Hangman's Whip

by Mignon G. Eberhart

  “You can’t do this!” cried Howland again in a shocked kind of whisper.

  “I’ve got to,” said Calvin.

  “No—no—”

  “Listen, you’ll go along with me now, Howland. Or hang with me. There’s no middle course.”

  “But I—I can’t—I can’t stand by—I—”

  Search’s lips moved. She heard her own voice, strained, pleading. “Howland, don’t let him—” Her hands seemed to move outward of their own volition.

  Howland would not look at her. Calvin said scornfully: “Go into the kitchen. Wait for me. I may need you.”

  “But—but you—” stammered Howland.

  “Get out!”

  Howland tried to look at Search—failed—wavered and then ran, shamblingly, toward the kitchen door.

  Chapter 23

  HE VANISHED INTO THE dusk of the little kitchen.

  He closed the door.

  He wouldn’t go for help. He was afraid. He was an accessory. Calvin had completely won him over.

  And Calvin had killed Eve and had killed Saul Gleason. And it had been Calvin at the telephone. Telling the police about a woman and a suicide note and a window.

  She heard her own voice again and could not stop it: “You—that was you last night, running in the moonlight—like an animal—”

  Calvin’s bright eyes met her own; they were the eyes of obsession. “So you saw me then; I was afraid someone might be watching. But you couldn’t see my face; you didn’t recognize me. I saw to that. There’s not much time. There’s not a chance, you know. Howland won’t help you. You saw that.”

  “You—I know now. The elevator boy said it was cool that night in Chicago.” (Curious that small discrepancy, only half noted and remembered, returned just then!) “You said it was hot, people sleeping on the park benches. When I met you there on the stairway that first morning—” (Only, she thought dazedly, it had been somebody else she had met on the stairs; not this creature that looked out of Calvin’s face.)

  “Certainly. I came back that night quietly; I dosed Ludmilla’s tray while you were all at dinner. Nobody saw me; I know that house too well. I saw the candy you had brought—” (Horribly she realized that he was walking toward her very slowly, holding her with his eyes, mesmerizing her by the things he said.) “I took it then. I returned it later—the next day, well dosed. Hurry—there’s not much time. Don’t be a fool, Search. Go on—get over there. It’s already been too long—”

  In spite of herself she moved away from that steady, cold advance and knew with utter horror that the move brought her within four feet of the window ledge. That terribly low ledge. It’s not safe, somebody had said—long ago—in another life.

  The palms of her hands were moist. She snatched at the play for time she had attempted with Howland, but it was different now; it had been Calvin all along, not Howland. “You—were here at the telephone. You went away—”

  “I saw Howland’s car. I was looking out the window, down. I saw him come. He was early. I’d meant him to come later; after you—jumped and I left. If there’d been any doubt it would attach itself to him. I can still fix that perhaps.”

  “Calvin—” She was going to beg. The look in his face stopped her.

  It would be so easy. The low ledge—the space beyond—sheer plunge downward. One quick hard thrust would send her over into space. Only one—she must fight; she must struggle; that was dangerous too. The ledge pressed against her—and over his shoulder something moved.

  It moved and her eyes must have flared wide, for Calvin whirled around. And in the same instant someone charged furiously, a hard swift projectile out of the dusk in the kitchen, upon Calvin.

  It was Richard.

  He tackled Calvin at the knees; the two men crashed to the floor. There was a struggling, writhing melee of legs and arms and straining bodies.

  Search shrank away from the window—unaware of that instinctive motion, aware only of the two men. The lamp beside the divan went over. Richard’s face came momentarily into view and vanished. Then all at once there was a hard dull impact; another. Silence.

  Calvin’s body relaxed limply, slowly, on the carpet.

  Richard pulled himself free, looked at Calvin—shook him a little, let him fall back and got to his feet.

  She didn’t move or speak. She was only dimly aware of Richard’s going to the bathroom, returning with towels, bending over to tie Calvin securely. She knew when he took Calvin under the arms and dragged him along the carpet toward the bedroom.

  She knew when he returned, settling his tie, smoothing back his hair. He went to the telephone. There was a cut on his chin and another on his forehead.

  “Desk clerk? Listen—Sheriff Donny is due to arrive to see Miss Abbott. He ought to be there any time now. Tell him I’ve got his man, will you? Send him right up.”

  He came to her then and took her in his arms.

  “Did he hurt you? Did he touch you—Search—”

  She shook her head.

  “He did it. He killed them both. We knew this afternoon—when we got back from Avion and talked to Ludmilla, but we had no proof. Then Jonas told me about the telegram and that you were on your way here. Didn’t they give you my message? I telephoned right away, trying to head you off. I said to tell you under no circumstances to go to your apartment; to wait for me at the Drake. And I came, driving Diana’s coupé, as fast as I could. Search, are you sure—”

  She thought of the garbled telephone message. She thought of the things she knew. She said faintly: “I’m all right. Scared —that’s all.”

  His arms tightened around her. “He—he tried once before to get you. When he thought you had seen him at the cottage; then I was arrested, and he knew that if you had recognized him you would have told that he was the man you saw. And now this afternoon Why, Search? Did Ludmilla tell you about Isabel? It wasn’t murder—John and Isabel’s death. I’ll tell you all about it later. The fact is, she outlived John, and a little case Ludmilla had proved it. It was the money—Diana’s money—”

  “I know,” she said faintly. “I know—” She looked around the room; there was something—oh yes. A vivid spot of green upon the table. A white paper, fallen on the floor. Ludmilla’s letter which told so much. She made a kind of motion toward them. Richard picked them up. She would explain, she thought dimly, later. Just now it didn’t matter; nothing mattered, because Richard had come and she was safe. But he had already unfolded the letter. He read it swiftly, glanced once at her, started to read it again and the doorbell buzzed.

  Search heard herself say: “It must be Howland—he was here—in the kitchen—”

  “He’s not here now. The kitchen door was open—that’s how I got in.” Richard opened the door.

  And Diana, hatted, gloved, walked coolly into the room. “I followed you,” she said calmly to Richard. “Jonas told me where you were going. I had to know …”

  There was a moment of silence. Then Richard said slowly: “Are you sure, Diana, that you don’t know?”

  Diana’s long face looked extraordinarily pale. She started to remove her gloves absently, light eyes on Richard. Then she glanced around the room, saw the lamp knocked over, saw Search. She looked into Search’s eyes, too, for a long moment. Then she turned back to Richard. “Very well. It—it’s about the money. Isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Diana,” said Richard. “Isabel—”

  She nodded. “I think I know. I’ve always been afraid of it. The lawyer told me when it happened that if Isabel had lived a moment longer and there was any way to prove it—” She stopped and took a long breath. “You’re going to take it all now, Richard. Where is Calvin? Is he here?”

  Richard thrust Ludmilla’s letter and the green silk cord in his pocket and abruptly took Diana’s hands. He said: “I’m sorry, Diana. He—it was Calvin that killed her. You see—it’s your money, Diana, that you inherited from John. Isabel outlived John; there’s proof of it, and Calvin—and Eve— knew of tha
t proof. The sheriff and I went to Avion; we got back to Kentigern just after Search had left. Ludmilla told us her story, and I saw then what it meant. I came here and found Calvin—” He stopped. “There’s no doubt of his guilt.”

  “Stop, Richard! I—I guessed. I guessed when Eve said she’d gone to Avion, and then Eve was killed. Only Calvin would have done it. But I wasn’t sure until he wanted me to give him an alibi for the hour before dinner the night she was killed. It was a real alibi; he was really in his room then. But he—I knew the truth then; the way he asked me. When you know anybody very well—”

  Her thin voice stopped.

  Search was beginning to realize what had happened. She had heard and seen, but as if a fog actually intervened between her and reality. It parted then to give her a clear glimpse of Diana and Diana’s motives. Diana had never loved Richard; she had only intended to keep what she then possessed. If Richard actually inherited, and Diana could force Search aside and induce Richard to marry her, then she was still in possession. Still the lady of the manor. Still—

  Richard said slowly: “The sheriff will be here in a few minutes. He’s following me. You’d better know this, Diana. The man that was murdered was Saul Gleason, and his name is on the hospital records—where Isabel and John were taken, I mean—as reporting the accident. Ludmilla had a gold case that was sent her by Gleason from Isabel. Isabel outlived John. So I inherit from Isabel. But I’m not going to keep it. Not all of it. Do you understand?”

  There was a silence. Then Diana’s head lifted a little. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I’m going to keep what was Isabel’s, the money she brought with her when she married John. But the rest of it is yours. I don’t want it.”

  “The rest—but that—Why, then, I—” She stopped.

  Her tall thin figure seemed to straighten itself, to have life and competence again. There was another silence. Then she said: “Well, then. That’s settled. Very good of you, Richard, I’m sure.”

  She glanced around the room again. And said: “Calvin—well, I must see to that, of course. A good alienist—yes, I’ll take him to an alienist at once.”

  Search always remembered that and Diana’s cool, self-possessed look. She remembered, too, the curious little smile on Richard’s face.

  And then Sheriff Donny arrived. Two policemen—Chicago policemen in blue uniforms—arrived with him. When they left Diana went too—dignified, self-possessed, talking of alienists and lawyers.

  Search heard that. But she did not look. She stood at the desk with her back toward the ugly little procession.

  Richard came to her when they had gone and the room was still again. He had a note in his hand and she recognized it. “What’s this!” he cried. “It’s in your handwriting. It was in Calvin’s pocket. For God’s sake, what—”

  She told him briefly, in a kind of hushed voice that did not belong to her. She told him of Howland too. She told almost automatically (as if it had happened to another woman, not herself) all that had been said and done. “And then you came,” she said.

  Richard listened, his face white. “Search,” he said huskily. “Search.” Suddenly he reached out and pulled her into his arms. “Oh, my darling,” he said unsteadily. “Come. Let’s get out of here. It’s a horrible place, Search.” But he held her tight in his arms.

  His arms were warm and strong. It was dark now outside; the sky beyond the low window ledge was full of stars. Safe. She pushed her head closer into the curve of his shoulder and shut her eyes tight. He held her there in silence for a long time.

  Gradually, like an awakening, she shook off the shock and horror of the thing that was past. Past. Finished. Richard was free.

  She lifted her head. And Richard, staring out into the black sky, said slowly: “It was ambition first. And then fear—‘fear o’ hell’s the hangman’s whip.’ ” He looked down at her and, still holding her with one hand as if he didn’t dare let her go, he bent and took up her hat and bag from the table with the other hand.

  “Come,” he said abruptly and led her to the door. They went away—along the corridor, down the elevator, not speaking, out a side door so they need not go through the foyer. A car—Diana’s coupé—was there, where he’d left it. They got in.

  It was like the beginning of a journey.

  It was the beginning of a journey; a long journey, for all of their lives, together.

  Richard turned on the little dashlight. Her hand lay on the seat, and he took it in his own—her left hand. He looked at it for a long moment. Then he lifted it and gently kissed the third finger at its base, where a wedding ring is worn. He put it down.

  “You do understand, don’t you, Search? I’m never going to let you go away from me again. This is forever.”

  “Forever,” she said.

  He turned then and kissed her. Presently he let her go and started the car.

  “Okay, Search?”

  She settled herself in the seat beside him. “Okay,” she said.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  copyright © 1940 by Mignon G. Eberhart

  cover design by Heidi North

  978-1-4532-5728-9

  This 2012 edition distributed by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media

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