Marjorie looked down; there, at her feet was sprawled the body of Dr. Russell, dead from a bullet wound in the side of the head. She stood silent for a moment, unsure as to whether she should scream or cry, but then, glimpsing the pistol still in Dr. Russell’s hand, dove on top of the body to retrieve it. William, however, was too fast for her. Wrenching her wounded shoulder, he pulled her off the dead man and hurled her across the room. “Now, now, Miss McClelland,” he purred, picking up the pistol and sticking it in his coat pocket. “Don’t make me have to shoot you again.”
Stupefied, she sat up and rubbed her shoulder. She was bleeding heavily, and the blood had soaked through to her coat. “Again?” she whispered, tears of pain rolling down her cheeks. “My God, of course. That’s why I heard the front door open and shut, and why it took so long for Dr. Russell to find me. He had only just arrived. But you—you were already here.”
“Lying in wait,” he smirked. “I wasn’t aiming for you initially, but you insinuated yourself between me and my target.”
“Mary.”
“If that’s the little bastard’s name, then yes.”
“You were the person in the bushes outside Stafford’s house the night he died. You’re the one he contacted.”
“That’s right. I don’t take kindly to blackmailers, as Mr. Bartorelli can attest. I came out here to silence Mr. Stafford, but your friend here,” he poked at the dead man’s body with the toe of his shoe, “did the job for me, and very nicely, too. The only problem was, he saw me. So, I drove out here today to see if I couldn’t find a way to keep his mouth shut.
“As fate would have it, I spotted him as I drove into town, walking along the side of road. He was following you and my ‘niece,’ and from the direction you were walking, I guessed that you were heading to Kensington House.” He laughed. “The two people I most wanted to remove from the world, both in the same house. It was an opportunity too precious to miss. I doubled back and, using my old key, let myself into the house to greet you when you arrived.”
“And the poisoning—the digitalis—was it all an act?”
“Oh, no, Dr. St. John isn’t an idiot; if I had faked the whole episode, he would have seen right through it. My only choice was to actually poison myself. I knew Gloria’s butler took digitalis for his heart and that he left it on his nightstand. I also knew that digitalis acted as a poison when taken in large amounts by a person who had no history of heart trouble. The night of the party, I smuggled a digitalis tablet from the butler’s room and crushed it into a fine powder so that it would dissolve quickly. I kept the powder in a packet concealed in my hand. When Gloria handed me the glass of champagne, I emptied the packet into it. Voila! A horrifying and nearly successful attempt on my life. Although, I did take some precautions. During my research, I discovered that there was, if not an antidote, an element that curbed the poisonous effects of digitalis: potassium. Before my death-defying stunt, I fortified myself by taking a few vitamin supplements and eating foods rich with the stuff: bananas, apricots, spinach, that sort of thing. The potassium alleviated some of the symptoms, but it was still a terrible business.”
“Not only did you give yourself an alibi, but you pointed the finger of guilt at your sister-in-law. Brilliant,” Marjorie commended.
“Thank you.”
“Then you knew from the beginning that we wanted more than friendship from Gloria.”
“You and Mr. Ashcroft showed up on my sister-in-law’s doorstep at the same time Bartorelli’s body was found. The timing was too coincidental. So, I followed you and Mr. Ashcroft to the Pelican Club that evening and saw that you met with a police officer, a Detective Jameson of the Hartford County Police.”
“You realized it was only a matter of time before we found out that you murdered your brother. So why did you kill him? Was it for the ring?”
“Not entirely. I knew about Stella’s child before Stafford notified me. I knew it from the beginning. Stella had left a note for my brother, informing him of her delicate condition. I intercepted that note and immediately realized that I had to act.”
“You knew that if Henry had an heir you’d be cut from his will.”
“Precisely, Miss McClelland. So I met with Stella and, under the pretense of being a spokesman for my brother, gave her five thousand dollars to leave town and never mention the child to anyone. She agreed to the offer, took the money and moved out of town. I thought the crisis had been averted, but my brother, the lovesick fool that he was, couldn’t leave well enough alone. He had to locate Stella and find out why she had left. He even hired a private investigator to track her down. It was then that the die was cast. I had to get rid of Henry. Permanently.
“I devised a detailed, yet simple plan for his removal. Knowing that the house staff was off on Wednesdays, I came here to Kensington House and telephoned my brother at his office. I told him that Stella had returned and wanted to see him. It worked. Henry dropped everything and drove out here to see her. In the meantime, I grabbed my service revolver from the display case in the hall, forged the suicide note and waited in my brother’s bedroom. When he finally arrived, I summoned him upstairs, saying that Stella had fainted and was lying down. What happened next is a blur. Henry entered the room, but he must have suspected something, because he attacked me before I had a chance to shoot. We wrestled for quite some time, each of us trying to get control of the gun. During the course of our struggle, we had made our way onto the balcony. When I realized where we were, I gave Henry a good shove and he fell backward, over the rail, and into the empty swimming pool. It was not as I had planned it, but he was dead. He was finally dead.”
“And you had what you wanted—your inheritance,” she stated bitterly.
“It was more than just the money, Miss McClelland. I hated Henry. I had always hated him. The way my father coddled him, spoiled him. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had spent my entire life withering away in his shadow, choking under the weight of his existence. Don’t you see?” he asked with nary a glimmer of emotion. “He had to die, so that I could live.”
“And live you did, but not in the manner to which you were accustomed. That’s why you went to Stella Munson’s apartment disguised as a detective—to find the only significant piece of your inheritance. After all, work is a four-letter word.”
“Clever girl,” he purred. “Yes, I had searched for the ring everywhere. The house, the grounds. Then it dawned on me. Madame Du Barry, the most infamous ‘other woman’ in history. It was only fitting that Henry should give her ring to his own mistress. I flew to Los Angeles as soon as possible.”
“You murdered her, too . . .” Marjorie’s voice trailed off.
“You disappoint me, Miss McClelland. No, Stella’s death was the only true suicide in this whole mess. She was already dead when I arrived, unfortunate soul. However, the circumstances surrounding her death provided me with an excellent means by which to search her apartment.”
Marjorie rose to her feet, her eyes focused on the gun barrel aimed at her chest. “So what do you want of me? You already have everything you were after.”
“Not quite. I still don’t have the ring. The search of Miss Munson’s apartment turned up empty. Not that I expect you to be able to help me with that. There are, however, other things you can give me. The girl,” he cocked the trigger of the gun. “And your silence.”
“Why do you want the girl? She knows nothing.”
“Not now she doesn’t, but someday she’ll become curious. She’ll want to know more about her mother and her father. She’ll start asking questions.”
“Henry might not be her father,” Marjorie pointed out.
“I can’t take that chance.”
“And can you take the chance of putting the police on your trail again? Because that’s exactly what you’ll be doing. Killing a con artist is one thing, but killing a woman and a little girl is another. Why, the whole town will be out for blood, your blood, and they won’t rest until they get it.”
“Their bloodlust will have already been satisfied, Miss McClelland. After I shoot you and the girl, I shall put the gun in Dr. Russell’s hand and quietly leave. When the police discover that the dead man was not Dr. Russell, but Scott Jansen, they’ll assume that it was he who killed Henry, Bartorelli, and Stafford, and that the scene here at Kensington House was a case of murder-suicide.”
“And the gun?”
“Purchased specifically for the occasion, and registered in the name of the deceased you see before you.” He smiled. “You realize you’re obliged at this point to tell me that I won’t get away with it.”
“Why? You’ve gotten away with everything so far.”
He snickered. “You’re very intelligent, Miss McClelland. I may actually regret killing you.”
She stepped forward. “Then don’t.”
“I would love to honor your request, but I’m afraid you know too much.”
She inched forward again. Closer, closer. She had to get closer. “Knowing isn’t telling. What if I were sworn to secrecy?”
“Miss McClelland, when I discovered you were working with the police, I researched your background thoroughly.” William scoffed, “You’re simply too honest to cover up something as serious as murder.”
“But not too honest to insinuate myself into your sister-in-law’s house under the pretense of being someone else.”
“That was for the benefit of the police,” he dismissed.
“You don’t believe I’m eminently corruptible?” She tried hard to smile. “We could replace the pistol in Dr. Russell’s hand and call the police. When they arrive, we tell them that you came here to visit Mr. Ashcroft, an acquaintance of yours. Finding the door unlocked, you let yourself in, only to discover Dr. Russell holding Mary and me at gunpoint. Seeking to liberate us, you wrestled with him for the gun and shot him.”
“And why would he be holding you at gunpoint?”
“Because I discovered he was the killer, of course.”
“And that wound of yours?”
“A stray bullet.”
“A wicked plan,” he responded appreciatively.
She crept closer to him. “Hopefully it convinces you how valuable an ally I could be.”
He raised the gun level with her chest. “I don’t need an ally.”
“How about a confidante?” she asked coolly. “You’d like one of those, wouldn’t you? That’s why you’ve kept me alive this long, isn’t it? You could have shot me on the spot, but you didn’t. Instead you confessed to me, not for repentance, but because you know that I’m the sort of woman who could appreciate your distinct talents.”
Marjorie moved closer still. “It must have been frustrating for you, keeping quiet all this time. Henry’s murder was a triumph, your crowning achievement, yet you could share it with no one. To pull it off successfully, you had to resume the role of the foolish spendthrift. Your brother was dead, but you were still living in his shadow. You live in his shadow even now.”
She was close enough to touch his arm. “They laughed at you,” she whispered. “‘Poor stupid William,’ they said. They laughed at you the same way your father laughed. They still laugh at you. I’ve heard them. Gloria, Philips, Hadley—all of them.” She slid her hand down his arm and toward his coat pocket. “But I won’t laugh at you, William. I’d never laugh because I know.” Her hand slid into his pocket. “I know the genius you possess.”
William grabbed her wrist and twisted the offending arm behind her back. Marjorie shrieked in agony.
“Brava, Miss McClelland. You nearly convinced me. Nearly. It seems you could use some lessons, perhaps from your mother. She’s an actress, isn’t she? Lorena Lancaster? I saw her in a play several years ago. She was quite good. It would have been an enormous waste of talent had she stayed away from the world of theater to raise you.”
Marjorie, finding no other way to express her contempt, spat in William’s eye. With his free hand, he slapped her, hard, across the face and threw her to the floor. “I can see you’re not going to cooperate,” he commented, wiping away the saliva. “Therefore I won’t even ask you where you’ve hidden the girl.”
She got up, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. “What makes you think she’s still here?”
“Because I saw her come in with you, but she didn’t come out. That leaves only one way that she could have escaped.” He made his way to the dumbwaiter. “Clever girl, Marjorie. Clever girl. Unfortunate for you, however, I’m familiar with every nook and cranny of this house, and I know you couldn’t possibly have had enough time to lower her all the way to the bottom.” He smiled and opened the elevator door. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”
The anger that had been gathering within Marjorie rushed forth in a violent torrent. With a primal scream, she picked up her shoe from the floor and leapt onto the man’s back. Using the shoe as a weapon, she pummeled him about the head, the pointed heel digging farther into his scalp with each blow. William bucked, and succeeded in throwing the young woman to the floor. Marjorie, however, would not be put down for long. Taking the scarf from around the collar of her coat, she twisted it between her hands, forming a rope that she looped around her attacker’s throat. Bracing herself against a bookcase, she pulled with all her might.
The man fumbled to remove the cord, but Marjorie, despite the throbbing of her wounded shoulder, only pulled tighter. Like an animal in a trap, William thrashed about wildly, trying to break free of his captor. Then, with a gasp, he backed up suddenly, ramming Marjorie against the hard, wooden bookcase. The impact caused the woolen rope to slide from her fingers. It was no matter; she had achieved her primary objective: to get William away from the dumbwaiter.
As William caught his breath, she slipped out from behind him, dashed to the elevator and, with the last bit of strength in her body, lowered the car the few remaining feet to the kitchen. When she felt it reach bottom, she screamed down the shaft, “Run, Mary! Run! Ru—”
The last of her words were drowned out by the blast of a revolver as William quickly discharged two bullets into her back. Marjorie slid, lifelessly, to the floor.
The younger Van Allen stood over the young woman’s body like a hunter, admiring his kill. Then, cocking his revolver, he strode out of the library and through the back door, in search of other prey.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Mary squatted on the floor of the now stationary elevator car, her knees drawn to her chest. She had pushed against all the walls around her, just as Marjorie had said, but none of them had given way. All she could do now was wait in the pitch-darkness of the shaft and hope that Marjorie would not be too angry with her for failing at her task.
She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the blackness of her surroundings. She wasn’t afraid of the dark, but poor Florence was terrified. Mary clutched the doll to her bosom and whispered, “It’s okay, Florence. We’ll get out of here soon. Marjorie won’t forget us.” No sooner had she spoken the words than the dumbwaiter began to quickly lower again, causing her elbows to scrape against the exposed stone of the shaft. A few moments later, the elevator stopped moving and Mary heard Marjorie’s voice calling to her, “Run, Mary! Run!” followed by two loud bangs.
She pushed against the walls of the chamber until one of them swung open. Grabbing Florence, she sprung from the dumbwaiter, flew out the kitchen door, and scrambled up the stairs to the world above. Stepping foot out of her subterranean prison, Mary surveyed the land around her and struggled to gain her bearings. Marjorie had told her to head toward the road, but precisely which direction the road lay was a complete mystery to Mary. Heedless of the footprints she and Marjorie had created only a short time earlier, she chose to move to the right—unwittingly away from the road and toward the back of the house.
From there on, she obeyed the most urgent of Marjorie’s instructions; she ran, as fast as she could, past the pool, through the gardens and into the woods. She didn’t stop for a moment, not even to wipe her eyes o
f the snowflakes that clung to her lashes and blurred her vision. She didn’t look back, even though she heard the sound of distant rustling in the brush behind her. She ran, like a frightened rabbit, through the swirling snow until suddenly, she felt herself falling—not over something, but rather into it.
Her body hit the hard ground with a jolt, knocking Florence from her grasp. Without thinking, she picked herself up and prepared to run again, but there was nowhere to go. In every direction, solid earth walls blocked her passage. Looking up, she saw that she was no longer on land, but beneath it, in a deep rectangular ditch from which there was no exit.
It was the excavated grave of Victor Bartorelli.
_____
Creighton kept a watchful eye on the side of the road during the drive back to town. As they rolled up to the tall iron gates of Kensington House, he noticed something that made him shout excitedly. “Wait. Stop the car.”
Jameson brought the vehicle to a screeching halt. “What is it?”
“Look!” The Englishman pointed toward the open gate.
The detective leaned across the hand brake console and peered out the passenger window. “We closed that before we left. Didn’t we?”
“Somebody’s been here since then.”
Jameson swung the car through the gate and started up the driveway.
In the light of the car’s headlamps, Creighton was able to pick out the vague outline of tracks in the snow. “Footprints. They seem to go all the way to the house. Maybe it’s Marjorie,” he added hopefully.
“If it is Marjorie, she’s not alone. There are three sets of tire tracks in the driveway. I made two with my coming and going, but someone else made the third.” He gave Creighton a sideways glance. “Someone who hasn’t left.”
As they approached the front portico, the sound of gunshots broke the wintry stillness of the evening. Creighton jumped from the car before it came to a complete halt. “Marjorie!” he roared, then bolted up the driveway toward the front steps.
Million Dollar Baby Page 29
