Snow Shadow

by Andre Norton

  “Be very sure I'll use this if you come any closer!”

  “How dramatic! Should I now cringe and slink away? But I am afraid I am going to fluff my cue. I came for the manuscript. It is the result of too much costly labor to allow you to keep it as a souvenir of a badly bungled job. Also, I am desolate, but it seems our partnership is now also dissolved, and I have a dislike for loose ends. Tell me, my dear, have you planned to set up business with Cantrell? Perhaps he is not as dull-witted as you hope. Sooner or later you would have been faced with another distressing scene—and then—exit poor poodle dog!”

  “What I do in the future is my own affair.”

  “You are angry? Can it be that the poodle dog actually appeals to you, perhaps to the maternal instinct we are always told exists in every woman? But, my dear, then how your taste has declined. He is beneath your talents, far beneath them.”

  “You are being stupid now.” Her voice rang with confidence. “If you think that Gordon Cantrell has any place in my future plans, that suggestion is—”

  “Unworthy of me—or of you, my dear? So, and how did you plan to rid yourself of this clinging limpet?”

  “When I leave here no one will ever find me—”

  “So—” Again that warning hiss, with an inflection of triumph in it as if he had tricked her into an incriminating statement.

  “Poor poodle dog. Then you did not after all entrust him with your secret.”

  “I tell you for the last time, I do not know where the manuscript is, if it is not here. This game is up anyway. It's time to cut our losses and get out. I promise you, I have insurance to get us a clear road.”

  “'We'—'our'? The partnership is still in force, you believe? But that is impossible. I do not mind if you disappear from Cantrell's narrow little life. But I do object if you disappear from mine—until I have back what belongs to me. This has been a wearing conversation, and the hour is late. I have another appointment—”

  I edged closer. It was suddenly very quiet.

  Then—

  “No!” Leslie's voice arose in a scream.

  “But yes, my dear, yes!”

  A thudding sound and then Leslie again, her voice now hysterical and broken—

  “I shot you! I shot—”

  Incredibly, the answer to that was a laugh, light and mocking. “But I do not fall nor bleed. I am not dead at all. Quite astonishing, is it not? Yet when you used that silenced gun on Roderick, he was safely out of your way at once. Now I put little trust in guns. People can wear—even in this day—armor, if they have suspicious minds. Cold steel is so much more sure—”

  “Gordon!”

  A dark shape arose to blot out the light in answer to that frantic call.

  “So, my dear, you did not come alone to our meeting? Here is the poodle dog, waiting to provide the strong arms to dig my grave. Even as he helped you with Roderick. How provident of you!”

  There came a second shot, but this one cracked like a thunderclap and before the echoes died away, the light laugh sounded.

  “What a shock for you, Cantrell. Tonight it seems that I am the man who cannot be killed. But others can die—”

  Leslie screamed, a high, tearing cry cut off in the middle—to be succeeded by a horrible bubbling choke. The light in the room snapped off. Then I heard the slam of a door. A moment later a motor was being gunned into life.

  I stood where I was, too frightened at the moment to move. I could hear sounds from the other room and that bubbling continued. Then I forced myself to move on, snapped on my flashlight. The path of light from that swept ahead, over a floor heaped with clothing pulled from storage boxes. Then the beam fixed upon a scene I shall have to remember in nightmares for a long time to come.

  Leslie lay in an angle between two of the boxes, her head and shoulders supported by them. From her throat poured a glistening flood of blood. Crouched on the floor by her, his eyes as wild as those of a hunted animal, was Gordon Cantrell.

  As my light caught him, his lips drew back in a snarl and he hurled himself at me. At that moment I was frozen, unable to move.

  My flashlight fell, to roll across the floor. Perhaps it was that which saved me from the full force of the attack he launched. An arm slammed along my thigh, hurling me back against the wall. One of his fists thudded into my ribs and I went down in a red haze of pain, only vaguely aware of what was about me.

  Maybe I fainted, afterwards I was never sure. But when I pulled myself up, there was only one thought in my head—Stuart. Leslie must have brought him here. It was necessary to find him.

  On my hands and knees I crawled across the floor to reclaim the flashlight which lay there—still lit. Then I got to my feet and flashed the beam about the walls to locate a light switch.

  Shrinking, but knowing I must do it, I approached Leslie. The blood was not puddling on the floor, but the bubbling had stopped. Leslie's head had fallen forward so I could not see her face. Nor could I bring myself to touch her. I was sick, fighting to control a heaving stomach. So I made a wide circle around the body, searching as best I could. Nowhere was any sign of either Cantrell or Stuart.

  I staggered back to the stage, using the flash recklessly now in long sweeps across the auditorium—lighting up all those empty seats.

  Leslie must have brought him here. But where had she left him? There was only one other place—the car which had been parked outside. Leslie must have left Stuart in that car!

  14

  I ran out of the theater into the thick swirl of a beginning blizzard. Wet snow clung to my eyelashes, plastered on my face and body. Even the beam of my flashlight was swallowed up by it.

  Where the car had stood there was a bare spot now fast being covered with snow. While beyond the gate into the street was now open.

  Stuart! The baby must have gone with the car. I had a last thin hope as I flashed the beam along the ground. But there was no tangle of blankets, no sign that the driver had jettisoned his passenger before he fled. Perhaps he did not even know of the child.

  Police—only the police could deal with this!

  There were lights on in the carriage house—closer now than the Abbey. Once more I began to run, slipping and sliding, fighting to keep on my feet. A car, only a dark blot in the fury of the storm, turned into the street as I stumbled up the Horvath drive.

  Gordon—where had Gordon gone? I had forgotten him. Was he still back in the theater? I skidded to a halt—if he was—

  I had shut out of my mind all but Stuart, in the way escaping the memory of Leslie as I had last seen her. It was the child who mattered. But if I went to the carriage house and Gordon was already there—what chance would he give me to call the police? Yet every minute I wasted—

  The purr of a slowly moving car, the sound deadened by the snow, sounded close by. I glanced over my shoulder apprehensively. It had drawn even with the open gate to the theater, was stopping there. I lurched forward, a painful stitch in my side. Now the carriage house appeared to promise the most safety.

  I slid across the pavement of the courtyard, saved myself from falling by clutching at a lamp post. A moment later, I raised a clatter with the knocker just as there came a shout from behind me.

  “You there—stop!”

  I clung to the knocker. There was no answer to my rapping in spite of the blaze of lights within. When I managed to face around I saw that my pursuer was a policeman.

  “What's going on here? Why were you running?” he demanded.

  “Baby—he's taken the baby! I want to call the police—”

  “Well, I'm a policeman. Supposing you tell me all about it. What's this about someone taking a baby, miss?”

  I tried to build a coherent story in my mind. The important part was that there must be no loss of time. They had to find Stuart before the car would be beyond hope of pursuit.

  I forced myself to speak slowly, and I hoped clearly. “A small sports car, the man driving it killed Leslie with—I think—a knife. He has
the baby. And the license is a New York one.” Out of my memory, I was actually able to pull the number digit by digit.

  “All right, miss. I've got that. But you say someone is dead—killed—in there?” He pointed to the carriage house.

  “No. Back in the old theater. But Stuart—it's most important to find him—now!”

  “Sure.” His hand closed gently about my elbow. He was guiding me back down the driveway. “I'm from a patrol car, miss. We can radio in about the baby. You come back and tell us all about it.”

  I looked to the house. Still no answer to my knocking. The car was parked just beyond the theater gate, and we headed towards it.

  “You're just giving him more time to get away,” I protested. “Please hurry to get the alarm out at once!”

  “Sure, miss. Now if you just tell me exactly what has happened—”

  “Leslie took Stuart out of his crib. I tracked her to the theater. She was quarreling with someone. They had been hunting something, and he accused her of taking it. She said—I think she was planning to use the baby as a hostage—there was a note—” I could not think straight. Because, even as I stared at the car white with snow, I saw now that red flood, heard that terrible bubbling again, and I began to shake.

  “Who is the man, miss—you said ‘he'?”

  “I don't know, I never saw him—just heard them both. He—he was evil. Leslie didn't seem afraid of him—she should have been. Gordon was there, too, in hiding. The man—he drove off in the car with the New York license—” I repeated the number.

  “Yes, miss. You told me that.”

  “And Stuart—I'm sure Leslie left the boy in the car. Because I couldn't find him inside when I looked.”

  Another policeman came down the theater drive and hurried to the car. I heard his voice inside, talking to the radio. Then he came over to us.

  “Called it in, Del. This one's a dilly. Dame back there with her head half off—” Then he saw me and was abruptly silent.

  “Send out an APB for a car with a New York license number—” My escort repeated it. “This lady says that the guy driving it did the knifing, and he has a kidnapped baby with him.”

  With a muffled exclamation the patrolman went back to the radio. Now the pressure on my elbow urged towards the theater. I was so tired. I wanted to just sit down somehwere and forget everything. But there was Stuart—and Mark. Where was Mark? At that moment I wanted him so much it was like a sharp pain in me.

  Light streamed out through the open door. A moment later we stepped into the littered room. This must be a side door, the one through which the murderer had gone. One of the piles of plundered boxes hid Leslie's body. I was glad of that.

  My companion walked cautiously forward. Under the light some of his high color faded. He stepped back hastily.

  “Do we have to stay here?” I was sick, so very sick—

  “What's beyond that?” He pointed to the other door.

  “The stage and the auditorium. I wish you'd do something. He killed Leslie—what will he do to Stuart?”

  “The car went out on the APB, miss. They'll be on the watch for it. And Homocide is on the way—”

  “Mark!” I had not realized that I called his name aloud until I heard my own voice. If only Mark would come this whole crazy nightmare might end. He could find Stuart!

  “Who, miss?”

  “Mark, Colonel Rohmer. He was on his way here when all this happened. If you can just find him—please, find him!”

  “Sure, miss.” Again that soothing tone which I found increasingly irritating. But he made no move to leave. Where was Mark, or even lieutenant Daniels?

  I heard the howl of a siren.

  “That'll be the sergeant now, miss.”

  “Leslie's dead. But Stuart is alive. That is the most important thing. That man who took him—he's the kind who would toss a baby right out of the car if he wanted to get rid of him. Why doesn't Mark come?”

  There was a screech of brakes, and, as I looked out the door, I saw a number of men coming through the gate. There followed a hazy period of confusion, and then I found myself on one of the dusty theater seats facing Lieutenant Daniels, a Daniels with slit-narrow eyes and a set mouth.

  “The baby—he took Stuart—” Surely Daniels who knew the Abbey and the inhabitants would understand the importance of what I was saying.

  “You can't swear to that, Miss Jansen.”

  “Leslie brought him out of the house, he isn't here anywhere. So she must have left him in the car. And the man drove off in that car.” I made my points with growing anger.

  “Was Cantrell driving it?”

  “No. Gordon was here after the man had left.”

  “Suppose you tell me the whole story again, Miss Jansen—from the beginning.”

  “I went down to the kitchen to get some warm milk for Stuart I left his grandmother with him. Leslie was in the kitchen getting a meal. The front doorbell rang. We thought it was the nurse. Leslie went to let her in—she never came back.” It was like trying to explain something to a child, I raged inwardly in exasperation—or to someone who did not understand plain English. I continued with my report of the discovery of the empty crib, the search of the house, my tracking the footprints to the theater, the quarrel I had overheard, all the rest.

  “And you say that Cantrell left after this man you never saw?”

  “He must have. I went to the carriage house because it was closer than the Abbey and I wanted to call the police. The lights were on but no one answered. Then the officer from the patrol car came.”

  “You did not recognize the voice of the man you didn't see?”

  I felt as if I were one ache now, bruised by both weariness and worry. I could have screamed my answer at him. It took a lot of control to keep my voice normal.

  “No, he just whispered—” There had been that odd sensation that there was something—but that was nothing concrete.

  “Did Miss Lowndes call him by name?”

  I forced myself to try to recall that conversation word by word. The menace conveyed in that whisper had the power to make me shiver even now.

  “No.”

  “Too much to hope for—”

  I looked around. Mark stood there at last. He was hatless, snow powdered in melting crystals on this thick cap of black hair.

  “We can guess,” he said to Daniels, “that it is tied up with the other matter. We'll have to play it my way.”

  “Mark!” I scrambled up, and my hands closed on his arm, which at that moment seemed the safest of anchors. “That man took Stuart. I'm positive!”

  He nodded, which brought me a vast feeling of relief.

  “There is an APB out on the car,” Daniels said.

  “He's on the run, and he has one bolt hole he doesn't know we've located. Get the state police and call Melborne, and tell him to bottle up the river.”

  “You're going down there?”

  Once more Mark nodded. He had gently loosened my grip on his arm, but he still held my hand in his. It seemed to me that for the first time in hours I began to feel warm.

  “We have this much in luck.” He continued to Daniels. “I'm sure he doesn't know we've learned about the cottage. But his knowledge of the countryside is thorough. However, he may be warned off lesser-known roads because of the storm. We can get there, I think. How long ago did he leave?” Now he turned to me.

  I could only shake my head. Time had not run in any pattern this night. It could have been thirty minutes, or an hour and thirty minutes. I did not know.

  “The boys have been here about forty-five minutes,” Daniels answered for me.

  “Perhaps an hour then. And you've had no report on the car?”

  “None so far.”

  “That means he headed straight for the river place. You send out the alarms. Meanwhile I'll get there as fast as I can.”

  He looked at me. “The lieutenant will see you back to—”

  “No,” I protested instantly.
“You'll need me when you find Stuart. He's sick, remember?”

  To my relief, he did not deny my help. When I slipped as we started toward the Abbey, he caught my arm and supported me until we reached the car parked under the Abbey portico. The windshield was plastered with wet snow, and he had to use the wiper before we dared start.

  I hunched in the bucket seat. Visibility was very poor. This was a heavier storm than was usual—more like those my home state produced. If it kept on like this, traffic would be tied up.

  The car skidded as we turned into the main thoroughfare. Mark grunted. Luckily traffic was light. Half a block away, a bus lumbered along at no more than a walking pace.

  “Driving will be bad—” I hoped that that might hold up the man we pursued.

  I wanted to ask where we were going, who Mark thought our quarry to be. Almost as if he read my mind he began to talk, with many pauses as he negotiated some turn or worked his way around stalled cars.

  “We have to get into the river country. And the driving may be even worse there. But there is a speedboat at the cottage—”

  “Please—who is he?”

  To my surprise, Mark hesitated. “We have only a name so far—and we are sure that it is not the one he may be using now. He has played a very canny game for a good many years. We believe that he is the head of the ring—blackmail as well as the money-washing deal is all part of it. There are people ‘above suspicion,’ important enough to bring pressure to bear on authorities. This Newson has some of those in his pocket. He is a practiced manipulator. We cannot approach a lot of those we are suspicious of as his customers and accuse them of making deals—not without more proof than we have.

  “He has been very clever indeed, dealing almost always through crooked channels which are set like the old espionage-cell patterns. That is—each man or woman he works through knows only one contact, and those near him may not know him at all except as a voice on the phone, or a note delivered by mail. Until tonight he has never taken one step out in the open. And why he did—it is hard to guess. Leslie Lowndes must have been a rare threat to him personally. He knows that his cover must be nearly perfect—perhaps he had to kill to protect that—”