Hasty Wedding

by Mignon G. Eberhart

  Still no sound. Certainly the apartment was empty. But the door was open and it was by this time considerably after nine.

  Somewhere near the door there must be the electric light switch; Ronald’s hand had reached behind her and pressed it. She fumbled into the darkness beside the door. She could not find the switch for a moment and in that moment the room around her became strangely sentient, reminding her insistently of the other time she had stood at that door. She had a quick, queer consciousness of, particularly, the mirrors, watching from the darkness around her and adding a new chapter to their silent record. Then she found the little button and pulled it downward and it clicked and there was no light.

  No light. But naturally it had been turned off; they always cut off light and gas in an empty apartment. Probably the apartment would be empty for some time; until what had happened there was forgotten.

  Ought she to go and try otherwise to find Jevan? Or ought she to wait? Wait and remember Ronald’s flushed face and bright eyes, eyes that looked over her shoulder as if someone were there and when she had turned there was no one. Only a white door that seemed just to quiver into place. “You can’t go. I won’t let you go…, The old melodramas from which I have so lavishly borrowed …darling…”

  She mustn’t let herself remember. Just beside her was the white divan; in the darkness a little away was the table which had held the white table lamp. And the telephone. Beside the table Ronald had fallen.

  The voices from the corridor had completely died away.

  The time during which she stood there in the darkness, undecided, assailed by things the room itself seemed to seek to remind her of, could have been actually only a moment or two, although it seemed much longer. The door had of its own volition swung slowly back to its original position, so now the band of faint light from the hall was only an inch or two in width. And except for the ugly memories which surrounded her as the darkness surrounded her, so Ronald’s face swam out of it, Ronald’s face and Ronald’s words, she had not a sense of danger. Instead it seemed safe. Safe and deserted, except for the mirrors, and if anyone approached by way of the stairway she would know it.

  She must have decided to wait, for she turned to grope for the white divan and it was just as her fingers touched the rough fabric that she realized someone else was in the room.

  She never knew exactly how she knew it unless it was by the barely perceptible little sound of suction as if a door somewhere opened. But she did know it and she knew that the door that opened so gently but unmistakably was either the door leading to the kitchen or the bedroom door.

  Her fingers froze on the divan. There was no sound—or was there the barely audible sound of light footsteps across the room? She could see nothing in that suffocating blackness, could hear nothing except—except all at once, breaking out into that silence in queer jumbled rush, there was a voice. Two voices, indistinguishable and muffled, and then, blinding, bewildering, terribly loud and yet muffled, the sound of a revolver shot.

  It was a quick, reverberating shock of sound, mingled suddenly with other sounds, footsteps running, a door banging somewhere and another door, a rush of motion in the blackness of the room and more footsteps running lightly somewhere near her.

  She must have tried to reach the door beside her and escape that fated apartment, for all at once she found herself clutching into the darkness for the door, suddenly and sharply aware of someone very near her and then, before she could stop herself, her hands encountered the rough material of a coat which bumped squarely into her. Arms fumbled and flung themselves around her and—and it was Jevan, She knew it was Jevan. His close embrace, his nearness, that intangible, primitive something that makes recognition told her it was Jevan.

  And he must have known her by the same elemental sense, for he was sharply still for an instant and then his arms held her closer and he cried huskily: “Dorcas! You here!”

  She clung to him. There were retreating sounds somewhere—or were there? It was all at once very quiet.

  “Good God, Dorcas——”

  His face was against her own. “Dorcas, what are you doing here?”

  “I came—oh, Jevan, what was it—the shot——”

  “Don’t tremble like that. It’s all right. I’ll see to things. I’ll—wait, Dorcas, let me shut that door. If anyone heard——”

  His arms left her. In the immense silence that followed that momentary confusion and chaos of sound she could hear him move to the door and close it very softly, shutting out that crack of light, and she heard him move back toward her through the complete darkness. His hands reached for her and he whispered: “Dorcas, you’ve got to get out of here. I’ll help you. You know—that. Where’s the revolver?”

  “Revolver?”

  “Yes, I——” He stopped. His arms were around her again, holding her close to him. He said all at once, clearly in the silence, “I’ve got matches. Wait, Dorcas.”

  Again his arms relinquished her. She could hear him search in his pockets and then there was the sputter of a match. It didn’t light the room; it made only a small and flickering glow as he held it and looked at her and around him and turned abruptly toward the open bedroom door.

  She followed him. Just at the bedroom door a small hidden draft struck the little flame and it wavered once and went out.

  Jevan swore and struck another.

  It flared and he went into the bedroom and stopped almost on the threshold. She saw him moisten his lips. She saw the flame jerk and steady itself in his hands. She heard him mutter something that sounded like, “Don’t look,” but it was too late.

  For she, too, now could see it. Flung down like so much rubbish, something used and thrown away, a woman lay huddled between the two beds. Blond hair was disheveled under a small green hat which was crushed under her head. A checked sport coat had fallen apart, showing a shabby black crepe dress. Little high-heeled pumps, one of them turned fantastically as she had fallen, had thin soles and scuffed toes. And that match burned down to Jevan’s fingers and went out, making a tiny red spark in the blackness.

  “It’s Elise,” said Jevan. “It’s Elise.”

  He must have lighted another match. Dorcas clung to a chair and watched the little light moving around as if Jevan were looking for something. A candle of course. He found it, however, in the living room and lighted it and it made a larger, clearer flame and was an ornamental white candle, huge and heavily dipped in gold and added a nightmare note to the thing. For the flame was picked up by the watchful mirrors and reflected a hundred times and the shadowy silhouettes of their figures were reflected, too, eerily, so they filled the room.

  Then the flame moved toward the bedroom and vanished and left the mirrors blank again.

  Jevan was kneeling, holding the candle with one hand, like a solitary vigil light above the dead girl.

  “Is she …?” began Dorcas and Jevan said he didn’t know. He said he couldn’t tell. He held the candle over Elise’s crumpled, tragic little body and said there was blood on her dress and he couldn’t tell whether she was alive or dead and he’d get a doctor.

  And he got up again from where he’d been kneeling in that crowded space between the two white, couchlike beds and came to Dorcas.

  “You’ve got to get out first,” he said. “Understand, Dorcas. I think she’s still alive; at least there’s a chance. So I’m going to get a doctor here. And you must leave.”

  “But——”

  “Oh, my darling,” cried Jevan suddenly. “When I found you here I thought you’d killed her and I——” His voice broke. The candlelight made his face look very white and masklike. He said: “But you didn’t. I know you didn’t. So I’ve got to—what’s the matter, Dorcas? Why are you looking so strangely at me? Why——”

  “But I thought—I heard the shot and then you came and I thought—for a moment—just an instant, Jevan, I thought you—but I wasn’t afraid. But now I know it wasn’t you.”

  There was a small, c
lear silence. Then Jevan said jerkily: “Faith. Blind, instinctive faith. Queer… I know you didn’t fire the shot. And you’re willing to believe that I—all right, Dorcas. We’ll stand together. Except I’m going to make you leave now. Before the doctor comes. I’ll call him. There’s a chance of saving her. And I’m going to call the police. As soon as you——”

  Jevan turned toward the telephone. He was saying something about getting the doctor first. “Then we’ll find a way to get you out of here before he comes,” said Jevan and put his hand on the telephone; exactly as he did so it rang. The sharp shrill of it was horribly loud and demanding. Jevan jerked his hand away as if the thing had been electrically charged and his eyes darted around the apartment and fastened on the door that led to the kitchen and he cried: “I’m a fool. Wait, Dorcas. Don’t touch the telephone.” He ran, leaving the candle on the table, to the door, pulled it open and disappeared. The telephone rang again and behind her, in the darkness of the bedroom, a girl with bright blond hair and a checked coat lay with blood on her dress and staining the floor.

  Who? Not Jevan—not Jevan. But who then?

  Jevan was back, running, face emerging into the faint light from the candle.

  “There’s nobody in the kitchen.” He flung an empty book of matches upon the table. “I was a fool not to look sooner. There’s been plenty of time for him to get away. I didn’t realize …” The telephone shrilled again and he took it and said: “Hello … hello …”

  “Don’t answer,” cried Dorcas. “Don’t——”

  “It’s the police,” whispered Jevan. “It’s Wait.” And spoke into the telephone. “Yes, I’m here. And, Wait, get a doctor, will you? Hurry. All right. I’ll stay here. But listen—listen to me. There’s a dead girl here. At least … Yes, I know. But whoever killed her has just escaped. I don’t know who … All right. All right.”

  He put down the telephone. A queer flash of something like admiration went over his face. “What a man,” he said and turned swiftly to Dorcas. “But he’s not to find you here. Come on, Dorcas. There’s a way out. Down the hall there’s a service door. It’s just opposite the elevator. You’ll have to be careful. Watch the elevator. For God’s sake, hurry——”

  “I’m not going.”

  “Have you left anything—gloves, bag—where——”

  “Jevan, I’m not going.”

  This time he heard her and jerked around toward her, his face jutting out in sharp relief above the candle flame.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m going to stay. With you. I didn’t shoot her and you didn’t and we——”

  He didn’t stop to convince her. He simply took her up in his arms, sweeping her off the floor, and carried her to the door leading to the kitchen. There was no use struggling against him.

  “You’ve got to go. You’re a little fool if you don’t. I can’t carry you. You’ve got to …” They were in the kitchen and the door was open and a flashlight streamed fully upon them. Beyond the blinding light Wait’s voice said in a leisurely way:

  “Don’t go.”

  Jevan stopped and let Dorcas slide downward till she stood beside him.

  “You——”

  “I was downstairs. Somebody’s getting a doctor. Don’t go, Mrs Locke. Where’s the girl?”

  Wait was not alone; two plain-clothes men and two policemen crowded into the kitchen and with them Sophie. Sophie, neat and trim in her black coat with the silver fox collar and small black hat and pearl earrings, but she was frightened and pale and put her arm around Dorcas.

  “Good God, Dorcas, why did you come here? I saw you. I had to follow you. Wait was already here; I couldn’t warn you. He saw me on the street and made me tell him why I came. But he already knew you were here; a policeman followed you from the house. Oh, my dear, you shouldn’t have come. What’s happened? They said somebody was hurt. What——”

  “In here, please,” said someone. They followed the policeman back into the white, mirrored living room. The men were crowding at the bedroom door. They were talking and phrases came to Dorcas’ and Sophie’s ears.

  “She’s dead all right.”

  “Maybe not. Let me hold a mirror to her lips.”

  “That’s right. Take this——”

  “Easy now.”

  And Wait’s voice, clear: “Who is she?”

  Jevan did not reply; there were other voices and then Wait’s again: “Get lights. They’re likely cut off. O’Brien. Phone down and tell the janitor to turn ’em on again. Hones, get out there at the door. Now then, Locke, who is this girl? Is she the one that came to the house and——”

  “It’s Elise,” said Jevan.

  “Elise. Elise who? Why did you shoot her?”

  “I didn’t shoot her.”

  The man O’Brien was shouting into the telephone and words from the bedroom were lost. Sophie and Dorcas, clutching each other’s hands, stood there listening. And O’Brien put down the telephone and began snapping lamps off and on as if doing so would hasten the electric current’s being turned on and the sputter of the matches the men were recklessly lighting died away and Wait came out of the bedroom carrying the solitary candle, and one of the policemen emerged in his wake with the flashlight.

  The candle and the flashlight vied with each other, and the mirrors were crowded now with black silhouettes and Wait’s eyes shone and glistened above the candle’s flame.

  “You’ll have to come clean, Locke,” he said. “I’ve got you.” His dark eyes swept around the room and singled out Dorcas for a second and he said to Jevan, “You can still keep your wife out of it. If you’ll confess——”

  “No, no, Jevan,” cried Dorcas on a great surge of terror. “You mustn’t. You——”

  “Hush, Dorcas,” said Jevan quietly. “I’ll tell the truth, Wait. That woman in there is the woman who came to the house. The woman we’ve been trying to find. You see, she was Drew’s wife. Elise——”

  “Drew’s wife? He wasn’t married. We’d have found the record.”

  “Oh yes,” said Jevan. “He was married. Nobody knew it; he was married in another county and the record is there; they kept it a secret, or rather he did, and they didn’t get along and separated but not legally. And Elise——” He stopped and said: “Do you think she’ll live?”

  “I don’t know. The doctor will be here in a few minutes,” said Wait and Sophie stirred and said: “Can I do anything for her?”

  “Thank you. There’s nothing we can do. We don’t dare move her until the doctor comes. The best thing for her is to wait.” Sophie sat down on the white divan beside Dorcas and Wait looked at Jevan. “Exactly what was Elise’s part in this? Did she know that Drew wanted to marry Mrs Locke?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jevan. “I know only that Elise came to the house and that she was his wife. She must have known something or she couldn’t have come to see Mrs Locke. We—that is, naturally I assumed that she wanted something from my wife. And I naturally wanted to find her again—to discover what, if anything, she knew—mainly to keep her from coming again to my wife——”

  “Blackmail?”

  “Well, yes, I thought of it. I didn’t want my wife to be annoyed or worried by her. I didn’t really want my wife to know of the girl’s existence. And I thought—well, at first I thought either that Elise herself had killed Drew or that she had some evidence she was willing to sell. I wasn’t, of course, absolutely sure she was Drew’s wife but Bench’s description of the woman in the checked coat seemed to fit what I knew of her. And then after she’d gone—or we supposed she’d gone—I came upon a scarf. A green silk scarf; it was there at home—in the Whipple house, I mean, near the stairway. Looked as if she’d dropped it. To me, then, it was a tangible proof of the—well, the threat her visit contained. That, of course, was in the afternoon before Marcus was killed.”

  “Yes.”

  “As you know, I phoned Willy and we met and talked and then came back to the house. And when we
got there the police were there and Marcus’ body had been found. So then I thought that Elise must have done it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’d been there and nobody saw her leave. Because conceivably Marcus could have known that she murdered Drew——”

  “Murdered Drew! Do you know that she——”

  “No, no. I don’t know that she murdered Drew. But I thought so then. Jealousy, a quarrel—oh, there were a hundred motives she could have had for killing him. Thus if Marcus knew of it or even if she thought he knew it, she would have had a motive for killing Marcus.”

  “And why didn’t you tell me of Elise and Drew’s marriage?”

  Jevan hesitated. Inside the bedroom a policeman murmured something to another policeman of which the word “minutes” alone was distinguishable.

  “Because,” said Jevan. “I wanted to find Elise myself and question her.”

  “That won’t do, Locke. The truth is that you did not want me to know of her existence until you had what you considered proof of her guilt. And the reason you didn’t want me to know of her was because you realized that she provided the strongest possible motive for your wife to have murdered Drew. The other woman, the wife with prior claim, the wife whose existence and claims Drew had kept a secret until he had sufficiently entangled your wife——”

  “My wife was not ‘entangled.’ And my wife knew nothing of this girl, Elise.”

  “But you did. And you met her here tonight. Why? Because she was to provide an out for you. Because you intended to arrange what would appear to be a suicide—a suicide that would also look like a confession. Perhaps you even intended to write a little suicide note, confessing to the murders and signed Elise. Did you?”

  “No! That’s not true!” began Jevan furiously and checked himself and said more quietly: “I planned nothing of the kind. I didn’t shoot her. I have no revolver, I——”