the gun down hard on Bob’s right shoulder. The shoulder went numb, the arm went numb. Bob clutched for the revolver with his left hand and missed and writhed free and used his left, with all his strength behind it. He was off balance, and the blow only grazed Keating’s chin. Keating staggered back a little, but that didn’t help—only gave Keating room to move—and the gun came up, fast.
“
Drop it, Keating,” Nathan Shapiro said, from the door to the library. His voice was not raised; there was sadness in the low voice. “I hate to have to kill people,” Nathan Shapiro said. “So —just drop the gun.”
Shapiro’s own gun was pointing. It was entirely steady. It seemed to be part of an entirely steady arm.
Keating turned and, for an instant, his own revolver, pointed toward the floor as he wheeled, started to rise. But then—a little as if they were forced open by invisible, stronger fingers—his fingers relaxed on the revolver butt and the revolver clattered on the floor.
“Good,” Shapiro said, in the same sad tone. “Pick it up, Graham. Hand it to me.”
Graham picked the gun up and handed it to Shapiro and Shapiro put it in his pocket. When his hand came out of his pocket, there was a police whistle in it.
“Mind opening the door, Mr. Oliver?” Shapiro said, in a tired, polite voice, and, when Bob opened the door, Nathan Shapiro blew on the police whistle. The note was high, shrill. After a few seconds, it was answered—answered twice, from different directions.
“Better take her home, Mr. Oliver,” Shapiro said. “She ought to have some clothes on.” He paused and Bob Oliver could have sworn that his face reddened slightly. “Dry clothes, I meant to say,” Nathan Shapiro said.
XV
There were strip bandages on both brown arms. There were several, also, on brown legs, but they would show only if she put on shorts. She did, she thought, regarding herself in the door mirror, look a bit battered. And by tomorrow, the ivy rash would begin to appear. There was no use hoping that it wouldn’t, for all her rubbing on of brown soap. Sufficient unto the morrow is the ivy thereof. She could, of course, wear a long sleeved blouse. She put on a linen dress with no sleeves at all. So—she was battered, she was battered.
Ice, tonic water, gin—on a table on the terrace in the shade. Three glasses, a lime to cut. And there is no reason, Lois Williams, to make so much of it—to worry about a few adhesive bandages, to want everything so right. They were lucky to be there at all—all of them were, probably, and certainly she was. She shivered slightly in the pleasant warmth of Sunday afternoon. She went out onto the terrace and sat down on a chaise and waited.
