Lambert staggered back, his mouth open but no sound coming from it. Vivian swore under her breath. Then it was all over.
The gun, which had skidded fifteen feet across the floor, came to rest at Crane’s feet. Before anyone could move he scooped it up, straightened, and swung the muzzle towards them.
For a long moment then no one moved and again the only sound was the intermittent crash of the surf on the nearby beach. It was Lambert who broke the spell. His face seemed to come apart and he covered it with his hand as he sank back on the divan, his sobs a dry, racking sound as reaction hit him.
Sally, who stood closest to Crane, merely looked at him as though at someone she had never seen before. Vivian’s groan was an exasperated sound and Farrow, who had called the police but still held the telephone, put it down slowly.
“That won’t do, Howard,” he said. “That won’t do at all. Surely you don’t propose to use that on us.”
Crane looked the room over, his flat-muscled body relaxed and at ease. His face was wet and shiny and the collar of his shirt was dark with sweat. For a silent second or two he seemed to consider the question; then he shrugged.
“I hope not.”
“I mean, you can hardly expect to get off the island,” Farrow said.
“No, I suppose not.” Crane backed toward the open French doors. “I might try. I really can’t say. All I know is that I need some time to think.” He paused on the edge of the veranda. “Don’t do anything foolish,” he said, ‘Tike trying to follow me.”
With that he was gone and Scott could hear his running steps before the silence came again. Then Vivian got busy, pouring whisky into a glass and sitting down beside Lambert. Outside a car started up, accelerated and was quickly gone. At that moment the dining-room door opened and a Negro butler appeared to announce dinner.
Vivian looked up, startled. “Oh, dear God, no!” she said wearily. “Mark . . . Do something about it, will you? Speak to Charles. Tell him—oh, tell him anything.”
She turned back to Lambert, her voice soft now as she spoke to him, her manner solicitous. Scott walked over to Sally and took her hand. She went, unprotesting, as he led her to the veranda and the wicker furniture grouped at the front overlooking the sea. He guided her to the settee, and because his knees were still a little weak, sat down beside her. Then, not knowing exactly what to do and not yet trusting himself to speak, he resorted to a male gambit of offering a cigarette.
Neither spoke but presently he reached for her hand and she let him take it. He felt the small shudder that ran through the arm touching his; he heard her sigh and watched her look out across the vague white line of breaking surf. When she was ready she said: “What will they do to him?”
“If he’s alive when they catch him he’ll stand trial.”
“But—will they—”
“That will be for the jury to decide.”
“And we’ll have to testify. All of us. Will we have to stay?”
Scott said he did not think so. He said if they gave proper and detailed statements it would probably be enough. Then she shivered again and he asked her what she was thinking.
“That it might have been me,” she whispered, “if I had held that pillow down. I knew I hadn’t and yet—if it hadn’t turned out this way I might never have known for sure I didn’t do it.”
He did not tell her that it was some such thought that had made him do the things he did in the beginning but he felt the pressure of her hand tightening on his own. She held on as the lights of a police car swept the side of the house, highlighting the surf ahead. He knew they would have to do a lot of talking before the night was over but such things no longer seemed important. The important thing was this girl beside him, and he knew that whatever happened between them would be real and lasting and worthwhile.
He stood up, pulling her with him and holding her close for a moment. He smiled down at her. He said they had better go in before the Major sent out a searching party. . . .
Uninvited Guest Page 19
