Another Woman's House (12 page)

He was tall, very thin, brown-faced, with sharp and un-youthful lines which fatigue and grilling hours of grim responsibility had creased into his face like tissue paper. He was in civilian clothing which didn't fit. He'd been impatient, desperately weary of uniform. He'd obviously snatched his sagging topcoat off the rack. His dark hair was sleek and neat but his thin body looked as if it moved about restlessly inside his loose-fitting clothing. Barton had turned too. He said, “Mr. Tim! I didn't see your car, sir. I didn't hear you ring …”

“I didn't ring. I walked from the station and came in this way.”

Richard said, “I'm glad you've come. We tried to reach you by phone.”

“Oh.” Again there was a hint of defiance in his face, but he grinned nervously. Barton closed the curtains with a swish and click that sounded loud in the silence. Then Tim said, “Oh. I see. You've heard then?”

“Tim,
why
…” began Myra, and Richard said quickly, “Mr. Tim will be here to dinner, too, Barton.”

“Yes, sir.” Barton went to the door and turned back. “Shall I tell Lady Carmichael?”

Myra, staring at Tim, scarcely heard him. Richard said quickly, “Yes. Yes, certainly.” Barton disappeared. Richard too was looking at Tim.

Tim who wouldn't return their look. Tim who slid out of the loose topcoat he wore and tossed it on a chair. His ill-matched and ill-fitting tweeds looked suddenly like a masquerade costume. He ran his hands over his hair nervously. He said, “Well, what are they going to do? Did they tell you?”

“They've already done it,” said Richard slowly. “The Governor brought Alice home.”

Tim did not speak. His eyes were fixed upon Richard, his young face suddenly sober and white. Richard said, “She's home now.”

“Alice—here!” said Tim then.

“She's upstairs. He pardoned her.”

There was a rush and patter of footsteps along the hall and Willie charged into the room and upon Tim. He bent and gathered him up. Richard said, “They're going to charge Webb with perjury.”

Tim's head was bent over the wriggling, leaping little black dog. His brown hand ruffled his ears. “I knew that,” he said indistinctly. “He made me wait. He told me Webb had confessed to perjury.”

“All right,” said Richard. “How did you happen to remember that about the curtains, Tim? Was it your coming back here and seeing the house? Or what?”

For a moment Tim did not reply. Myra made a step forward toward him, and Richard, waiting, his face very quiet, glanced at her so she stopped and waited, too. Tim said, his face still bent over the dog. “Is anyone around?”

“Why, there's only me and Richard …” began Myra, but Richard said quickly, “The Governor's gone. Alice is upstairs. I'll see …” He went to the doorway and looked along the hall and came back. “No one can hear,” he said in a low voice. “What is it, Tim?”

Again Tim hesitated, stroking the dog. Then he looked up. “I made it up,” he said flatly.

“You …
Tim, what do you mean?
” cried Myra.

Richard put his hand on the boy's shoulder. “It's all right—go on …”

Tim eyed him rather doubtfully and, again, defiantly for a moment. Then he said, “Well, I'll tell you exactly. But, for God's sake,” he turned to Myra, “keep this under your hat, Sis. I—Well, it's as I said, I made it up. I decided it might not get Alice out but it certainly would cast doubt on Webb's story, and it was his story that convicted her. So, legally, there'd be a question, it seemed to me, and it might—it just
might
—do something that would help her. I've been thinking about it naturally all this time.”

The half-defiant look left his face. He was all at once terribly, almost tragically serious. “You see,” he said, “I'd told the truth in the first place. They questioned me right away, that night. I never dreamed of their accusing Alice or even suspecting her. I was pretty well stunned when they did and when Webb said he'd seen her shoot him. I …” A slow flush crept up over his thin cheekbones and receded. He said steadily, “Alice had been awfully good to me. Alice …” He stopped and bent again over Willie's black little head.

Richard said gently, “You felt that Alice couldn't have shot him.”

“I didn't see how Alice could have done anything that wasn't—like Alice,” said Tim. “She … I damned near died when I saw that my testimony backed up Webb's. I couldn't change it. I had already told what I'd seen. At least,” he swallowed hard and looked up at them and said, “at least I didn't see a way to change it until later. Months later. Then during the war I—well, of course I'd kept thinking of it, and turning it over and over in my mind. It was horrible. Alice … I couldn't get away from it. I decided that if I ever got back here I'd do something, I didn't know what, to get her out. Then last week-end I was in here, sitting right over there,” he nodded toward the sofa facing the low windows, “and I suddenly saw the way to do it. So I went to the Governor …”

“Wait a minute,” said Richard. “You mean, exactly, that you invented that story you told him?”

“
But Webb
…” began Myra, and Tim said, “Yup. I invented it. I looked at those curtains and I thought and thought, and all at once I knew that all I had to say was that I'd come up on the terrace and stopped there in the doorway before Webb saw me, and that he was pulling those curtains open and they'd been closed before, when he claimed he'd heard the shots and stood on tiptoes and looked into this room. It was as simple as that. And then, by golly—it was the truth.”

There was a moment of utter silence. Neither Richard nor Myra moved or spoke. The fire sighed. Tim's thin brown hand tugged Willie's ears, the little dog gave a leap up toward his face. Tim said suddenly, “You could have knocked me over with less than a feather when I came back into the Governor's office after he'd seen Webb, all prepared to stick to my story come hell or high water and then—by golly, I was so surprised that I damned near gave it away then and there. It was the truth and Webb admitted it. Of course, my weak point was having to say that I'd forgotten it and only now remembered. But it was the only excuse I could think of. I thought they might charge me with perjury or some damned thing, I didn't know what, but I didn't see what they could do if I stuck to it. Except, of course, it might not have worked. The Governor might have seen through it; maybe he did.”

And he thinks, thought Myra sharply, that you may be a murderer.

Richard stood quite still, his hand on Tim's shoulder. Tim said, “I wish to God I'd thought of it sooner. Alice …” He looked at Richard and at Myra and swallowed rather hard again and said, suddenly shedding the years of forced adulthood and becoming very young and very boyish, his eyes shining, “Alice
didn't
kill him.”

“You mean,” said Richard gently, “that you had been afraid that she had. …”

“Well, I didn't see how she could have done it. She's so—so good,” said Tim. “But then I thought maybe Manders—well, maybe he was a heel, you know. A well-mannered, well-washed heel. Maybe she'd, well, had to shoot him. You hear of things like that. Maybe—oh, I thought of all kinds of things. Crazy things. I even thought, what the hell! Suppose she did shoot him! Whatever Alice had to do was—was
right.
What's the use of making such a fuss over a fellow like Jack Manders! That's what I thought. But …” Again his face was young and boyish. “But she didn't! If I'd had the sense then to think of a way out, she'd never have gone to prison.”

There was another short silence. Richard gave Tim's shoulder a reassuring pat as he released it and then turned and walked the length of the room and back again. He sat down in the arm chair.

Tim said, “The most I hoped to do was stir up something, cast reasonable doubt on Webb's story. The weak point was my pretending to have forgotten all this time. Anybody would know that I'd have done everything I could to get Alice out of it. But I thought I might—just
might
accomplish something. It'd be my word against Webb's and Webb was prejudiced. Well, of course, so was I. But now …” He lifted his face again and grinned a little. “It's swell, isn't it?”

“Yes,” said Richard. “Yes. Look here, Tim, as I remember it, Webb swore in his testimony that he had passed you along the drive. You were walking and he was in his car.”

“Yes, that's right.”

“Did—well,” said Richard carefully, “did any other cars happen to pass you along the road? Earlier, I mean, while you were walking from the station and before you turned into the driveway?”

Tim's face was instantly sharp and alert. He put the little dog down on the chair beside him. “I don't know. That never came up. I saw Webb, as you know. He went on past me. He saw me. At least he said he did then. What do you mean, Dick? Wait a minute,” said Tim slowly, “I guess I know what you mean.”

“If you can think of anybody else who might have seen you it would be a help. Just to nail it …”

“You mean,” said Tim, watching Richard, “that a new investigation is underway?”

“It will be. In the morning.”

“I see. Yes. And they …”

“You are in the clear, Tim. You didn't shoot him. It's only a question of getting things straight before the police and the …”

Tim said, “Have they questioned you?”

“No. I'm in the clear, too; that's beside the point. Just now, before Sam comes, let's try to …”

Tim interrupted sharply again. “Somebody shot Manders. So they'll not give up till they find out who it was. Yes, I see. You've sent for Sam?”

“Yes, but only …”

“I know what that means. Well …” His face was intent, his eyes suddenly adult and wise. “Well, there's only you and me and Webb. And you'll be their choice. Your gun, your house, Alice …” Tim said slowly, “How do you know I didn't shoot him? How do you know he didn't deserve it? I've probably had my share in killing a lot of people. It wouldn't bother me much. How do you know Alice didn't know that I killed him—and wouldn't tell it because of her—her loyalty to me. How do you know …”

Barton, in the doorway, cleared, his throat nervously. All three jerked around to look at him. How much had he heard? How much would he remember? How much …”

He put one hand over his mouth and coughed and looked at Richard. “If you please, Madam wishes you to know that your dinner is served. She is waiting for you, sir, in her room.”

“Tell her I'll be up at once.” Barton coughed again and waddled away. Richard said, “Sam will be here soon. We can talk over the situation and see what we can do. Only understand one thing, Tim. I'm not going to have any nonsense on your part. I'm not in any danger of being charged with murder. So get that out of your head. If you've got any notion of trying to distribute the suspicion so as to clear me, forget it. I'll not have it. Understand. Now then …” He reached for a cigarette; he lighted it rather slowly. He said, without looking at Myra, “Sam will be here soon. I'll be down when he comes,” and turned, still without looking at Myra, and. walked out of the room. She watched him go as she had watched Alice, in spite of herself, across the hall and up the stairs. Where Alice in her silken, scented room—beautiful Alice—his wife, waited for him.

Tim said abruptly, “It was his gun, you know. A Smith and Wesson, thirty-two. I've seen it many times. He kept it in a drawer of that table. His gun, his house, Alice …”

“Richard couldn't have killed him,” cried Myra rather desperately. “You couldn't have killed him. Neither of you would have let Alice go to prison.”

“Wouldn't we?” said Tim. Again the look of taut, knowledgeable adulthood was in his face. “I'll tell you this,” he said in a queer, faraway voice, “I've seen a lot of better fellows die. When are they going to unleash the police?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow. Well, I'm going up now and wash. See you later.”

He was already halfway across the room. He made a kind of backward wave with one hand and ran across the hall. Willie leaped off the chair and followed. Tim did pause for an instant there, his hands on the tall newel post and looked back at her.

“I don't suppose I could just see Alice for a minute?”

“Why—why, yes, of course …”

“No, I'd better give her a chance to rest. I—yes, I'll wait.” He turned and ran up the stairs. Almost as if to escape her and her questions.

Tomorrow. Police. Reporters. Questions. Suspects.

Alice's exoneration was complete. But the fact of murder, unsolved, lay within that house, within that room, a grim and dreadful presence, awaiting its revenge.

Who had stood in that doorway leading to the hall, or in the open French door upon the terrace and held Richard's gun in his hand?

It was very still. She felt extraordinarily alone, somehow, in the mellow, gracious room with its crimson curtains and books and flowers, Mildred's lilies on the low table, Alice's daffodils.

Alice's cupid, still watching her, with its small, pretty smile.

She'd better go, too, and change. She turned toward the door, saw Tim's coat where he'd dropped it on the chair and went back for it, scarcely thinking of what she was doing. She went into the hall.

There was no sound anywhere. Upstairs behind a door that she must soon pass Alice lay back against the lacy, fragrant pillows and smiled at Richard. Alice who had returned and resumed her rightful place.

And the place that was to be—had to be—forever her own.

Myra reached the stairs and started up them and tripped on the third step.

It might have happened any time—any night, any day, any hour—since the hot June night when Jack Manders had been killed. It happened then.