Hangman's Whip

by Mignon G. Eberhart

  Search said slowly, “I don’t think Ludmilla could have done it. But she—there is a possible motive, Richard. She loves you dearly.”

  “She didn’t murder Eve to end an unhappy marriage for me,” said Richard sharply. “She’s far too sensible to attempt that.”

  In her heart Search agreed. Yet she remembered the look in Ludmilla’s face when she told her Eve had returned. And when she’d said—wistfully, sadly: “I’m an old woman—there’s nothing I can do for you now.” Had Ludmilla found (horribly yet with dreadful ruthless directness) a thing she could do?

  Again she rejected it. Richard was not defenseless against Eve except in the matter of a divorce; certainly Ludmilla would not feel justified in removing Eve.

  “Howland says he and Calvin were together,” she began, and he said:

  “Yes, I know. The sheriff told me that. He told me about the story the waitress told, too, of seeing Calvin leave the tool shed with a rope. He says you heard it all. What did you think?”

  “Of Bea’s story? I don’t know. Calvin was furious but he—he didn’t seem frightened about it. Yet there was a look in Bea’s eyes that was real. It was terror, Richard. Nothing else.”

  “It was that girl that told about you and Eve—”

  “Yes. And Ludmilla made Diana fire her, and Diana said she—Bea—told that story of Calvin to get even.”

  “There’s—one thing I want you to know, Search.” He took her hand then and held it, examining the little lines on the palm as if he were reading it; he said: “I won’t let them—no matter what happens—accuse you of being an accessory. It was my fault that you were at the cottage; it was my fault that Howland knew we were to meet there, for he must have guessed from something I said. It’s all my fault from the beginning. Things aren’t going to go wrong—if I can help it, but—but in any case, that’s settled. I know how to prevent their—accusing you.”

  “Richard, I won’t let you take the blame—confess—anything like that. I won’t—”

  “That’s all.” He put down her hand briskly and closed the subject abruptly and definitely. “Now then—listen, Search. Eve said that morning when she talked to you that she’d gone to a lawyer, didn’t she?”

  “Yes. She said there was no way for you to get a divorce from her and that she had already gone to a lawyer.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t say—” She stopped short. “Was it Howland?”

  He shook his head abruptly. “I don’t know. If Eve had already gone to him he had no right, naturally, to listen to my side of it without telling me Eve had already gone to him. And even if she did she may have told him nothing, of course, of this Avion thing she was on the trail of. Well, maybe I can find out. If they’ll let me—”

  It had seemed for those moments as if he was free again, she’d forgotten the sheriff and the deputies, waiting. After all, it was a slender clue he had followed; only their conjectures, eager and hopeful, gave it a substance which might well be false. There was so little, really, to base his hope for freedom upon—so frail and tenuous a thread as a little clipping, a quarter of an inch high, from a country newspaper.

  “Got a cigarette, Search?” asked Richard.

  She went to the table and brought a box to him and matches and watched while he lighted a cigarette. It had grown almost dark while they talked, so a soft twilight filled the room, with only the sky outside the window still faintly gray. The flame of the match made a little golden flare so she could see his face clearly—slender, so like the boy she’d loved without knowing how she loved him—and yet matured now and subtly different. She could almost catalogue the differences. Decision where there had been merely assuredness and a touch of arrogance in the lift of his dark head. Strength where the boy Richard had not known the need of it. A look of hard-won patience and tenacity which, as a boy (swift of action, gay, a little audacious), he would have scorned.

  Mainly, she realized suddenly that she would have cared for the boy; she would have indulged and excused and tried to smooth the way for him. The man was different. Whatever the past three years had done to him, he had emerged with something hard and firm that had not been there before, and yet there was a deep tenderness and understanding too. She could cling to the man and rejoice and take refuge in his strength and in his love as she could never have done with the boy.

  He had put out the match. In the gentle silence he said again: “Come here, Search.”

  She took a cushion from the window seat and put it on the floor and sat there, her head against his knee.

  Outside in the summer night a cricket rasped. The moon would be late that night. Later than the night when it had seemed to make a path to the stars for them to walk along together.

  How many times in the past she and Richard had sat in the window seat and planned the things they would do in the distant golden future when they would both be grown-up.

  The future, now, was here. But it was not golden. It was, instead, so full of danger that the very thought of it clutched at her heart as if it had fingers.

  The little silence lengthened. Then she felt Richard’s hand on her head.

  “Dear,” he said.

  They were sitting like that, quietly, treasuring that short space of time, when Howland came.

  He came too soon. There were still things to be said. He knocked and opened the door and saw them sitting there outlined against the open window.

  Richard said: “Come in, Howland. Turn on the light.”

  He came in. Rather elaborately he closed the door behind him and then turned on the light.

  “Donny’s waiting for you,” he said. “I thought I’d better have a talk with you, Dick, before they lock you up.”

  “All right,” said Richard. Search didn’t move. Howland’s short dark face was entirely without expression; only his eyes had a lambent spark when he came to the dressing-table bench and sat down and linked his hands around his knee.

  “You’d better tell me the truth, Dick. I’m not going to waste any words. They’ve got enough evidence to convict you. I’m only telling you these things for your own good.”

  “I didn’t murder Eve. I don’t intend to plead guilty.”

  Howland waited a moment. “All right,” he said finally. He rose. “There’s no use in our talking if you’re going to take this tone.”

  Search said: “Howland, did Eve come to you? About a divorce, I mean.”

  He looked at her slowly. When he rose his back was turned toward the light, and she could not see the expression on his face but she had a swift, almost untraceable impression of discomposure. He said: “Certainly not. Whatever made you think that! Richard’s my client—and whatever you think to the contrary, I’m doing my best for him. I didn’t tip off the sheriff’s deputy this morning. I—” He looked at Richard.

  “You’d better know, Dick, unless you know already, that Search, not quite a week ago, did me the honor to promise to marry me.”

  “I didn’t promise you—Howland, you know I didn’t.”

  He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “It was as good as a promise. She meant it like that and I took it like that. Then she saw you again and decided—I don’t know what she decided. Except she thinks she’s in love with you now. I’m only telling you this because I want you to know what the situation is. Whatever she does does not in the least affect my feelings toward you. We”—suddenly he put out his hand toward Richard—“we’re old friends, Dick. You can trust me to defend your interests. Our friendship is too strong, I hope, to let anything like this affect us. All I can say is, when this thing is over, may the best man win.”

  There was a little pause. Then Richard said shortly: “All right, Howland.”

  Howland insisted on shaking hands—briefly. Then he looked down at Search. “Donny’s waiting,” he said. “I told him I’d tell Richard.”

  “All right,” said Richard again. He stood and put down his hands and lifted Search to her feet. And then
, under Howland’s eyes, he took her into his arms again—deliberately, gravely. He kissed her gravely too, as if that kiss might be a farewell. She thought of that and quickly, with a cold little sense of fright, rejected it.

  Richard released her and turned toward the door. And Howland said: “Wait, Search. I want to talk to you a little.”

  The sheriff knocked, opened the door, gave them all one swift glance and said: “Oh—coming, Bohan? This way, please.”

  She watched Richard and the sheriff walk down the hall. They were going to Richard’s old room; two men waiting at the door entered the room with Richard. He didn’t turn, and the door closed. And Howland behind her said: “Come for a little stroll with me, Search. It’s stifling in the house tonight. And I want to talk to you.”

  She looked at him slowly, as if from a long distance. “There’s nothing to talk about, Howland.”

  He smiled. “Oh yes, there is,” he said softly. “Do you really understand what is going to happen, Search?”

  “Happen?”

  “About Richard, I mean. He’ll be held for the grand jury, you know; there’ll be a true bill; there can’t be anything else.” He went on deliberately, his eyes observant yet blank too, as if veiled. “After the grand jury indictment there’ll be the trial. As the evidence now stands, there’s no possible chance of his getting off.”

  He said it simply and with an air of truth that, in spite of herself, was convincing.

  “That’s—that’s only your opinion.”

  He smiled again. “You’ll see. If Richard pleads guilty he’ll stand a better chance. If he doesn’t—” He shrugged. And came to her and took her hands. “Listen, Search, it’s no good, you know, your sticking to Richard. Besides—” He paused and then said slowly: “Suppose I were to tell you that I could—help you and him.”

  “Howland, if you—” She stopped abruptly and turned swiftly toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” he said quickly, taking her arm.

  She pulled away from him.

  “To the sheriff. To tell him you know something that is evidence.”

  “Oh, I see. So you won’t beg, is that it?” he said softly. “Won’t beg and won’t bargain. Then—I suppose there’s nothing I can do for you or for Richard.”

  “You can tell the sheriff anything you know that will help free Richard. You’ve got to tell him.”

  “Oh, nonsense, Search.” He was quite at ease, his hands thrust in his pockets, the little smile on his face that always meant that Howland was angry. “It’s my word against yours. Whatever made you think that I know anything that would go to prove that Richard didn’t murder Eve?”

  The door behind her opened quietly. So quietly she did not know it had opened until Calvin spoke. He said, “Howland, I was looking for you. I just brought Dick up a drink and some cigarettes. He said you were here.”

  He came into the room and closed the door and stood there, his sharp-featured face wrinkled up in an expression of anxiety as poignant and worried as the look in a monkey’s face. “I wanted to talk to you, Howie,” he said. “This business of bringing Dick out here—saying there might be a mob and the mob might do damage to the sheriff’s house or even might get hold of Dick—all that. Well, didn’t it strike you as being pretty phony? I mean—well, good Lord, there’s plenty of louts around any little town that are plenty ready to make trouble. At a moment’s notice and just for the hell of it. But if that’s really the case why didn’t Donny take him to another jail? I wonder—”

  He stopped. Howland said, smiling: “You wonder what, Calvin?”

  “I wonder what the sheriff’s after.”

  Afterward she thought that it was again an evil fate that brought Calvin to the door just then.

  Chapter 19

  HOWLAND SAID CALMLY: “You’re nervous, Calvin. Don’t let this thing get you down. Come on, let’s have a walk and a smoke.”

  “All right.” Calvin hesitated and looked at Search. “Listen, Search,” he said. “Richard’ll be here, and two deputies are staying with him. I—I don’t want to alarm you, but things have been so—so different lately; I mean it’s as if it isn’t the same house. It’s as if—Well, never mind that. What I started to say is, lock your door again tonight. Sounds crazy but—”

  Howland laughed again softly. “Come along, Calvin,” he said. “Good night, Search darling.”

  They went away together. And there was one thing she could settle then and there. She waited until Calvin and Howland had gone and then went to Ludmilla.

  As she went along the hall she heard Diana talking to some one over the telephone in the hall below: “—but, darling, it’s too terrible. Police everywhere—reporters—”

  Ludmilla was on the chaise longue. She wore her reading glasses, and there were newspapers on the floor beside her. She looked up quickly—too quickly, thought Search. But murder is no pleasant thing. And murder invisible, silent, treacherous, had walked among them now for four days and nights.

  “Oh! It’s you, Search dear. Come in. Have you seen Richard?”

  She went, and as Ludmilla moved her little gaily slippered feet to one side she sat down as she had done the night she arrived at Lake Kentigern to hear Ludmilla’s story.

  “Yes, I’ve seen him.”

  Ludmilla’s china-blue eyes were wide and bright. She looked tired and hot although she wore a thin lavender chiffon negligee and had twisted her hair into a kind of bathroom knot on top of her head. Little curls strayed disconsolately down her plump neck.

  “Search, why did they bring him here?”

  “I don’t know. Unless it’s true that the sheriff thought it better to get him away from the village.”

  “But Richard has done nothing to rouse people like that.”

  “I know. But—things like that do happen.”

  Ludmilla said thoughtfully: “Well, it’s nice to have him under the same roof, anyway. What will happen now? A—a grand jury—”

  “So Howland says.”

  “Howie?” Ludmilla eyed the pink bows on her satin slippers. And said, “Search,” and glanced at the open door and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Search, suppose Howie murdered her?”

  “Murdered Eve?”

  Ludmilla nodded quickly, still looking at her slippers.

  “But there’s no motive for that, Aunt Ludmilla. Why do you say Howie did it?”

  “Because there’s nobody else. And whoever murdered her and—and that man last night—must be somebody close to us. Don’t you see?”

  “Is that the only reason you suggest Howland?”

  “Mm—yes,” said Ludmilla. “That is, I’d rather it would be Howland. If it’s got to be somebody—”

  “Was he here? Any of the times when you were given arsenic?”

  Ludmilla replied promptly: “No, he wasn’t. I’ve thought of that too. That is, he was here the afternoon before the first attack but that’s all, and I don’t see how he could possibly have put poison in the food on my dinner tray. I remember I had it on a tray—I was tired that night; I’d watched them play tennis. But—are they sure, Search, that it’s the same—well, crime? I mean that it’s the same person that tried to poison me and did murder Eve and that—that poor man in the willows?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Of course it’s not very nice to think there may be two murderers walking around,” said Ludmilla, her voice suddenly quite childish and helpless. “But on the other hand I cannot think of any possible motive for anybody to—to try to do away with me and—and Eve. I’ve tried and tried to think.” She pushed the wisps of fine hair away from her forehead and sighed. Search said slowly: “You told me you had some—way to protect yourself. Against the poison, I mean.”

  “What?” she looked puzzled, then brightened. “Oh yes, I have,” she said calmly. “I couldn’t starve, you know. And for a while I was really afraid to eat anything that came up to me on a tray and I wasn’t too sure of myself even in the dining room. You know—t
hings that were served in portions. Do you want to see?” She motioned to Search to close the door and swung her little feet around and got out of the cushioned depths of the chaise longue, with the swift agility of a child.

  Promptly and cheerfully she unlocked a cupboard built in upon the opposite wall. She looked a little apologetic and said: “It’s locked because I didn’t want anyone to know, and several times lately I’ve—thought someone had been in my room—nothing definite, nothing ever taken—” Search remembered the cupboard; formerly Ludmilla had kept odds and ends of papers and a few medicines in it. Now the little cupboard held a small store of canned food, a tiny electric plate, cups and saucers and a bright saucepan or two. “I’m afraid Carter suspects,” said Ludmilla. “And this morning Cook came to my room for something and I think got a peek at it.”

  She said it blandly, in an unconcerned way; and then Search caught sight of a white paper sack and looked at it, and it held granulated sugar. She couldn’t bring herself to taste it, not with Ludmilla’s blue eyes watching her so closely. Yet she was certain it was sugar.

  Ludmilla closed the cupboard and locked it again. And as soon as she could do so Search said good night and went away, convinced that Ludmilla was as sane as she had ever been and that Cook, nervously, had leaped oversoon to conclusions.

  There were voices in the hall below; she thought she heard Calvin speak and Diana and Howland, so she did not go downstairs.

  Once in her own small room again, she locked the door, struck as she did so by the strangeness of the small act. And catching a glimpse of her own face in the mirror, unexpectedly and without preparation, it seemed strange to her too. Pale and tense-looking with eyes that seemed to hold, as the girl Bea’s eyes had held, a shadow of fear.