Chiffon Scarf (28 page)

Roy Wilson.

But if Roy Wilson had been dead twenty-four hours then he had not stood in the shadow behind the door, shielding his face with a coat, holding a hatchet in his hand!

And in the same instant she discovered that she was not alone on the desert.

The bright black shadow of the plane, stretched out on the ground below, moved a little. Rather the shadow itself did not move, it only changed its outline a little, briefly. As if something moved somewhere and cast a shadow, thinner, smaller, like the shadow of a man, which glided into being and then blended itself in the flat black shadow of the plane.

A man! But there was no one at the ranch except Dorothy and Averill.

S
HE LISTENED. SHE TRIED
desperately to hear over the beating of her heart which thumped so loudly she thought whoever stood outside in that bright, empty desert must hear it.

Thoughts raced through her mind—none of them coherent. She’d been a fool to come so far from the house. Why had she done it! Why had she lingered there, lost in thought! Above all, who was it?

And did that someone know she was in the plane?

It became the all-important question.

There was for a moment or two no sound of motion outside the plane. Then there were footsteps—light, hurrying around the plane. She tried to see below and couldn’t. Whoever it was passed—if he actually passed at all—too close to the plane. It was as if he were reconnoitering. Why?

And who was it?

Probably it was no one she need fear. She tried to tell herself that. The frantic pounding of her heart was sheer nerves, nerves and a sense of isolation in that bright empty world. And perhaps a memory of someone—not Roy Wilson—who had stood in the shadow, waiting for her.

It was as if a paralysis held her and restrained her from moving, from calling out, from making the faintest betraying motion.

He was now at the front of the plane. There was a slight quiver and jar running along the plane as if he had touched it—rocked it—how did you start a plane?

She rose cautiously to peer forward. And then he passed a window and she caught the briefest glimpse of an outline that was familiar. Familiar—then who?

He was coming into the plane. She sank down again in the seat, cowering instinctively as a hunted animal cowers. She couldn’t see his entrance. But she heard it. Quick steps—still light and curiously stealthy—or did she imagine that stealth?

There was another jar, heavier, and less sunlight in the cabin. He’d taken up the steps, then? And closed the entrance? Odd. But there was no time to think for he walked quickly along the aisle and she saw him as he brushed past. And she sat up and cried on a great breath of relief: “
Noel—
”

He stopped as if someone had struck him and turned slowly, almost rigidly, toward her.

“Noel—thank heaven, it’s you! I couldn’t see—I thought—crazy things. I was terrified. Noel—”

She was babbling, her voice high-pitched and unsteady.

“Eden. You!”

“Noel, I was terrified. It was silly of me—but it’s so far from the house I couldn’t see it was only you.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I just happened to walk this way,” she said, still speaking rapidly and nervously. “Noel—” Something in his manner, in the way he looked at her drove her into confused explanations. “Noel, I only happened—I was taking a walk. I—what is wrong?”

After a moment he said slowly, watching her: “Nothing.”

“But, Noel, you—you look so strange.”

His brilliant eyes darted from her face to his wrist watch and back again.

He said: “Why did you tell Jim we were to be married? Why did you tell Dorothy?”

“But, Noel—” She shook her head queerly, as one shakes water out of his eyes so he can see the better. “I didn’t—he only guessed.”

“Did I mention marriage? Did I say I wanted you to marry me? Did I say anything that gave you a right to tell them that?” He stopped, looked at her and said: “You fool.”

Queer she couldn’t get to her feet. It was as if an invisible hand held her pressed into that deep seat.

“Noel—” It was only a whisper—not quite that

He glanced swiftly again at his wrist watch.

“You’ve brought it on yourself. I can’t help it. I couldn’t help any of it once I’d got started. It wasn’t my fault. And now I’ve got to finish what I’ve started.” He paused, looked at her as if he hated her and said: “In a way it’s justice. If you hadn’t told them and turned Dorothy against me—! I never thought of marriage. I only wanted to make sure that you kept anything you knew to yourself. I didn’t know you were in the other room when Creda—when I—when I had to do it. Good God,” he said furiously. “Why couldn’t you stay out of it! Why did you tell them you saw someone—me, of course. Or the steward. Why did you play cat and mouse with me so I never knew whether you were willing to keep what you knew to yourself, or going to tell them you saw me?”

“But I didn’t—”

“You met me halfway—yet you never told me I was safe with you. Dorothy believed in me. She lied for me; you didn’t. But she’ll tell them the truth now. I saw it in her eyes. So I came back. Well, it’s your own fault. I can’t stop now.”

She had to get out of the plane. She had to get out of the deep seat—she had to force open that door—she had to escape—

“Stay where you are. You’ve brought it on yourself. I—I’m too tired,” he said with the strangest effect of simplicity. “I can’t think any more. You’ll have to come with me.” His bright eyes darted around the plane and fastened on a small locker at the rear.

She tried to stand. He pushed her back in the seat and opened the locker, watching her all the time, and took out a squarish bundle, secured with leather straps. He slung it quickly over his shoulders, fastening it with trembling but very quick fingers.

“But that—that’s a parachute—” She must have said it aloud.

“Of course. Get up. Quick—”

She had to rise. She couldn’t do anything else.

“Walk up ahead—I mean it—do you understand? Don’t drive me to—do anything. If Creda hadn’t driven me! She thought I killed Bill for her. Because a year ago I showed her some attention. Vain little fool! Take that seat at the right. Do as I say—”

She did it. She was an automaton. She was walking in a frightful dream.

He slid into the seat beside her. There were controls, instruments, she stared at them helplessly and didn’t know what one of them was for. He adjusted the cord of the parachute.

“There’s gas enough still. Queer—when we left the St. Louis airport I thought, we’ve got more gas than we need. The plane’s heavy
Don’t move!
”

Whatever she’d been about to do, she stopped.

He was mad. No, he was terribly, desperately sane. The lines in his face were sharp and there were dark pockets around his eyes. The easy, facile charm of his smile had had the power of disguising that hagridden look.

“Noel—
why—
” she said, her voice as thin as paper.

“Obvious,” said Noel. His shaking, nervous hands reached toward the instrument board. “I was tired of being without money; I was born to have money—as I used to have.”

He was certainly starting the engine. Adjusting this lever and that—a little uncertainly, frowning as if trying to remember. He had a pilot’s license he’d said; but he hadn’t flown much.

“Let me out—please, let me out; Noel—what are you doing! Noel—I beg you—”

“Don’t—where’s the starter—oh, I see.”

“Noel—you’ve got to let me out! I won’t stop you—I can’t—Noel—where are you going? What—”

Her voice would have been unrecognizable. She had no thought, no strength, she could only beg, implore, plead.

“It’s your own fault,” he said. The engine started.

The throb of the engine completed chaos. She didn’t faint; she was aware of the throb all through the plane. The engine wheezed and died and the propeller became a propeller instead of a glistening arc. He swore and pulled and pushed at levers and started the engine again with a roar and this time the plane moved and—and how loud the engine beat. Loud and irregular and horrible—only it wasn’t the engine! It was revolver shots—unutterable confusion, glass cracking and shattering—the plane jerking, half turning in a great staggering whirl.

She never knew exactly what happened. All at once Noel was leaning in the strangest way against the controls. The plane had stopped. Had the engine died again—had Noel’s hand cut off the ignition? There were people—she could hear shouts. And waves of gray clouds swirled around her, gray as the chiffon veil that had choked Creda’s life out.

Eventually something solid was holding her secure above the swirling veils that threatened to engulf her.

She was being made to move; half-carried along a narrow aisle. Sunlight blinded her. There were voices and she couldn’t distinguish what they said; then she was lying flat down, with a great silver wing above her, shielding her from the glare of the sun.

“Is she all right?” That was Sloane’s voice, she thought dimly. Sloane—how had he got there?

The pillow under her head moved a little; it wasn’t a pillow, it was someone’s arm. Jim said: “I think so.”

“Miss Shore, it’s all right. You’re safe. It’s all over.”

She wouldn’t open her eyes. But she put out her hand and Jim took it and held it to his face.

“Eden—”

“It was Noel.” She thought she was shouting it. But Jim said: “What did you say, Eden? I can’t understand—”

“It was Noel.” She made an immense effort to explain and said: “Noel.”

“Yes, Eden. I know. Sloane knows now. You can tell him about it later.”

There was a long silence. Then she made another effort and said:

“Dorothy—told—?”

“Dorothy; yes. She had lied about his alibi; he got up while Sloane was at the piano, walked out the window and came back—afterward. He wasn’t gone long; only Dorothy saw him. She had faith in him in spite of what she had seen. She—poor Dorothy—”

“She protected him?”

“Yes. Until she realized that—that he’d lied to her when he made love to her. Until she heard us talking there in the hall this morning. That was what she wanted to tell me. But she had no chance to tell me until we came back to the house. Just now. And you were gone, and Noel, and we remembered that Strevsky had repaired the plane. So we got here. In time.”

“Was that how you knew?”

“No. Eden—don’t talk—just let me hold you. Oh, my dear—”

“I must know, Jim. What happened?”

There was a short silence. Then his voice: “Sloane—I was riding beside him; it was as we rode out to Wilson. He had me come up beside him so we could talk. And he—Eden, he asked one question. It was queer. Like a searchlight. He said: ‘Why did you make the trial flight so early in the morning?’ I said, ‘On account of the weather reports; showers.’ He said, ‘And did it storm?’ I said, ‘No; it was clear all day.’ And he—he said, Eden, ‘Who got the weather reports?’ And I remembered it was Noel; he kept going to the telephone the night before. That was when we decided to make the flight early, before the storm. And then we—we looked at each other. And Sloane said, ‘Anybody who fixed the engine would have to make sure the engine had no chance to heat up before the plane was in the air.’ He said, if the flight took place late in the day, the engine would likely have been started and tuned up a dozen times and the heat would have melted the wax; or some mechanic would have discovered the break. But the flight had to take place early, Sloane said. And I saw it, too. But we—we had to explore it. It could have been Noel in your room last night; that would have been simple—all he had to do was throw the coat and hatchet down the back stairway and turn around and run back and ‘rescue’ you. The only reason we could see for that was because he was afraid, all along, that you had seen or heard something in the cabin when Creda was killed; you said you saw a face, all of us heard the sheriff tell you to try to remember. He, Noel, must have been frantic to know exactly what you saw, exactly what you thought, and whether or not you intended to tell it.”

“Yes,” said Eden, “yes.”

“I think he started something it was hard to finish; he built himself a Frankenstein; once he had stolen the plans and caused the crash he had to go on. Creda had seen him at the plant—she must have told him. Dorothy says he and Creda had had some kind of affair, trivial or I would have known it, a year or so ago. Creda would flirt with a snow man. And it meant, probably, nothing to Noel.”

Something out of a nightmare repeated itself in Eden’s memory.

“She thought he fixed the engine because of her. To free her from Bill.”

After a moment Jim said: “It’s queer. The net was of his own contriving. Charm—Noel always had that. It was like a mask. And like a weapon which he did not scruple to use. Oh, I don’t mean you; if you believed him you deserve to be disillusioned. Although,” said Jim grimly, “not this way.” He held her tight to him and added, “But I’m sorry about Dorothy. She—it’s not nice for her. Her face used to light up like a Christmas tree when he spoke to her.”

Presently Eden said soberly: “It had to be Noel. Creda wrote to him, telling him cold-blooded murder was too much and that—that you knew. She must have begun to write ‘Jim, believe me, knows something and they’—we all read it as if she were addressing you. Noel must have taken it from my pocket and added to it, deliberately trying to make them believe it was you.”

His arm tightened and lifted her so her head pressed against his shoulder.

“You didn’t believe it,” he said, his mouth close to her face. “Don’t talk, Eden. Nothing really matters now but you—us.”

Sloane’s voice came as if from some distant existence. It sounded tired but taut, too, with excitement. “Shall I send somebody for you with a car?”

“No—we’ll come. Later.”

Eden opened her eyes and turned to look and Jim pressed her firmly back into his arms so she could not see.

“It’s in the past, Eden,” he said. “Don’t look, don’t even think. They’ve all gone now,” he added presently. “After a while, we’ll walk back to the house. Sloane will want to know anything Noel told you. But don’t talk now. Except tell me—”