“You went into the billiard room and took Farman with you. You went to the toilet—his leaving was providential, and so was his returning while you were still in the toilet. But between the times he left and returned, you acted. There are three dead flies in that lavatory to prove you opened the window, crawled into the dark, went to Catrina’s, killed her, returned and sauntered back to the billiard room with a nice alibi.”
“For God’s sake!” Jeffers sneered.
Mark was unperturbed. “Chief, mind having Bayless search everyone and put their money on a table? And their rooms, too.” His eyes weren’t directly on Jeffers. “Catrina kept the money in her brassiere. The murderer stole it from her. Oddly enough, that money will have a scent—the same scent that Catrina used on her underclothing. Somebody here has money that smells of murder!”
It worked; it was the final weight on the scales that tipped the balance. Jeffers came to his feet in a swift bound, his face livid, his eyes flaming insanely. “I’m not taking this alone. I’ll carry her to hell with me.” He went past Bayless and reached for Myra. She screamed once, horribly. His fist caught her full in the face, and she crumpled, fell over the divan and lay still. Bayless’ gun moved into action and caught Jeffers on the back of the head with a thick thud. Silence filled the room suddenly—deathly silence.
The Chief looked around for a place to spit. “That all, huh?”
Chapter XXIII
MARK saw Idell standing alone beside the now empty swimming pool. He went through the French doors and into the pitiless sun. She turned and smiled wanly at him as he approached her. She looked no less lovely in the harsh light of day. Even though she was pallid from strain, the fear had gone from her and relief had made her warm and vibrant again. He knew that, given time, she would return the house and grounds to their old covering of life and laughter and gayety. The nameless horror that had made night of day, damp darkness of warm dryness, was gone.
“Idell,” he said softly.
She turned and held out her hands.
Mark took them. She thought of long ago, ever so long ago, when she had planned to take this chump from the sticks for a sleigh ride. She could laugh at herself now.
“Idell,” he said, “why did you tell me you were being shot at, when you first drove into my station?”
“The moment I saw you, I felt you could protect me—if anyone could.” She spoke with no attempt at flattery.
He colored slightly. “Why didn’t you drive home? Why race on down the road and let them find you again.”
She bit her lip. “I thought they took me for Link and that Grant had hired them. I was afraid they would follow me there and—if Link caught them and made them tell—” She broke off with an embarrassed laugh.
“That’s over now,” he said. “I only wish I could have understood sooner. So much blood was shed uselessly.”
“You did enough,” she said softly.
“I’d like to do more,” he said, smiling. “I’d like to help you build your dream here, Idell. All through it, you’ve been wonderful. I—well, damn it, I’m not the kind of guy to make speeches, but I can’t think of anyone like you ever.”
“It sounds swell,” she said. Her eyes were shining. “But—no, Mark.”
“Is it—was it about Myra?”
“No, Mark, of course not.”
“Is it money?”
“Don’t you know me better than that? No, Mark.”
He looked into her eyes, shining with their incredible velvety blackness. “Chunk Farman,” he said. “Of course.”
“You do understand.” She raised herself on tip-toe and kissed him, very warmly, very softly. “Thanks, Mark.”
“Luck,” he said softly. He turned away and went inside again. He felt hollow down where his stomach should be. For a moment he stood irresolute, and then he went up to the Chief. He knew the cure for that all gone feeling.
“Let’s go, Chief.”
Bayless went with them. Mark waited until they reached the railroad tracks before speaking. “Let’s go to Babe’s,” he said. “She could use the business.” He grinned. “Besides, she’s a good kid, lots of fun …”
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Text Copyright © 1942 by Phoenix Press.
Copyright © renewed 1970 by Louis Trimble.
Published by arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency.
All rights reserved.
Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
eISBN 10: 1-4405-4229-5
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4229-9
Cover art © 123RF/subbotina
Date for Murder Page 17
