Danger in the Dark (8 page)

Suppose he had left somewhere and somehow evidence that would enclose upon him like a net—suppose he had left such evidence, and this bloody thumbprint was the only real clue that existed. That he and Rowley between them had not destroyed. Their only testimony to the truth.

The only clue leading to the real murderer. What irony, again, it would be if he had destroyed that one saving clue with his own hands!

T
HE TROUBLE WAS THAT
someone was moving about in the kitchen or somewhere in the back part of the house.

There was not time to think, to follow the several possibilities involved to their logical and several ends.

Dennis himself had never been adverse to risks, although he had, too, a solid strain of shrewd common sense, so he was not really a gambler.

But it wasn’t Rowley, it wasn’t himself; it was Daphne who made it important. Daphne who made it impossible for him to take the risk.

And he must hurry.

So he took out his handkerchief and was about to rub out that smudged thumbprint when he thought of the thing to do. It would be noticed, of course, but no one could say when or how it happened. And there would be no possible way, Dennis thought, of tracing it to him.

His knife was in his pocket and the wood was soft below successive layers of paint. The noise it made seemed horribly loud, but it was not a difficult thing to do except that his hands shook a little with the need for haste. But in a moment he had it; a small slice of the wood with the bloody thumbprint intact. It left, to be sure, a jagged, unpainted scar on the soft ivory spindle just below the banister. But he assured himself that, although they would be certain to notice it at once, still there was no way at all to trace it to him. And he had the fingerprint.

It was with a strong sense of again having averted a catastrophe that he put the thing in his pocket. If it was his own or Rowley’s thumbprint, then the truth that so horribly involved Daphne would not be brought out by its discovery.

But if it was a clue leading to the murderer, then he had it. Preserved; intact; at hand in case of later need.

He saw no one and heard nothing on the way through the twisting upper hall to his room. He undressed, disarranged the bed to look as if it had been slept in and flung himself down upon it. The possession of that one bit of real and material evidence—always providing it was evidence, and he thought it was—gave him an increasing sense of safety. Of holdings in reserve.

But it held its own significance, too.

It was rather horrible to realize that those small reddish lines could be translated into—good God, into a murderer. Suppose, eventually, they looked at it and said, “This is Gertrude’s thumbprint,” or “This is Johnny’s,” or “This is Amelia’s.”

He had again a wave of incredulity and of revulsion. And again a wish to destroy it.

But he didn’t, although he didn’t know exactly what he would do with it.

And he didn’t, then, give full thought to the extreme and dangerous importance that thumbmark might possess.

He was groggy with fatigue. Well, in an hour or two now, it would begin. He went to sleep and dreamed that the thumbprint turned out to be Daphne’s and Rowley was telling someone about it.

At seven, as it came out later during the inquiry, Laing, and Mrs Laing, the cook, and Maggie, the middle-aged housemaid who was Mrs Laing’s niece, crossed from the garage to the house through unbroken snow, opened the back door with Laing’s key, entered the house and went direct to the kitchen.

Breakfast was to be at eight, and because the wedding was set for twelve and there was not much time for all that was to be done before the caterers arrived at ten, a family breakfast was to be served in the dining room. This was contrary to Amelia’s usual custom, for she was a sensible woman and a firm believer in breakfast trays as contributing to family amenity. But that morning only Daphne was permitted a tray and Maggie, a stolid soul, preoccupied with an obscure liver complaint, brought it to Daphne, lighted a fire and opened the curtains and did not give the white-faced girl a second look.

It was a family breakfast, but it was not promptly attended. In fact, only Gertrude, Amelia herself and Johnny Haviland turned up.

At eight-thirty Laing and Maggie went to dust the small library which had been left to the last. All the other rooms were in a state of incredible neatness and shininess and—even to the flowers which had been arranged just after dinner the previous night—ready for the wedding. But the library had been used all along as an informal sitting room and workroom, and in it all the confusion of last-minute arrangements had accumulated. Belated wedding gifts, boxes, tissue paper, lists—a long table littered with odds and ends. On it, among other things, three long boxes of thick white envelopes, already addressed and stamped and ready to be put in the mail that day.

Laing opened the door. The curtains were still drawn, and there was a lingering odor of stale smoke from the night before and on one small table a forgotten and sticky liqueur glass. Maggie went to open the curtains; Laing himself approached the long table where wedding presents stood and winked and glittered. First he saw that, curiously, some silver candlesticks, a silver tray or two, and several other objects he could not remember but which impressed him even then as being the most valuable of the lot, were heaped together on the floor. Then curtains rattled lightly on their rings, and a path of light went across the floor and struck upon a sort of huddle that lay half in the doorway that led into the drawing room and half in the drawing room.

Laing didn’t know exactly what happened next, or when he recognized it as being the body of a man. But all at once he was bending over it, and it was Benjamin Brewer, and Maggie was screaming.

It was that scream that brought them in from the dining room. It was that scream that brought Dennis Haviland awake and to his senses and hurrying down the stairs in a bathrobe. It brought Rowley at last out of his own room—fully clothed, precise, remarkably cool in the face of the almost unbelievable confusion downstairs.

Daphne, desperately drinking black coffee upstairs, seeing herself in the mirror opposite—white and taut, with black marks under altogether sleepless eyes—did not hear Maggie’s scream because her room was at the very end of the south L.

All night, in that ceaseless, stabbing whirl of questions there had been one that was immediate, that was something to be faced. It was: When would they tell her? When would they discover that there was to be no wedding? All those other seething questions were to have their hours of urgency, too. But just then, forcing herself to drink hot black coffee, it was, When?

And she must face it so they would not guess. Dennis had had his way; he’d made the decision for her. She knew of no better course than to follow the one he had laid out for her. She didn’t know exactly what Dennis and Rowley had done except that Dennis seemed assured and satisfied that it was right and best. But during those night hours she had seen the force of Rowley’s argument. And she had seen other things.

Ben had been murdered. There was no weapon. Then who had murdered him?

She poured more coffee, spilling it.

And they sent, at last, Johnny Haviland to tell her.

At first view of his face she knew why he had come. He stood in the doorway hesitating, looking at her with his light blue eyes anything but jolly, his fair, handsome face no longer pink, his wavy, light hair disheveled—looking, for the first time in his life, perhaps, his full fifty-five years. He did not seem to see that there was already something amiss. He closed the door and walked toward her heavily—not gracefully and youthfully as usual. He sat down on the bed and looked at her and jingled keys in his pocket nervously.

“Daph,” he said, “there’s something—something very bad. I mean—it’s about Ben.”

Seeing his distress, she had a quick impulse to tell him she already knew—to put her head on his shoulder and sob out the story of the night. Last night, as he had dealt out cocktails and jokes and compliments, Rowley had looked at him and smiled and said, “Johnny was born to be the father of the bride.”

The father of the bride. Escorting her on his sleekly tailored arm to that altar of flowers.

“Daph,” he said, his mouth trembling a little below that small trim blond mustache. “Daph—did you love Ben? Because he—well, there was a robbery last night. That is, an attempted one. It—well, it seems that Ben heard the noise or something and—and went downstairs and they—”

“Ben!” said Daphne.

“He’s hurt,” said her father, watching her. “He’s dead, Daphne. They’ve sent for the police.”

She couldn’t look into his eyes. He knew her too well: he would see too much. Her gaze fixed itself on a corner of the yellow satin eiderdown; a round braid binding turned itself in an S curve, and she was always to remember it. It and the sharp little ticks of the old Seth Thomas clock with the yellow face that stood on the mantel. Outside, the snow had stopped falling at last. On the little slipper chair was the yellow dress, its train draggled and still damp. She must hide the dress, she thought suddenly: Dennis had said there must be nothing to show that she had been out in the snow during the night. A night when, he had also said, every single event would have a significance.

Johnny looked at her, cleared his throat huskily and rose and went to the window, where he stood staring out upon the dreary, gray morning and jingling the keys in his pocket.

“The police are on the way now,” he said. “They will be here any time. Gertrude thinks there is likely to be quite a lot of inquiry. Though the thing seems clear enough—I mean, the robbery. All that. But she thinks the police will question us all.”

“Yes,” said Daphne, tracing the yellow curve of braid with her finger.

“It’s hell downstairs,” said Johnny worriedly. “You’d better stay up here, Daph. Maybe the police won’t ask for you at all. We’ll tell them it’s been a shock to you.” He stopped and mused and said, “Gertrude’s wild. Telephoning—she said to tell you she’d stopped the account of the wedding in everything but one edition of the papers. She got hold of Mrs Beely in town and gave her the list of guests, and she’s doing all the telephoning she can. God, what a mess!” He checked himself abruptly, said, “You’re taking it well, my dear. I’m proud of you,” but didn’t look at her.

He knew, though; he must have known in his heart that she’d never loved Ben. But he hadn’t known any more than that; and she must talk, say something, ask questions. “What happened?” she said. “I mean, when did they discover it—how…”

He told her. “… And do you know what Gertrude said when she heard Ben was dead?” he finished. “Well, she just stood there and looked at Laing, with her eyes popping out and her face sort of purple, and she said, ‘Thank God.’ Just like that. ‘Thank God.’ I was pretty upset myself; couldn’t believe Laing—shock, you know. And then Gertrude said, ‘Thank God.’ Meant it, too—in spite of all the complications of the wedding. Well, he’s out of the company now.”

He got out a cigarette and lighted it, his perfectly tailored shoulders a graceful silhouette against the window. “It’s hell downstairs,” he repeated. “Nobody knows what to do. Dennis phoned for the police finally. Funny,” said Johnny reflectively, looking out the window. “Funny nobody else heard anything. Not even the shot.”

Someone knocked purposefully. Johnny gave a convulsive little start and said “Gertrude” under his breath, and Gertrude entered.

“My dear!” she said. “So Johnny’s told you. Well, there’s nothing I can say, I’m sure. You know how I felt about Ben—although heaven knows I wouldn’t have had this happen. Today of all days,” said Gertrude, wheezing; and closed the door sharply behind her. She was a thick, robust, authoritative woman, younger than Johnny by perhaps two years and with his blond hair and light blue eyes, but altogether without his grace and vivacity. She wore a bright blue knitted dress, and the excitement had brought on her asthma, so her large, tightly restrained bosom heaved and she pressed both wide hands upon it. Her fine light hair was askew under its net, and her eyes, usually slow and blank, were shining like glass.

Daphne shrunk a little as she advanced briskly.

“Now, Johnny,” she went on, decisively, “I hope you broke it to Daphne as gently as possible. Don’t be troubled about any of the arrangements, Daphne. I’ve seen to everything. Even to calling Dr Lonergan to tell him there would be no wedding.” She paused and said in an absent way, “He was very shocked. Really quite upset. Well, of course, it’s a most unusual thing—three hours before the ceremony. But there, I came to see about you, Daphne. I’m afraid the police will want to see you; I think you’d better get up and dress.”

Johnny turned from the window and said. “But we—”

Gertrude interrupted instantly: “No, Johnny, I’m afraid we can’t. They’ll want to see her, I’m sure—and after all it isn’t as if—well, I mean to say—Well, anyway, don’t you think you’d better see them if they ask for you, Daphne?”

Gertrude’s glittering eyes were traveling about the room. In another second she would note the stain on the yellow dress. Daphne sat up quickly.

“I’ll get dressed at once,” she said, clutching the yellow eiderdown around her rumpled little nightgown. “I’ll hurry.”

Gertrude’s eyes leaped to her at once. She’d spoken too hastily, too eagerly, thought Daphne. But Gertrude was never very quick in perception, although her slow suspicions, once roused, were extraordinarily stubborn.

Johnny, however, turned quickly from the window.

“That’s a good girl,” he said rapidly and in a relieved way. “That’s my girl. Keep a—er—stiff upper lip. She’ll be all right, Gertrude.” He came over to Daphne, still rattling the keys in his pocket, and kissed her lightly. “Come along, Gertrude. We’d better get back downstairs again. Be there when they arrive.” He took Gertrude’s firm arm and turned her toward the door.

And as Gertrude, always reluctant under pressure, disappeared, Johnny looked back at Daphne.

“You—you are all right, aren’t you, honey?”

“Yes.”