by Howard Mason
“They must of received information,” said the chauffeur.
“Yes,” answered Killian.
“Had I ought to wait here, sir?”
“Don’t ask me,” said Killian. “I don’t know anything—about anything.”
He sat down in a deck chair and stretched himself out comfortably, clasped his hands behind his head, and stared up at the sky. This is an interval, he thought. Sensible, to relax, while I can. Things are going to happen. Things I won’t like. Because this is the real McCoy. This is the kind of murder people get arrested for, and put into jail for. And get hanged for. The police won’t overlook the “Elements.” They’ll ask questions. Who was driving around this morning? Harriet and I were driving around. Maybe we’ll get arrested. But we haven’t any motive. At least, I haven’t. Harriet might have one.
All clear as daylight. Harriet gets up early and takes out the car. She chases Angelo and runs over him. Then she returns to the house, to get me. She takes me out on the boat and then to The Maples, for an alibi. The flaw in that theory is, that Harriet is not a murderess. How do I know that? By instinct. By intuition. I never knew anything so well.
I could suspect Sibyl. I could suspect Luther Bell—if he even knows how to drive a car. I could suspect Ponievsky. Elly? Not Elly. My girl friend? She was in bed, recovering from her latest murder. Personally, I prefer Ponievsky. For excellent reasons. He’s already committed one murder; and that will count heavily against you, Doctor Ponievsky. And then he’s run away. That’s as good as a confession. All these murders have been committed by this fiend in human form. This man, masquerading as a healer of human bodies is at heart, gentlemen of the jury, a ruthless murderer. He has run away—to Poland. Give a verdict of guilty, gentlemen, and let’s drop it. Let’s forget it. It makes me nervous.
“What are you doing?” asked Sibyl.
“Thinking,” Killian answered.
“Let’s take a stroll before lunch,” she said.
“Lunch?” Killian repeated.
“Come on!” she said, and led him across the lawn, where they slackened their pace, out of hearing but in full view of the house.
“My dear,” she said, “if you’re going to take Jocelyn, take that job Luther offered you, too.”
“I’m high-minded,” he said. “I don’t want a job I can’t fill worthily.”
“You’ll be worthy, all right,” she said. “I’ve worked hard to fix this up for you.”
“You?”
“Me,” she said. “Take it, John. You’ll be worth anything they give you. You’re a smart boy. I gave you a wonderful build-up to Luther.”
“That was certainly friendly.”
“Well, I am friendly,” she said.
They strolled on in silence. Used to wear tights, thought Killian, and wink at the boys. A million years ago. Not quite a million. In your forties, now, I’d say. And a good sport. Fighting for a place in the sun. “What happened to the police?” he asked.
“They’ve gone,” she said.
“Coming back, aren’t they?”
“Why should they?”
“I thought maybe they’d want to ask me questions.”
“My dear, they don’t know you exist,” she said. “A truck driver saw this man in the road, and he reported it to the police. They came here because it was the nearest house. They wanted to see if anyone could identify him, and, of course, Luther could. The poor man had been run over, and left there. They’ll try to check on cars that might have done it, but it’s practically impossible. Luther’s going to get in touch with the steamship company to-morrow, and try to find out if the poor man had any relations.”
“Chauverney might know about that.”
“My dear, a Purser really doesn’t know much about the private lives of the stewards.”
“He might,” said Killian.
“Well, we’ll ask him,” said she. “Luther’s going to pay for the poor man’s funeral,” she added.
“There’ll be a post-mortem, won’t there?”
“Oh, everything necessary will be done, of course,” she said. “There’ll be an inquest, and so on. But the cause of death is pretty obvious.” She paused. “And the police don’t want to cause Luther any more trouble than can be helped.”
That would be nice, thought Killian. Just to drop this. When you come to think of it, a lot has been happening this last week. A strain, for a sensitive, high-strung lad like me. Less than a week since Jocelyn went overboard. That did something to me. Changed me—permanently. It’s as if I were the one who fell overboard. And was drowned. The good ambitious John Killian died, and there’s this left.
Everything passes, and this, too, will pass. A few weeks. A nice, quiet weekend in the country. Chauverney coming into my room bleeding to death. Angelo lying in the road. Elly crying, and Harriet crying. Ponievsky’s gone, and my youth has gone. That’s poetic. Gone, alas, like my youth too soon.
He began to sing to himself. “Oh, the sound of the Kerry dancers. Ah, the ring of the piper’s tune.” He couldn’t remember all the words, and it bothered him. “When the boys began to gather, in the glen of a summer night.…”
That’s what my ancestors did, I suppose. Gathered in a glen on a summer night. The pipers played and they danced. With their girls. You can’t fit Jocelyn into that. She’d be sitting on a rock with a flask of whisky and a pack of cigarettes. Very morbid girl. Extremely morbid thing for a girl to swim around in the sea in a white dress. And I did it? She’ll have to get that idea out of her head. I don’t like it.
He felt sick of smoking. Everything was quiet in the afternoon sun. A Sunday in May. Chauverney won’t be ruined. And Elly won’t be ruined. Harriet isn’t ruined. She’s too young and strong for that. Only Angelo is ruined, very definitely. And maybe me. Yes. Maybe that’s what’s the matter with me. I’m ruined. It makes you feel pretty flat, to be ruined.
“Well?” said Sibyl.
They looked at each other. Both sat down.
“I thought,” she said, “that it would be nice for you and Jocelyn to have dinner on the boat.”
“Just Jocelyn and me?” he asked. “I’ve never tried to run a cabin cruiser.”
“The Captain will do that,” she said. “I rang him up, and he’ll be ready for you any time this afternoon.”
“Will Jocelyn like that?”
“Tell her it’s what you want,” said Sibyl. “For God’s sake, John, get her out of this house.”
“Does she bore you?”
“Oh, I could take it,” she said. “But she gets on Luther’s nerves pretty badly. He’s upset, anyhow. He’ll have to identify that man—what was the name?”
“Angelo.”
“He’ll have to identify Angelo, and that bothers him. He objects to anybody dying. And Captain Warren wants to come back, and ask more questions about Angelo. He said he was not ‘altogether satisfied.’” She sighed. “John,” she said, “for a thousand dollars, will you take Jocelyn away, now, and keep her away?”
“Is this a joke?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “I’ve got a check all written out.”
“If it’s not a joke,” he said, “then probably it’s an insult.”
“I suppose I could have been more tactful,” she said. “But I’m tired, John. I’ve suffered from your girl friend for four years. The first time she went to South America, I hoped she’d marry a somebody there and be very, very happy. The second time she went, I hoped she’d break her neck. For four years she’s been blackmailing Luther.”
“Them’s fighting words,” said Killian.
“Yes. I’ve tried to fight her. But I’m licked, John. For the last year Luther has been trying to settle with her. But she won’t make any promises; she won’t sign anything.”
“Do you mean she’s got something on Luther?”
&nbs
p; “He picked her up on a bus, four years ago,” said Sibyl. “She said she was eighteen, and he believed her. She said she was an actress, and he believed that, too. Luther has lots of good points, but he’s not very bright. It was quite a while before he found out that she was a schoolgirl of fifteen. Then, naturally, her family cracked down on him. He had to pay them to keep quiet. And he’s gone on paying and paying. It’s a story he wouldn’t like to see in the newspapers.”
“Is that where she gets her little income? From your husband?”
“I was pretty sure you didn’t know,” she said. “At first I thought I’d just let you go ahead. But I’ve changed my mind.”
“Why?”
“Kindness to you.”
“I don’t think it’s that,” said Killian.
“Maybe not,” she said. “The motive doesn’t matter, does it? You’re getting the truth. Your fiancée is living on blackmail, and she means to go on. The job Luther offered you is blackmail, my dear.”
“I haven’t accepted it,” said Killian.
“You can’t get away from her,” said Sibyl. “I’ll tell you what she did to Eric.”
“I’ve heard that tale.”
“She’ll do worse than that to you, my dear. She loves you. She’ll never let you go.”
Killian said nothing.
“Wherever you go, whatever you do, she’ll follow you. Even if you leave the country, she’ll get money from Luther and go after you. She’ll make scenes such as you’ve never imagined. If you have any family, any friends, they’ll be dragged into it.”
He looked up and met her pale blue eyes.
“You’re inciting to riot,” he said.
“No, only trying to persuade you to take her away.”
“To take her where?” he asked.
They kept on looking at each other steadily.
“That’s not my business,” she said after a moment. “I’ve got a check for you—”
“Very kind of you, but I don’t want that check.”
“The job in Luther’s business is still good,” she said. “No matter what happens.”
“Nothing’s going to happen,” he said. “And I resign, here and now, from Bell, Fiske and Waters.”
Her pale blue eyes flashed over his face as he looked away over the lawn.
“I suppose,” she said, “that I married for money. That’s what everyone said. I certainly wanted money. But there’s more in it than that I’m fond of Luther. I’ve been in love in my time, but this is something else again. As I told you, and you’ve probably noticed it yourself, Luther’s not very bright. But he’s different. I’ve never known anyone else like Luther. He has a code. It’s dumb. It’s—maybe it’s a thousand years out of date. But I like it. I like his ways. I like the way he treats the servants. He feels responsible for them.”
She paused for a time. “He trusts me,” she went on. “He trusts me with everything he has. His money, and his reputation. I’ve been a good wife to him. I’ve learned a lot. I can hold my own now, even with his damn snooty friends. He knows he can count on me. He depends on me. And I’ll never let him down.”
“You could forgive him when he strayed?”
“When Jocelyn got hold of him,” she said, “he was sixty-three, poor devil! He told me about it. He told me he was sorry; and he was sorry, even before she put on the screws. I’d do a lot, John, to save Luther from any more of this.”
“I believe you,” said Killian.
“Will you take her away to-night?”
He thought for a while. “Not to-night,” he said. “I’ll go back to town myself.”
“And leave her here?”
“While I make arrangements. I’ve got to do that.”
“What arrangements? What are you going to do with her? Have you any money?”
“Enough,” he said.
“Do you imagine she’ll be satisfied with what you’ve got?” asked Sibyl. “For four years she’s had everything she wants. If she wanted a mink coat, she got it; and I wore my old coat. She’s been to South America, to Paris, to London.” She paused again. “It’s not only that Luther’s afraid of the story getting known,” she said. “That’s bad enough. But he believes he’s ruined her life. And her character. He’s like that, you know. He says things like that. ‘I feel a great and crushing moral responsibility.’ Poor devil! She was fifteen, and he was sixty-three and he was a poor, silly little rich boy, and she was—well, I won’t go on with that.”
“Let’s not talk,” said Killian.
“All right!” she said. “Take her away for dinner, though. I’d—God! I’d choke to death if I saw her at the table tonight. I’ll order the car, and the chauffeur will drive you down to the wharf. You and Jocelyn can have dinner on board, and a nice, quiet talk.”
“About what?”
She turned her head away a little, and her face in profile looked old, and heavy, and sad. “If you’ll persuade Jocelyn to go away,” she said, “I’ll make the check for five thousand.”
“I don’t seem to make myself very clear,” said Killian. “I don’t want any of Mr. Luther Bell’s money. Jocelyn doesn’t want any more of it, either.”
“Suppose she does want more of it?” Sibyl asked, and waited; but he didn’t answer. “There’s one thing to remember,” she said. “If anything goes wrong, don’t worry. Luther’s like a king out here. Practically unlimited influence.”
They looked and looked at each other.
“Nothing will go wrong,” said Killian.
The butler was coming toward them, not looking at them.
Is there a rule about that? thought Killian. A butler must be three feet two and one-half inches from his betters before he addresses them.
“Lunch is served, madam.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Lunch is an interlude,” Killian said to himself. “It’s a welcome interlude. I can pull myself together. After lunch, I’ll have to see Jocelyn. I didn’t know that anything could ever hurt me this much.”
She told me she was a little tramp, he thought. She told me about the bad old man. All right, then. Why does it hurt so much to find out that the villain is Luther Bell? I’ve eaten Mr. Luther Bell’s food and drunk his liquor; I am now mounting the steps to Mr. Luther Bell’s home, to break bread with him again. And it is hell. I’m being unreasonable. She told me this story. The past is past. But just the same, this is hell. I feel—how can you put it? My honour is tarnished.
“Want a drink, John?” asked Sibyl.
“No, thanks,” he said.
No more of Mr. Bell’s drinks. I’ll have to sit at his table. I can’t make a scene. But this is the finish. She asked me to take her away, and that’s what I’ll do. After lunch. Back to New York. Not out on Mr. Bell’s boat. I think Sibyl was hinting that I’d better murder the girl. Jocelyn doesn’t seem very popular. I’m afraid we won’t have much of a social life, after were married.
After we’re married. I’m going to marry her. I’ve got to. I’m elected, because I fed her with toast. Because, as far as I can see, I’m the only living soul who doesn’t hate her. I’m the only one who doesn’t feel injured by her. Or ruined by her. If I’m ruined, I did it myself. I let that crazy Irishman come out of his cave and take charge. I don’t like myself any more, but that’s not her fault.
Harriet was there at the lunch table, looking clean and alert and cross, in green linen. Elly was there, in a thin black dress with little pink bows up the front, very dainty. Still with that face like a piteous little clown. Mr. Luther Bell sat at the head of his table.
I won’t look at him, Killian thought. After lunch, Jocelyn and I will go away. Somewhere. Five men, she said. Five names written in a little book. Ponievsky is one. And Luther Bell is another? He could want to murder her. Easily. He’s not very bright, and he wouldn’t know how; but h
e could want to. He might ask Sibyl to look after it for him. And Sibyl passes the buck to me.
There was something magnificent about Sibyl. She made a conversation. John, what was the food like in Buenos Aires? How interesting! Luther, do you remember the Brazilian woman with all the little dogs? Do tell that story. Mrs. L’O, what sort of hats will we have to wear in the autumn?
“I think that what I feel is called grief,” Killian said to himself. “She’s so beautiful, and she’s nineteen, and there’s all this. She told me about this. I don’t think she’s a liar. I think she’s a victim. I do think that. Victim of what? Her family. Mr. Bell. Something born in her. I wouldn’t know. And it doesn’t matter. I’m elected. Maybe I can help her. Maybe yes, and maybe no.”
It was a good lunch. But Mr. Bell’s food doesn’t agree with me, he thought. I do not like thee, Mr. Bell. I won’t look at you, because if I did I’d look at your neck and think about choking you. Like a king, are you?
The lunch was coming to an end, and Sibyl was arranging their moves. Like an automatic chessplayer, Killian thought.
“Luther, I suppose you will go on with your writing?”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes.”
“His book, you know,” Sibyl explained. “It’s about progress.”
“Progress in relation to industry,” said Luther Bell.
“All his holidays given up to that,” said Sibyl. “Harriet wants to show you some of our lovely countryside, Mrs. L’O. She’ll drive you out to the Country Club for tea, and, of course, we’ll see you here in time for dinner. I’m going to keep John, and make him look at my flowers.”
Pushing me around, are you? thought Killian. I’m not going to look at your flowers. I’m going to take Jocelyn away. I’ll have to show her to my father, in the course of time. My bride. He won’t be pleased. An upright man. A C.P.A., and they send him all over, even to China, and what he says is so. He minds his own business; he doesn’t talk much. But he’ll look at Jocelyn. What sort of marriage is this? What are you thinking of? Father, this is love. Phooey on love.
