Chiffon Scarf (23 page)

There was nothing. But they kept her there, nevertheless, questioning over and over again—her scarf, the note in Creda’s writing, the silence in the cabin and those furtive tiptoed footsteps. At the last they asked her whether she had had any quarrel with Averill, and Eden hesitated and said at last, because she had to, that she had no quarrel with Averill. It was not the letter of the truth; it was in a deep sense, however, fact itself. But she did not try to excuse it with specious reasoning. She simply lied, flatly, because there was nothing else to do. Because Creda had worn Averill’s yellow cloak; because she had died in Averill’s room; because her face had been veiled.

Because all at once, starkly, the significance they would give those, facts if the knowledge of her quarrel with Averill and the reason for that quarrel were laid before them, became comprehensible to her. Stood out sharply and stiffly in her mind. She was dull with fatigue by that time, but she saw that clearly as she had not seen it before.

For that would be a motive.

And there had to be a motive. If the murder of Creda was intentional or if it was a failing attempt upon Averill’s life, there still had to be a motive.

It was an endless circle. Eden straightened her drooping shoulders wearily and stared at the tip ends of her white slippers and tried to brace herself for the next questions.

But there were no more. For Chango came with trays of silver and china and proceeded to lay a small table with dinner for the sheriff and Sloane, and they told her she could go. But not without admonishment. Through the open door the sheriff said loudly: “But try to remember, young lady, who it was you saw in the cabin last night.” And Sloane followed her to the door and stood there, watching her as she went upstairs.

It was night by that time. The sun dropped down behind a distant mountain rim and instantly twilight came with only a lingering touch of light in the sky and crimson upon the Sangre de Cristo peaks at the eastern horizon.

Dinner was late and rather an ordeal; no one wanted to talk; the candles flickered on the table; and Chango gave them scant attention, reserving his real efforts for the two men dining alone in Sloane’s study. He did tell them that the searchers were returning, two or three at a time, and that so far Roy Wilson had not been found. Nor, added Chango, little eyes glittering, the hatchet.

One of them had, however, found a rather curious thing, but he had taken it immediately to Sloane and even Chango knew nothing of it then.

Jim said almost nothing; he looked taut and white; he had offered, Sloane had said, no explanation for Creda’s dreadful, scrawled letter. But perhaps there was no explanation. There could, in fact, be no explanation for Jim to give them. So Eden reasoned.

Once she caught his eyes but the look in them told her nothing.

And certainly everyone—except perhaps Dorothy, who ate and drank with her usual calm and hearty appetite—showed the effects of the nerve strain and tension of the past few days.

After dinner they separated. Eden walked aimlessly out to the long porch; the stars were out by that time, remote and bright. Stars that, last night, she had thought to hold in her own grasp. The path stretched invitingly away into the cool and quiet night, with the clump of pines showing black and thick. She had an impulse to walk along the path and, indeed, had started down the steps when Noel came along the path, stopped beside her and said: “Going for a walk, Eden? How did you come out with the masterminds?”

“I don’t know,” she said slowly. He started down the steps as if to accompany her and, as she paused at the top of the short flight with her hand irresolutely on the railing, he stopped too and looked up at her. The light from above the door into the hall fell dimly into his face. He said: “Come along, Eden dear. Let’s stroll a bit. Besides, I—I really want to talk to you.”

The soft light and the pleading look which was suddenly in his eyes reminded her all at once of a younger Noel. And of a younger Eden. How long ago, now, that childish little romance seemed.

The thought of Jim had lain like a cold weight in her heart all that day. Noel’s presence was irresistibly comforting, his kindness and affection inexpressibly warming.

“Dear Noel,” she said and put her hand out toward him in an impulsive little gesture. He took it and as impulsively and rather eagerly caught it to his cheek.

“You look,” he said quickly, “like the Eden I used to know. Like the girl I loved. Like the girl—like the girl I still love. Eden—”

She didn’t withdraw her hand. She didn’t move but stood perfectly still on the step above him looking down into his suddenly youthful face, smiling a little wistfully, a little tenderly, touched by a recaptured and gentle memory.

“Noel—you can’t mean that. It’s too late—”

“It’s never too late,” said Noel. “And I do mean it.” He came closer impetuously, still clasping her hand tight. “I do love you, darling. Believe it or not, I’ve always loved you. But I—” Someone crossed the hall inside with a brisk ring of footsteps. He frowned a little. “This isn’t the proper time or place. But then I never do things at the proper time and place. Come along, Eden; let’s walk down the path and I—you’ll let me tell you. Will you?”

Down the path toward the pines where she’d walked the night before with Jim? With the same stars looking down from the night sky?

But this was, she remembered suddenly and with a shock, exactly what she had come for; this was why she’d left New York; this was why she’d accepted Averill’s invitation. Because she had made up her mind to induce, by whatever means she could discover, the very words Noel was uttering. Well, she ought to feel pleased. She ought to accept the opening he had provided. She ought—definitely, instantly, adroitly, to settle the thing then and there. For certainly nothing had changed except that her need for Noel—for kindness, for care, for security—was even greater than it had been.

The outside world still existed beyond that lofty, mysterious rim of mountains. Afterward she would be thankful for Noel.

She said gravely: “Yes, Noel. I’ll come with you.”

“Eden—” His face became sober; his eyes bright and purposeful. “Eden,” he repeated. “Does that mean—”

She must say it quickly. Instantly. While she could say it. While she could remember that that was the decision she had come to, thoughtfully and quietly, before she had met Jim and enchantment had fallen upon her, blinding her eyes and her senses.

“Yes, Noel.”

She could not read the look in Noel’s face. And footsteps came rapidly again along the hall and someone stepped onto the porch and banged the door behind them and it was Jim. He paused for a moment, while she half turned to look at him. His face was in the shadow, with the light behind him; he did not move or speak for a perceptible moment as if he were taking in every possible implication of the little tableau.

Then he said, his voice quite without expression: “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I only wanted to ask Eden about—about this letter Chango found. Sloane says she got hold of it first. God knows, I don’t know anything about it. Will you,” he asked with chilly politeness, “tell me where and how you found it? Anything at all—”

Noel went up the steps again, drawing Eden after him.

“As a matter of fact,” he said cheerily, “you did interrupt an important moment. And a—a particularly happy one,” he said, smiling at Eden and drawing her hand closely through his arm. “However, Jim, don’t worry about that confounded letter. Oh, yes, I know about it; they’ve questioned everybody probably. But it means nothing. They can’t possibly take it seriously. Good God, you wouldn’t sell out your own people! You wouldn’t wreck your own engine and steal your own plans. It’s crazy. Even Sloane and the sheriff must see that.”

“Nevertheless,” said Jim, “that’s what they seem to think. Even Sloane. I hoped that Eden could tell me something that would help explain it.”

Noel looked at Jim, looked at Eden and shrugged.

“All right,” he said lightly. “I’ll leave you two alone to thresh it out. But remember, Eden, what you promised me.” He turned away with a wave of his hand and a smile at Eden. Jim said: “Will you come in here, please; the big dining room seems to be unoccupied.”

She preceded him into the house and into the long dining room, with its chairs stacked on tables and its windows bare, pending the arrival of the dude season. The light from the hall streamed in, but there was no other light and it gave her a sense of isolation.

“Whoever found it added to the letter,” she said at once. “I’m sure of that,” and told him quickly and anxiously all she knew of it, watching his face as she talked.

When she finished he did not speak for a moment. Then he said: “I don’t understand it, Eden. Creda couldn’t have written to me like that. And if someone else did it, then—why? And who? I can’t think of anyone who would do that to me. Well, thanks, Eden. I—” He spoke rather stiffly and said: “I do thank you for telling Sloane all you knew about it and trying to help me. It was good of you.”

“Not at all,” replied Eden as stiffly and was struck with the absurdity of her reply. That, to Jim.

“Well,” said Jim, “I—suppose that’s all—” He made a kind of motion toward the door as if to end their short talk and Eden moved quickly to leave. But quite suddenly he caught her hand and swung her back to face him.

“Eden, why did you do it? Why did you try to hide that letter?”

She looked up helplessly into his face—loving him and wishing she could stop. And all at once he gave a kind of groan and caught her hard in his arms.

Her heart was pounding frantically. But before she could more than realize the unexpected thing that had happened, he, released her again. He looked white in the half-light and a little stern. And said: “What was that?”

“I heard nothing.” Nothing, she wanted to say, but her own mad heart beating.

But he turned away from her and went to the door and looked up and down the hall.

“Funny,” he said in a troubled way. “I thought someone—well, tiptoed along the hall. There’s nobody there now.” He gave her a deeply perplexed look. And became under her very eyes a stranger again—remote, cool, distant. But regretful.

“I’m continually in the position of asking your forgiveness,” he said stiffly again. “You’ll have to forgive me this latest outburst, too. Don’t try to understand. I hope you’ll forget this, too.”

It ended the thing. She walked out of the room beside him as composedly, she hoped, as if nothing had happened. Down at the end of the hall Averill stood at the open door into P. H. Sloane’s study, talking to Sloane. She turned and glanced at them, a slim, demure figure in perfectly fitted gray linen.

Then Eden was caught and appalled by the look in Averill’s eyes as they met her own, for it was sheer, bare hatred. Cold and—which was queer—purposeful.

Jim left Eden as if the sight of Averill had been a chain pulling him toward her.

Noel was waiting. But Eden thought, I’ll get my coat, and she was a little ashamed of seizing upon the pretext for an escape.

She ran up the stairs, pursued by the look of purpose in Averill’s face, definitely disturbed by it. But what, after all, could Averill do that she had not already done? She entered her room in a kind of daze. As she entered it, it occurred to her that there was something wrong—the door was open. Hadn’t she closed it when she left the room? But it didn’t matter.

Without closing it she walked over to the dressing table and stood there absently before the low mirror, too low for her to see her own image, only her white dress and bare arms in the small circle of light from the lamp, and her hands absently touching and moving the little powder box.

The instant in Jim’s arms again had shaken her more than she would have believed possible. Was she, Eden Shore, going to let herself be assailed like that—and by a man who had told her he didn’t want her? That it had been a mistake? That he was to marry Averill?

Well—forgive, he’d said. And forget.

It was a slight motion in the mirror that caught her eye. The door behind her was moving slightly. Then her eyes became focused and could not move aside from a thing that was mere, beside the gently moving door, in that shadowy, obscured reflection.

It was a plain wooden handle, rather worn, curved. She saw only the end of the handle—not the thing to which it was attached, nor the hand that must hold it.

It moved slightly, catching the light, riveting her eyes.

In the still moment with the stars and mountains outside, a coyote howled away off in the night. It was answered by another, as if they had found prey, and all their wolfish instinct had arisen.

O
FF IN THE DISTANCE
the coyote, called eerily again. And Eden moved.

No one ever knew what would actually have happened if she had not. There was no possible way to know, only to guess. But from somewhere she did draw the power of motion.

She tried first to scream—or thought she tried to. No sound came from her throat. And, eyes still riveted to the unsteady, worn wooden handle highlighted against nondescript but bulky shadow, she was conscious of only one compulsion and that was escape. She must force her muscles to respond to her will. Scream; escape.

It was as if someone outside herself were in command of her own body.

So she tried to scream—or thought she tried to—and moved. She moved probably in the direction of the door. But instantly her hand caught on something which entangled her wrist and tugged sharply against it; there was a light crash, another louder crash, a sound of splintering glass and a sound like the report of a small revolver—and simultaneous and complete darkness in the little room. Darkness and confusion. Sounds—feet running lightly, a door banging—more sounds.

It was a moment of unutterable swiftness and confusion. She was still standing beside the dressing table, held as if transfixed by darkness and terrible uncertainty. And there were footsteps again along the passage, heavy, running footsteps—not light and furtive ones fleeing in the darkness, as for a fractional moment other footsteps had fled. She tried again to scream and perhaps succeeded for the bedroom door that had banged flung itself open again and someone shouted: “Eden—Eden, where are you?” and it was Noel.