Uninvited Guest

by George Harmon Coxe

  The thought of Sally made him turn left and start up the hill, using the road which skirted the golf course and wound upwards towards the bluff on which the Crane house stood. In less than five minutes he was swinging off the road and into the drive which led to this massive, gray-stone structure which reared bleak and foreboding against the night sky.

  He saw as he approached that most of the house was in darkness, the only light showing dimly from the drawing-room windows on the right. There was no car out front, no one on the wide veranda as he climbed the steps. The front door stood open and he went inside without knocking. A glance told him the drawing room was empty and now, in the shadowed dimness of the hall ahead of him he saw the telephone. It stood on a small stand and on the shelf below there was a directory. He did not expect to find Briggs at Headquarters at this hour so he looked up the number of his residence.

  It was when he started to dial that number that he heard the noise. It was not loud, nor could he characterize it at the moment; but it was distinct enough to make him stop dialing, to make him put the phone down and go back to glance again into the drawing room. When it remained quiet and empty in the half-light of the single electric bulb, he crossed to the room opposite and in front of the stairs. There was only darkness here, and no sound but the hollow rap of his shoes on the polished wood floors.

  “Hello,” he said. “Anyone here?”

  His words had an empty, artificial sound as they echoed in the high-ceilinged hall and now, telling himself that what he had heard must have come from outside, he went back to the telephone and dialed his number. Seconds later the Major’s voice came to him.

  Scott apologized for calling Briggs at his home. He said that something had happened but first he wanted to know about Waldron. Had Briggs found him.

  “Oh, yes,” Briggs said. “We took him off the Colombie a half hour before she sailed. He did a rather clever thing. Took a third-class passage. We very nearly missed him.”

  “Where was he going?”

  “He was booked to Cartagena.”

  Scott had it on the tip of his tongue to tell Briggs about Freddie, and then he stopped. The sickness was still with him, born of guilt, the thought still festering that if he had listened to Freddie in the first place the little guy would still be alive. Now, in his own mind, it was no longer enough that he tell Briggs; he felt compelled to do something on his own, something that might help to ease his conscience. If he could have a hand in helping to trap the one who had killed Freddie it might assuage the feeling of self condemnation. Even if he failed it seemed terribly important that he try, and because there were things he had to know first he said:

  “When did you pick him up?”

  “Around four.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Oh, we’ve been holding him.”

  Well, that takes care of that, Scott thought, feeling very little surprise now that he understood Waldron could not be guilty of murder.

  Aloud he said: “What does he say about Luther?”

  “Oh, he corroborates that statement in part. When I confronted him with that newspaper piece he admitted right off that he was the missing Tim Welsh. He had about twelve thousand, American, on him in cash. The balance is no doubt in some deposit box in a New York bank.”

  “Luther saw him rowing back from the Griselda?”

  “And Waldron admits he was out there. He got the idea from you at the Club Morgan. Julia Parks sent him the article as we suspected and then called him up from the Carib the night of her arrival. When you told him she was in the forward cabin he saw a chance to get to her alone so he drove to the Aquatic Club, found a skiff tied at that little landing stage and decided to appropriate it for a few minutes.”

  “Did he say why he wanted to see Julia?”

  “Oh, yes. Said there was no telling what she might say when she was drunk and he hoped to make some sort of agreement with her before she got other ideas. He was willing to pay something for her silence and, in fact, had hoped to reach that agreement at Club Morgan; that’s why he was waiting there. She’d promised to come but she didn’t.”

  “Does he admit that he killed her?”

  “Quite the contrary. He insists she was dead when he went into the cabin. It frightened him so when he realized his position that he was afraid to row back to the Aquatic Club—afraid someone would see him and remember—which is why he rowed directly to the beach where Luther saw him. . . .”

  Briggs had other things to say about that meeting but Scott did not hear him. What he heard was something else, something that came not from the receiver but from somewhere in the house.

  He did not know what it was but he was sure he had heard it. He waited for it to be repeated as he had waited for a repetition of that sound he had heard earlier. He thought it came from somewhere in the rear or from below, and he turned, breath held as he listened, peering into the unrelieved darkness at the back of the hall, neck muscles tensed and his nape prickly.

  The wind working on a loosened door? No. For there was no wind. Nor was there any repetition of the sound, only the metallic clatter of Briggs’ voice in the diaphragm of the telephone. Scott put it back to one ear and tried to listen with the other.

  Briggs was explaining how Luther had arranged passage on the Estelle and how Waldron had hired the mate to make sure Luther was aboard in time.

  “Naturally he won’t admit he was the one who struck you from behind at the dance. That would make him guilty of assault. Neither will he admit that he killed Julia Parks . . . As a matter of fact,” Briggs added, “I’ve been in touch with New York by overseas telephone and they say that Welsh—or Waldron—has no record of violence. Still-”

  Scott was listening again for sounds in the quiet house. He wondered if there could be a servant out back somewhere until he recalled that Crane had said there were no servants sleeping in while his wife was away.

  He remembered too about the massive construction of the house and its thick-walled and vaulted cellars. Then, deliberately, he closed his mind upon such speculations. He had found out what he wanted to know and it was time now to get on with the job.

  “I think Waldron’s right,” he said. “I don’t think he killed Julia.”

  “Really.”

  “I think Freddie Gardner knew what was going on thatnight.”

  “You do?” said Briggs in a voice that suggested none of this was getting through to him.

  “Freddie knew and Freddie made the mistake of telling the wrong person. I think the same person killed Freddie that killed Julia; it’s the only way it figures.”

  “What?”

  “And it couldn’t have been Waldron because you’ve been holding him.”

  “But what’s this about Freddie?” Briggs said, irritable now.

  “He was killed tonight and not too long ago. Shot to death at his house.”

  Major Briggs was not a profane man but he knew the proper words and now he gave vent to them. He did a good job but Scott could not appreciate it because just then he heard the car start up somewhere behind the house.

  In the next instant the motor raced and Scott, remembering how Freddie’s car had been left out back the night before, understood that this car he heard had been there before he arrived. Someone had been lurking in the house, and he had heard a noise, and now, seeing a quick flash of reflected light skip across the ceiling, he jumped up.

  “I’ll call you back,” he shouted. “I’ll call you at Freddie’s house.”

  Briggs was shouting too as the connection was broken. Scott had time to think that the Major was going to be very very sore indeed at this seeming lack of cooperation; then he was running through the door and across the veranda as a car roared down the driveway, only its tail lights and license plate visible.

  Scott did the best he could. Leaping sideways off the high steps he reached his little sedan in two strides. A second later the motor was going and he was in gear. A jerk at the wheel started him off just as
the headlights of the car ahead turned into the highway, and then he was rolling downhill and making the same turn, not sure he could follow the other car but fairly certain who was driving it and where it was going.

  CHAPTER 20

  THE ROAD was downgrade and winding and Scott drove fast but not recklessly until he came to Highway 7. This was a stop street and he obeyed the sign before turning left. For some distance here the road was straight and he could see three cars in front of him before the curves started again. The one ahead was not the one he wanted and he followed it for a half mile before he could pass it.

  He still did not know what was ahead of him but after another half mile he came to this turn he was looking for and cut right towards the sea. The shore dipped sharply in here at one point and on the opposite side of the resulting cove he saw headlights just disappearing around the corner.

  Inshore the water was a glassy black but farther out a white line of surf broke upon a reef, and beyond that and far down on the horizon a solitary light marked the progress of some sailing craft. He saw all this briefly as he skirted the cove and then the road swung left and straightened into a narrow lane, lined with small houses on the left and on the other side, the walled-in yards of the more elaborate estates which faced the sea. Far ahead of him a red light winked and went out and presently Scott slowed down until he came finally to the gateway of this two-storied stone house, the front of which overlooked the beach. When he saw the name on the gate-post he knew it belonged to the Farrows.

  Leaving his car parked just beyond the gate he walked back and stood a moment, speculating, eyeing the house across the road and remembering what Briggs had said. It was here that the party was in progress the night the Farrows had come home together; here that some guest had seen a car come through the gateway at a later hour.

  There were three cars parked in the paved court beyond the wall and when he stepped close he saw the familiar license number and knew he had come to the right place. Somehow the knowledge did not excite him. In a way this might be the end of the road but he had no enthusiasm to explore what lay there. He felt tired and strangely sick inside and it was this sickness and his thoughts of Freddie Gardner, rather than any concern for Sally that made him press on.

  Sally was all right. Sally would be all right unless something unforeseen happened. That is what he told himself as he walked past the cars and skirted wide to the lawn on the right. The lights were on all along this side and he could see someone working in the kitchen. In the room beyond a maid was setting the table for dinner and now, coming to the veranda, Scott climbed the rail and tiptoed along to the room at the front where light spilled brightly from open French doors.

  By then he could hear voices and he moved quietly forward, keeping to the wall until he could peer round the corner and get a glimpse of the room and the five people who stood there.

  Until that moment Scott had not known what to expect. In his own mind, supported by his own brand of reasoning, he thought he knew who had killed Julia—and Freddie. He had hoped to tell Briggs what he thought but things weren’t working out that way. The strain in the voices that came to him, the words that were spoken, told him that something quite drastic had to be done before Briggs could arrive. A man with a gun in his hand is not always amenable to reasoning and the spoken word, and now, understanding what was happening, Scott felt the tension build swiftly inside him. For it was all too clear that if anything was to be done in time it would have to be done by him, the occupants of the room being otherwise occupied.

  An oversized coffee table in front of the divan was laden with cocktail things. Beyond it, near the mantel, Howard Crane stood beside Sally. Diagonally ahead were the Farrows: Vivian with a cocktail in one hand and her cigarette holder in the other, Mark, dark-haired and stocky-looking in his gray flannels, edging slightly in front of his wife.

  “Don’t be a fool!” he was saying.

  The voice that answered him was high-pitched with strain and carried overtones of hysteria. It came from Keith Lambert, who faced away from Scott at an angle. In his hand was a small automatic pistol and it was pointed right at Vivian.

  “I know what I’m doing,” he said. “Just stay away from me unless you want to get hurt.”

  Crane cleared his throat. He gestured emptily, the smile on his tanned blunt-jawed face as fixed and false as a burlesque queen’s.

  “This is not the way, Keith,” he said with surprising calmness. “Let’s get the police if you’re so sure about this.”

  Scott did not hear what came next because he was concentrating on the problem at hand and feeling the stiffness slide up the back of his legs as he measured the distance from the door to Lambert. He thought four long steps might cover it and now he stepped softly into view of the others, putting his finger to his lips to demand in pantomime their silence.

  Even at that angle he could see that Lambert’s thin face was white and set and shiny at the cheekbones. There was tension in every line of his neck and shoulder, and the gun never wavered as Scott took his second step, recognizing the odds but knowing no other way.

  It was difficult to take those steps without making a sound. He could feel his muscles draw taut and knotty as he forced one foot in front of the other, lifting it, balancing all the time on the rear foot and then putting the first one down, not touching the heel. He had to transfer his weight from toe to toe. He had to keep his weight controlled and it seemed, somehow, a ludicrous thing. It reminded him of comics he had seen in movies as they burlesqued the act of sneaking up behind the villain. The difference was that he had never been more serious in his life.

  He did it well too. He made no mistake. The trouble was that eyes are hard things to control, especially when surprised. Someone, he never knew who, gave him away.

  Some glance strayed and in it there was something that warned Lambert, for in the next instant his head swiveled and his eyes opened wide. His thin, gangling frame recoiled visibly. He never actually turned his back on anyone but he half wheeled and then retreated a step so he could bring the gun to bear in any direction.

  For an instant then his eyes had a wild, startled look. He backed away another step, his indecision a frightening thing to behold. Finally he found his voice.

  “Oh, no!” he said. “Not quite, Alan . . . You followed me,” he said, his voice near breaking. “Well, now you can stand over there with them. Move!”

  Scott let his breath out and felt his muscles relax. He took three steps in the indicated direction, easily and with deliberation. This put him beyond Lambert but still apart from the others. He cocked a brow at the gun. He did not like the tightness of the hand that held it, nor the tremor that came to shake it from time to time, but when he spoke he kept his voice as casual as he could, as though none of this was very important.

  “You were at Freddie’s,” he said. “In the hall closet—or was it a room?—with that gun.”

  “I only got there a few minutes before you did,” Lambert said. “He was on the floor and I picked up the gun and then I heard you knock. I didn’t know what else to do.” He hesitated, lip quivering before he could still it. “You followed me to Crane’s.”

  “I tried to but I lost you.”

  “How did you know I was there?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Then why did you come?”

  “I knew Howard had picked up Sally.” Scott gestured at Crane and glanced at the girl. She stood very still, lips parted and one hand on her bosom. Her green eyes seemed shocked and bewildered and though she looked at him when he spoke he was not sure she saw him. “I thought he might have brought her to his place. Why did you go?”

  “What?” Lambert swallowed and wet his lips.

  “You went to Crane’s too. Why?”

  “Yes, I went there. I heard you call the police.”

  Scott turned to the others and began to explain how he had gone to Freddie’s and what he had done after that. He spoke unhurriedly, ignoring Lambert for the
moment and trying his best to sound unconcerned. Time was what he wanted. Time for reason to penetrate the dammed-up hysteria which was warping Lambert’s thoughts.

  “You still haven’t told me why you went there,” he said.

  “Because that’s where I thought they were.” Lambert jerked the gun towards the others. “They said they were going to Howard’s for cocktails.”

  “That was the original idea,” Crane said, and winked surreptitiously at Scott to show he understood the reason behind all these questions. “We were going to my place for drinks and then coming here for dinner. But Freddie refused the invitation and so did Lambert—”

  “And so,” Vivian cut in, “we decided to have our drinks as well as dinner here.”

  “Maybe now,” Lambert said in the same tight voice, “you know why I refused. Why I changed my mind about investing in this island of yours. I may not be concerned about the scruples or the conduct or the ideals of my associates, but I hope I’ll never be a partner with a murderer.”

  He glanced at Scott. “Freddie was my friend,” he said. “The best friend I ever had. She killed him.” He looked at Vivian, his gaze hot and bright and somehow no longer quite sane. “Just like she killed Julia.”

  “Nonsense,” Mark Farrow said angrily.

  “How crazy can you get?” Vivian put her glass down, the cigarette holder beside it. She straightened and put one hand on her hip. She looked right at Lambert, and if she was afraid she did not show it. “Why don’t you pour yourself a drink,” she said acidly, “and stop being childish.”

  “Keith.”

  Sally’s voice came softly across the ensuing silence. She waited until Lambert glanced at her and then she smiled. It was a strained sort of smile. The pallor showing through the smooth tan of her cheeks spoke of the effort behind it and Scott was very proud of her as she continued.