by Rufus King
A state trooper faced her.
CHAPTER XV
The trooper looked wonderfully secure to Lida: a sane and solid rock in this foggy sea of vague and disturbing conjectures.
“Sergeant Emmett Asher,” he said to her factually. “I would like to speak with Miss Cordelia Banning.”
“Miss Banning has gone shopping.”
“Then I will see Mrs. Admont, please.”
“Come in, Sergeant Asher.”
“Thank you.”
He followed her back into the morning room, where Lida said: “I will let her know,” and went into Christine’s suite. He casually looked the room over as he removed his gauntlets and shoved them under his belt.
Godfrey’s portrait of Christine staggered Asher into a closer look, but it was a near-by Fragonard that soundly scandalized him. Truly the rich had small shame. His wife would never have permitted such a subject (the painting depicted a healthy faun in full chase after three all-but-veiled nymphs who weren’t hurrying any faster than they had to) inside the Asher home at the Notch. In spite of all that he had heard about her, he could hardly believe that the canvas had been Mrs. Admont’s choice.
He shrugged in disgusted disapproval as Christine came in with Alan and Lida.
“Sergeant Asher?” Christine said cordially. “How do you do? This is my husband, Alan Admont. Miss Belder, I believe, you have met.”
“Good morning, Mr. Admont,” Asher said, not liking him at all. That was the jerk, he decided, who had picked out the Fragonard.
Alan didn’t help matters any by saying: “Is it?” and then going over to the lounge and sprawling out on it full length.
“The dear man is walking in his sleep,” Christine said. “Up all night. Well, let us sit down.”
“Mr. Lance has promised me some coffee,” Lida said. “Perhaps Sergeant Asher will have some. Will you?”
“Thank you,” Asher said, “no.”
“Godfrey roasts the fresh beans himself. So sensible. Then he grinds them for drip.” Christine turned to Lida. “Thank you, dear. The sergeant won’t.”
Lida left them, and Asher said: “I am here about one of your guests, Mrs. Admont. Miss Cordelia Banning.”
“So Lida told me. Well, do sit down.” Christine gauged his frame. She indicated one of the more stolid of the chairs. “Sit there.” She waited until Sergeant Asher had filled it and then said: “Now what about Miss Banning?”
“Are you familiar with Jerbutt’s jewelry shop in Vanderkill, Mrs. Admont?”
Christine’s wickedly smart eyebrows rose a quarter of an inch.
“I am not.”
“It is like this. On yesterday afternoon Mr. Jerbutt was showing a customer in the rear of his shop some objects suitable for bridge prizes. Just then a woman came in and stood at the counter that has his engagement rings. This counter is in the front of the store, and it was, as you may remember, a foggy and dark afternoon.”
“Wasn’t it?” Christine agreed brightly. “Such a dull season of the year, fall. Especially in the mountains. So hard to know how to dress.”
“This woman,” Asher went on relentlessly, “looked a little familiar to Mr. Jerbutt, but by the time he had persuaded his customer to choose the bronze ash tray the woman up front had gone.”
“Are you inferring that Mr. Jerbutt thought the woman to have been Miss Banning?”
“Not right then. That is, he wasn’t certain of it. In fact, he still isn’t quite certain of it.”
Alan groaned.
“Is your husband ill?” Asher asked punctiliously.
“I am never ill,” Alan said coldly. “I have never been sick in my life. I just want a drink.”
“Go to sleep, dear,” Christine said. “This is really most involved, Sergeant Asher.”
“I know it is. Anyhow, Mr. Jerbutt remembered he had forgotten to put away a tray of engagement rings. He had been showing them to a man when the bridge-prize customer came in. He looked and saw that one of the rings was gone. It was a half-carat number set in platinum. The best ring he had. He went out onto the street just in case the woman might still be in sight, but she wasn’t.”
“This is sounding more and more like abracadabra. Also I am beginning to feel a trifle annoyed, Sergeant.”
“Don’t be. I’m handling it this way because people have a liking for you around here. They respect your position. They look on you in Dour Notch as a landmark.”
Christine suppressed a delighted shriek.
“Sergeant, I’ve been called a thousand things, but never that. Seriously, I appreciate what you mean, and I appreciate your approach, only for heaven’s sake do approach it.”
“Well, Mr. Jerbutt didn’t see the woman, but he did see your station wagon parked next door, in front of the Au Gourmet Meat Market. It reminded him of Miss Banning, and that reminded him that the woman who had come into his shop and gone out could have looked like Miss Banning.”
“How on earth could be know what Miss Banning looks like? I’m sure we’ve never dealt there.”
“Miss Banning, in Vanderkill, is quite well known. To be frank, Mrs. Admont, a good many little articles have been missed as she shops around. The stores don’t mind it, as they don’t want to lose the Belder Tor patronage. They just make it up on the bill. But with Mr. Jerbutt, you see, there was no patronage. And it wasn’t only the diamond ring. Another piece of diamond jewelry had been lifted the week before.”
“I find this utterly unbelievable, don’t you? Miss Banning comes from one of the best-known families in New York. In fact, one of her extremely early forebears was a mayor.”
“That never makes any difference. Sometimes they’re the worst.”
“But the thing is absurd. You say yourself that the light in the store was dim and that Mr. Jerbutt considered the woman to be only faintly familiar in appearance.”
“It was somewhat more definite than that. He went into the meat market and introduced himself to Miss Banning. He asked her point blank whether or not she had just been in his shop. She said no.”
“Well, then?”
“She said she never considered jewelry other than Tiffany’s. Which made Mr. Jerbutt madder.”
“Yes, I can see where it would. But didn’t that end it?”
“It would have if Miss Banning had been wearing her gloves.”
“Gloves?”
“Yes, she was carrying them. Mr. Jerbutt was sore enough to look on the glass top of the showcase for fingerprints, and he found a set of beauties. He called us in and had us photograph them.”
“The glass tops in Mr. Jerbutt’s store must be littered with fingerprints.”
“Possibly, but the ones beside the tray of engagement rings were exceptionally distinct.”
“They could have been those of the man who had been examining the rings.”
“It’s doubtful, because they were small and delicate. And the point is this. If they are Miss Banning’s, Jerbutt is going to swear out a warrant. I told him I’d come here and talk it over with her. You can see what I mean?”
“No, Sergeant, I can’t.”
“It’s this. If Miss Banning would let us have her prints willingly of her own accord, we would know that she was in the clear. If she won’t, Mr. Jerbutt intends to swear out the warrant and get her fingerprints when she is booked.”
“Booked. What a beastly word.” Christine thought for a moment and then smiled brightly. “Cordelia is such a shrinking soul. A thing like this would upset her dismally and she wouldn’t be a bit of use to anybody for weeks. May I suggest something?”
“I wish you would, Mrs. Admont.”
“Come with me to Miss Banning’s room. Surely the drinking glass, any number of small objects must have her fingerprints on them. Select any one you like and take it with you. In that way she need know nothing about it, and you can disprove this stupid accusation to Mr. Jerbutt’s satisfaction.”
“Yes, I could do that.”
“You will also te
ll him for me that if there is any further mention of this I will see that Miss Banning brings suit for defamation of character.” Christine stood up. She headed for the turret stairs. She said to Asher: “Come!”
CHAPTER XVI
Alan opened his eyes after Christine and Sergeant Asher had gone. His brain was no longer numb. He was in a thoroughly villainous mood. The night had been an interminable nightmare throughout which every nerve had been on edge against that worst possible of all menaces: the unknown. A dozen times or more some joint within the tired old house had creaked, and Alan had braced himself to face the Dove and, if reason failed to prevail, to kill him.
But the Dove had not materialized.
How simple, how right the scheme had seemed when he had discussed it yesterday morning with Joe! Alan groaned and stood up. Then in a flash it occurred to him that this moment was the first one which had offered itself for a search of Christine’s rooms. For the quick-freezer key. He ran to the turret stairs and looked up them. Surely he had several minutes before she and Asher would come down.
He ran into her rooms and began a feverish and completely futile search. He located the house gown she had been wearing, but the key was no longer in its pocket. His irritation mounted heavily as he wondered where the old spider had put it.
In one dresser drawer there was a bunch of keys on a ring. Maybe one of them would fit. He ran back into the morning room and over to the freezer door. He tried several of the keys without results. He heard Christine’s voice floating down the turret stairs. He jammed the ring of keys into the pocket of his dressing gown and threw himself again flat onto the lounge.
Sergeant Asher was carrying a glass tumbler wrapped in a handkerchief. He assured Christine that he could find the front door. He said good-by.
Christine looked after him regretfully.
“Such a sturdy man!”
Alan looked at her spitefully.
“So you threw Cordelia to the wolves,” he said.
“No, dear. I simply took him into Lida’s room instead of Cordelia’s. I let him pick out a glass which Lida had handled, and that will end the matter.”
“Christine, I am speechless.”
“I must speak to Cordelia about checking the bills more closely.”
“You’d better also tell her to brush up on her technique.”
“Do go up and finish dressing, Alan. We’ll leave for the picnic as soon as Hugo and Cordelia get back.” Alan groaned. He stood up.
“Darling—must we?”
“Put on something warm, dear.”
“Christine.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve thought about this a lot during the night,” Alan said earnestly, almost desperately. “Are we happy here at Belder Tor? Are you happy?”
“Very happy, Alan. Why?”
“You’re not. This is no life for you. It’s no life for either of us, Christine. Always you’ve done things on the spur of the moment, and so have I. Let’s do it now.”
“But do what?”
Alan blurted it out tensely: “Flee to Mexico.”
“Flee?”
“Yes, from this life of stagnation. Think of it—sunshine, music, gaiety—just the two of us together in some quiet little nook on the Pacific Ocean where nobody could bother us or find us.”
“You’d be sick of it in a week. And I’d be sick of it in about one hour. Mexico City, of course—”
Alan pounced gratefully.
“All right, even Mexico City.”
“Why, yes. Why not?”
“Thank God! We’ll go today—we’ll go right now!”
“Ridiculous!” Christine looked at him in speculative amazement. “The Vanbuskirks are coming, and there’s Lida’s wedding. We will run down for Christmas, and if we like it we can take a place for the balance of the winter. Now go up and put your things on, dear.”
Alan plunged swiveling into a deflation of black despair.
“And now,” he cried, “do the gods with their laughter fill the skies!”
Yes, he thought, not bad. He embellished the exit with a Pagliacci laugh and ran tragically up the turret stairs.
Christine looked after him fondly. Such a comfort to have him around. Exhilarating. Far simpler than ocean plunges or any daily dosage of vitamin D.
CHAPTER XVII
Lida finished a wholesome arrangement of coffee, toast, and eggs. It was remarkable how the meal burnished and brightened up her dark thoughts. Reason told her that in an ordinary household the popping in and out of Laura Destin would have been a seventh-wonder event. But not at Belder Tor. Even the bag. No. Lida still held reservations about the bag.
Godfrey made the flat statement that he would at once start blocking her in. He took her into the studio, where he encased his very large body in (necessarily) a very large artist’s smock.
The studio had formerly been Belder Tor’s ballroom and was quite large. Its windows faced the north, which was about all that could be said for them as an aid to painting, especially with the dismal grayness of the day. An easel and a palette stand were near them and, at some distance, a platform on which stood a Moorish chair.
“How can you see in here?” Lida asked.
“I don’t have to. I feel.”
Godfrey went to a handsome reproducing machine and switched it on. He fiddled with the volume control and a whisper of gloom sifted dismally through the room. Lida decided it was Bach at his melancholy best.
“I cannot paint,” Godfrey said to her, “without mood. Sit up on that chair, please.”
“In any special pose?”
“It does not matter. I do not look at you.”
He went to the easel. He selected a brush. His eyes contemplated broodingly the window’s dreary shroud.
“Miss Belder,” he said, “what is your opinion of murder?”
Lida, in reflex, took a stronger grip on the arms of the Moorish chair.
“I am,” she quoted decisively, “against it.”
“Please! If your psychoses are to be exposed, we must not quibble. I will be more specific. There are so many kinds of murder. For passion, for greed, for fear.” He padded the brush in cerulean blue. He said quietly: “And for security.”
“Security?”
“Yes. Can you understand that? Take the normal course of one’s life. If you have a disease, you swallow medicine and you kill the germs which are preventing a rightfully contented existence. Now admit that everything is relative. A person attacks you for his own selfish interests in a fashion which would destroy your wellbeing in a manner similar to a disease. So you kill him as, with medicine, you would kill a germ. For your security. What is the difference?”
“That is sophistry. With a person you have recourse to law, and with a disease, a doctor.”
No, Godfrey thought darkly, she could never be a kindred soul. Never (he saw this plainly now) could she be drawn into the group. Well, he would have to talk the problem over with the others. So far he had had no chance. But either during or after the picnic he would do so. Then they could all decide what would be best. For them.
“I was right,” he said coldly. “You are definitely a cerulean blue.”
He said nothing further. He did not look at her. His brush made strokes on the canvas, and Bach gloomed endlessly on. An auto horn sounded faint in the outer chill.
Godfrey put down his brushes.
“There are Cordelia and Hugo,” he said. “Tomorrow morning will finish you. I can waste no more time. You may go up now, Miss Belder, and put your things on for this putrid picnic which will shortly commence. This canvas will be one of my best, and I shall sell it to Christine for a good big sum.”
Lida went upstairs to her room, and the first thing which struck her was the fact that the diamond clip was no longer on the dresser. She knew perfectly well she had left it there and for a moment wondered whether a dash of Indian had caused Cordelia to take it back. Scarcely, since Cordelia had gone shopping before Lida had put it
on the bureau top.
She put on a sweater, finished a few odd tidyings of her room, and then went out into the hallway and knocked on Cordelia’s door.
Cordelia’s aunt-like face lighted up with pleasure when Lida came in.
“Oh, I do feel so much better,” Cordelia said. “Such a stuffy night. The air and the drive this morning did me a world of good. And there is something so exhilarating about shopping, don’t you think? Even if it’s just for little things.”
“I feel it mostly about hats.”
“Yes, I know. But sometimes even a selection between cutlets can have its excitement. Do sit down.”
Lida sat down.
She said: “I’ve been wanting to talk with you about the diamond clip you gave me, Miss Banning. I know it must have been a keepsake or an heirloom, and I wanted to give it back to you.”
“Nonsense. The pleasure I get from giving little things to my friends is far beyond their memories to me. I insist that you keep it.”
“This is awfully embarrassing, but I put the clip on my dresser this morning so that I would remember to return it to you, and now it’s gone.”
“Gone, dear?”
“Yes, and I remember the exact spot where I put it.”
“How very odd.” A queer look came over Cordelia’s kind face and she said suddenly: “When are you marrying Barry, Lida?”
“On Friday, unless we can arrange everything sooner.”
“You will not think me strange if I say something?” Then Cordelia added with a dreadful sort of earnestness: “You will not repeat it, dear?”
“Of course I won’t.”
“I am going to suggest that the instant Barry reaches here this afternoon you get in his car and go. Think up whatever excuse you can, or simply make it an elopement, but go. Go, dear, and get married today!”
“Oh, I never could do that to Aunt Christine, Miss Banning.”
Cordelia seemed suddenly flaccid and, in spite of her plumpness, thin.
“No,” she said, “it is difficult for anyone to do anything for—”
She did not complete the sentence because the door opened abruptly and Christine came in. Christine was, incidentally, expertly and superbly dressed for a picnic. In the very best fall tones.
