by Howard Mason
CHAPTER SEVEN
I’ve got murder on the brain, he thought. Murders aren’t like this. They’re done in the dark, with a scream, chairs and tables upset. People start running around. Not quiet, like this. Chauverney looked astonished when he came in. Surprised to find himself murdered? Well, who wouldn’t be? Jocelyn wouldn’t. She expected it. Maybe she wants to be. Perhaps there’s a name for that. Desire-to-get-murdered neurosis. Ponievsky was smoking. I could smoke.
He looked at Chauverney to see if he would object to smoking. He looked very comfortable now, very graceful. He also looked dead. I’m sorry, old man. I’m damn sorry. This is sad. This is the saddest thing I ever saw.
“No need for you to stay here,” said Ponievsky.
“Is he dead?”
“No. An ambulance is coming.”
“A knife wound?” said Killian.
“Exactly,” said Ponievsky, and paused. “The wound had been bleeding for quite some time before you called me.”
“So what?” asked Killian.
Ponievsky shrugged his big shoulders. “Another doctor is coming. He will give his opinion.”
“I suppose we’ll be asked questions.”
“Then we shall answer them,” said Ponievsky.
He sat down near the bed, and Killian wandered out of the room. It was dim and quiet in the hall, all the doors closed. That wasn’t right. People ought to be running around, up and down the stairs, bringing up hot water, being agitated.
The library door was unlocked now, the lights were on; it looked bright and comfortable in there. He lay flat on the divan, with no pillow, his knees drawn up, hands clasped above his head. I want to think this out. It’s important.…
* * * *
Sibyl was shaking him in a rough way that made him furious. “Stop that!” he said. He wanted to kill her.
“You must get to bed,” she said. “You can’t stay here.”
“Yes, I can!” he said.
“My dear,” she said, using the society voice. “I’ve got a nice comfy room ready for you, and all your filings moved into it. You must get to bed.”
“I’m very comfy here.”
They looked squarely at each other.
“Has Chauverney.… Is Chauverney…” he asked.
“He’s fine!” she said, a little shrill. “Doctor Jacobs is upstairs now. He’s a marvelous doctor.”
He lay flat on his back, and she stood over him like a big, angry bird.
“For God’s sake, get up and go to bed,” she said.
“Why?”
“I don’t want the servants to find you lying here. It’s getting on for five o’clock.”
“I don’t want to go to bed at five o’clock.”
“I ask you as a favour to get out of here—go upstairs where you belong.”
“I’ll get out of here,” he said.
“And go upstairs.”
“No,” he said. “No, thanks.”
She sat down on the divan near his feet. “You’re plenty hard, my lad,” she said.
His eyes narrowed; he lay still, thinking about that, in wonder and something like fear. What makes her say that? I’ve never been quarrelsome. I’m quiet. Orderly. Excellent sense of discipline. They wrote that to my father when I was in boarding school. Sure. All right. But you know about that other one. That crazy Irishman you could be. You haven’t been like that yet, but you could be. Maybe you will be. Maybe it’s coming on you now. Jocelyn said I tried to kill her. She said I had “that look” on my face. “Well, I haven’t any grudge against you,” he said.
“Then couldn’t you cooperate a little?” she asked.
“Just by going upstairs?”
She gave a one-sided smile, curiously tough. A tough baby, she was. That soft, red chiffon negligee didn’t suit her. The whole house was full of emotion, grief, pity, fear. The great motif—Love and Death—kept coming up now and again. Like a Wagner opera. Liebestod. And the only one who seemed undisturbed by love or pity was this Sibyl.
“All right!” he said. “I’ll cooperate.”
As he sat up straight, he saw her stiffen; she sprang up and went toward the door with a slightly rolling gait. A little bow-legged, he thought.
“Well, doctor?” she said in a brisk tone. “How’s the patient?”
“There’s no immediate danger,” said a deep, deep grave Voice. “But I should advise a nurse.”
“Oh, of course! If it’s necessary,” said Sibyl. “But you know how a nurse upsets a household. Harriet and I are both good at looking after sick people. Don’t you think we might manage, doctor?”
“Possibly,” said the deep, deep voice. “Possibly. I’d like to know where she got that stuff.”
“She?” Killian said to himself.
“I know she’s in the habit of taking some sort of sleeping medicine,” said Sibyl. “I’ve always thought it was dangerous to keep that stuff beside you. You might take a dose, and then forget you’d taken it and take another. That must happen sometimes.”
There was a pause.
“I have an operation at the hospital at eight,” the deep voice resumed. “I’ll come back here as soon after that as I can. And possibly Miss Frey will be able to answer a few questions then.”
“Oh, I’m sure she will,” said Sibyl.
“I trust so,” said the deep voice. “In the meantime, your daughter has full instructions.”
“Harriet is wonderful with sick people,” said Sibyl.
“She seems level-headed,” said the deep voice. “Well, I’ll be back, Mrs. Bell.” The front door closed, and Killian came out into the hall. “New developments,” he observed.
“Yes,” she said. “Jocelyn was sleeping too soundly. We couldn’t rouse her, and sent for the doctor.”
“What about the other patient?”
“There isn’t any other patient,” said she.
“I thought Chauverney was a little indisposed?”
“He rallied,” she said, with a one-sided smile. “He’s gone.”
“What d’you mean by ‘gone’?”
“He’s left the house,” she said. “He was in a temper, and he left.”
“Well, no,” said Killian, “I don’t think it was like that.”
“You think too much,” said Sibyl, and turned away and went up the stairs. Killian went after her.
“I want to see Jocelyn,” he said.
“Come right along!” said Sibyl, and opened the door of Jocelyn’s room.
In the little circle of lamplight Harriet had turned into a blonde, fair-haired, fair-skinned, in a white terry robe over white pajamas. She sat in an armchair facing the bed, her knees crossed, hands clasped behind her head, in an attitude of quiet, unshakable patience. She looked at Killian out of the corners of her long, narrowed eyes and didn’t stir.
He went to look down at Jocelyn. There was a change in her. She looked flat, sunken into the mattress, as if crushed. Her breathing was shallow; she was white as paper, with dark rings under her eyes and a reddish stain about her mouth. “What’s that?” he asked, in a whisper. “What’s happened to her mouth?”
“Doctor Jacobs gave her an emetic,” said Harriet, in an ordinary tone. “And then a stimulant.”
“Has she been like this—been unconscious long?” he asked, and he would keep on whispering. Harriet would keep on using a normal tone.
“She was conscious while the doctor was working on her,” said Harriet. “Very much so. Now she’s supposed to be resting.”
“How would you know if she got worse?”
“By her pulse,” said Harriet.
“I’d like a nurse for her,” said Killian.
“My dear,” said Sibyl, “don’t be a fool. You ought to be just as anxious as we are to keep this quiet.”
H
e meditated upon that for a moment.
“Doctor Jacobs will be coming back before long,” said Harriet. “He’d be almost sure to notice if we murdered Jocelyn.”
“And we hate publicity,” said Sibyl.
There was an unholy humor in these two women, and a complete understanding. I probably am a joke, thought Killian. Doctor Jacobs said she wasn’t in any immediate danger. He was willing to leave her in their charge. Of course, he doesn’t know all I know. I’m a sort of expert on murders that aren’t murders. But even at that.…“I’ll stop in later,” he said.
Harriet smiled a drowsy, tigerish smile. It irritated him and he wanted to say something about it, but that was not practical. He went away, with a curious sense of defeat. It was unbelievably quiet on the upper floor. All the doors were closed except one. He went to that one, found a neat, well-lighted room, bed turned down, his pajamas laid out for him. He surveyed this for a moment and then went to that other room. It was in darkness, and the window wide open; he turned on the switch, and there was the dark patch on the rug. They can’t get away with this, he thought. This is too much.
Chauverney had been dying. Maybe he was dead now. They couldn’t hide him permanently, dead or alive. Who’s “they?” Who wants to do this? What did they do with the poor devil? Throw him out the window? Well, questions will be asked. If not by anyone else, then by me.
The sky outside the windows was pale, a strange filmy grey; he stared at it, disturbed. Ha! It’s the dawn! I’ve got to make enquiries. I must be kind-hearted because I care. I care a hell of a lot about what’s happened to Chauverney. I didn’t like to see him lying there, dying. Ponievsky seemed to be kind. But he’s a dark horse. Sibyl said if you leave Chauverney alone with Eric, he’ll need a coffin. What did she mean by that? She’s a dark horse, too. Veneer of grande dame on top of something very different.
The air had a piercing chill in it. The dawn wind, he thought, if there is such a thing. So Jocelyn had taken a drug, had she? Took it herself, or did someone give it to her? Trying to murder her? She’s so fond of murder. This thing is certainly developing. Drugs and knife wounds. Steps ought to be taken. By me? Certainly. By you. Do something. Find out what’s happened to that poor devil. Find Ponievsky. I am a good citizen. Law-abiding. I will not countenance murders.
The dawn wind was very cold. That, or something else, made him shiver. He went through the bathroom and knocked on Ponievsky’s door. No answer, and it was locked on the other side. He went back and then into the room got ready for him, and Sibyl came in there after him.
“For God’s sake, what a pest you are!” she said. “Why don’t you go to bed?”
“I want to find Chauverney,” he said.
“My dear, I told you he went away. He packed his bag, and telephoned for a taxi.”
“Well, no. He couldn’t pack a bag. He couldn’t telephone.”
“You don’t want to make trouble, do you?” she asked.
“I don’t care much about that,” he said. This room faced east, and from the window he saw rosy clouds coming up softly above the horizon, beautiful and amazing. The moon is beautiful, but it is not amazing. You wait for it calmly. But the sunrise takes your breath away.
“Come back to earth!” said Sibyl.
You bird of ill omen, he thought. “I’m going to find Chauverney,” he said. “If I have to tear everything wide open.”
“He’s probably gone back to his ship. You can call him up on Monday.”
“Let’s not be funny. The man was dying.”
“My dear, be sensible. You wouldn’t know if a man was dying or not. I tell you he went away in a taxi.”
“Alone?”
“With a driver.”
“I’ll get hold of the driver then. What’s the name of the garage he got the taxi from?”
She didn’t answer.
“I’m going through with this,” said Killian.
She looked ugly, with deep lines from her nostrils to the corners of her mouth; she looked weary and miserable. “Be sensible,” she said in a halfhearted way.
“I will be,” said Killian. “I just want a few words with the driver who took Chauverney—somewhere.”
The sun was sliding up, bright gold; the rosy clouds were vanishing in the flood of light; everything was growing clear in outline but still without color. A man was walking over the lawn, far away, looking all black and grey, like a figure on the screen; he was slender and straight, and slanting backward a little. “That’s Angelo,” Killian said to himself. “I’d think it was queer, seeing him here, if I had any standards of queerness left.”
“Charlie Chauverney didn’t go in a taxi,” said Sibyl. “And didn’t pack a bag.”
“Elly packed a bag for him. She and Eric Ponievsky took him in one of our cars.”
“Took him where?”
“To a hospital, a good long way off.”
“Like a rat,” said Killian thoughtfully. “Will not, must not, die in the house.”
“He’ll be lucky if he dies,” she said. “He tried to die.”
“Suicide?”
“What do you think?” she asked. “Do you believe in the burglar—cutting his wrist with a knife? Or do you think it was an accident?”
“Well, how about murder?”
“Be sensible,” she said. “Would he just stand still and let somebody cut his wrist? And not even complain about it?”
“I’ve got more imagination than you,” said Killian. “How do you like this? Someone creeps up on him with a knife. There’s a struggle, in which Chauverney gets hurt. He dies without mentioning the name of his assailant, because it’s someone he loves.”
“Elly?” said she. “Do you see Elly creeping up on anyone with a knife?”
“Doesn’t have to be Elly.”
“Well, he didn’t love me,” she said. “So I’m out of it. And Jocelyn was sleeping off a dose of something. There’s nobody else in the house he would have loved—except Harriet, and he didn’t love Harriet. No, you’d better keep out of this.”
“The hospital’s going to make enquiries. The steamship company, too.”
“I know that,” she said. “There’s going to be plenty of trouble. You needn’t make it worse.”
“D’you think it’s making things better, to do this?” asked Killian. “To hustle a dying man out of your house? By the way, what happened to the ambulance?”
“Eric sent for it, and I countermanded it the moment he was out of the way. I’ll do more than that,” she said. “You’d be surprised how much I’d do to avoid a scandal.”
“I don’t think much of your technique.”
“I took a chance,” she said. “I’ve taken a lot of chances in my lifetime.”
“Are you lucky?” asked Killian.
She looked very ugly and very tired now. “Yes,” she said, “I’m a damn sight luckier than I deserve.” She gave a sigh. “Be sensible, will you?” she said once more, and left him.
Maybe I will be sensible, he thought. Ponievsky I don’t know about. But I’d bet on Elly. If she’s had a hand in this, it can’t be what it looks like. Perhaps it’s not complicated. Just a plain honest suicide. He slashed a vein, like a Roman. But when the end comes, you want someone else around.
Why was it me, I wonder? No reason, maybe. He just opened the first door that was handy. Motive? That’s outside my field. I don’t know enough about him.
The suit he had worn ashore was hanging up in the closet; he changed into that; taking plenty of time about dressing. “This is Sunday morning,” he said to himself. “I’ll have to go back to New York to-night, so that I can be at the office bright and early Monday morning.” But I’m not going until I’ve talked to Jocelyn, he thought. Not until I know she’s all right. Maybe I could take her with me. And what would I do with her? Put her in a pumpkin shell. And there
he kept her very well. Ancient wisdom in that nursery rhyme. Poor guy who had a wife and couldn’t keep her. Even in those days that happened.
There was a knock at the door. “Come in!” he called; and in came Harriet, in a neat, clean, rust-colored linen dress. This time her hair was red. “Would you like to come and have breakfast on the boat?” she asked.
“No, thanks,” Killian answered. “P m waiting until the doctor comes back.”
“I’d like to tell you something before the doctor comes back,” said Harriet. “We can be back here when he comes. It’s something you’d better hear.”
“Something I’ll like to hear?” he asked, warily.
“No,” she said. “Something pretty bad for you to hear.”
“Then suppose we skip it?”
“And just let it come down on you like a ton of bricks?” asked Harriet.
“All right!” said Killian, after a moment. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
There was a car waiting outside the house, and they got into it.
“Give!” said Killian.
“Wait till we get on the boat,” said Harriet.
“That’s a good technique,” he said, approvingly. “That’s the way to make bad news worse.”
“Oh, don’t be such a clown!” she said. “This isn’t any fun for me.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“I’ve got to.”
“I know why you’re going to tell me this bad news,” Killian said. “Because it’s right. It’s the Decent Thing to do. It’s playing the game. It’s—”
“Oh, shut up!” she said, and that made him laugh.
He liked her to say that. She narrowed her eyes so that her ginger-colored lashes were meshed; she looked like a cross little yellow cat, and he liked that. He liked her to be cross and vigorous and young.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Twenty-two,” she answered.
Three years older than Jocelyn, are you? he thought. Only Jocelyn hasn’t any age. She’s like the Lorelei, or one of those things. This Harriet is young. “Do you go to college?” he asked.
