Hasty Wedding (10 page)

His voice was rough suddenly, as if he forced himself to speak. He was frowning, scrutinizing his cigarette absorbedly.

“But I …” she began and again fumbled vaguely about the matter of the cigarette, again failed to discover whatever significance it seemed obscurely to have, and he went on, cutting into her denial.

“Then I—I picked up his hand and—put his own fingerprints on the revolver and left it there beside him.”

“Jevan——”

“Yes. So you see, I thought I got everything. But I must have missed something. Tell me, what did I miss? What evidence do they have against you?”

“I didn’t kill him, I told you that. I was there but——”

He looked at her again, quickly and keenly; suddenly he tossed his cigarette into the grate and got up and went to her and took her hands.

“Look at me, Dorcas. Say that again. Tell me the truth.” He paused and then said more gently: “It doesn’t matter. He—he wasn’t worth good lead. But I must know. You’re my wife, you know.”

Something in his eyes questioned her more deeply and more poignantly than his words. He waited and she didn’t reply because again, horribly, Ronald’s flushed face and bright eyes—Ronald as she had seen him last—came between them.

Jevan’s face stiffened a little. He said again but in a different voice, a little grimly, a little dryly, “You’re my wife, you know. I can’t have you charged with murder. But I must know the truth.”

S
LEET SWISHED AGAINST THE
windows. Little blue and red points of flame hissed gently. Below, the great door was opening, closing—opening, closing. Cars were departing thickly now and there was the soft throb of engines and the murmur of low gears, blurred by the wind and sleet. Jevan would stand by her.

He would know what to do and would do it; without questioning she accepted that.

Well, then she’d better tell him.

So she did, briefly; making it a bald, bare little recital with no attempt to justify either her own impulse or her own failure adequately to meet the situation Ronald had thrust upon her.

Midway in her story Jevan got up and prowled about the room, winding up at a window where he pulled the curtain aside and stared out into the storm and darkness while her small voice went on and on, threading its way among the spaces of the big, quiet room, threading its way, too, through the ugly little tale—ugly and, now, touched with the macabre.

Stripped of every possible word, it did not make a fine story. Wouldn’t have made that in any event, for she did not come out of it with flying colors.

“…and then the telephone rang,” she said. “And when he went to answer it I—went away. There was a taxi at the corner of Lake Shore Drive and I took it and came home.”

Jevan waited a moment as if she had not yet finished and then said rather roughly: “Is that all?”

She nodded, staring at the fire. Downstairs, during her barren, unadorned little tale, the continual opening and closing of the door and the throbbing rhythm of departing cars had gradually died away.

Jevan let the curtain drop, went to the table and took a cigarette from a box there, lighted it and without a glance at Dorcas went to the fireplace and put his elbow on the mantel. He seemed very tall to Dorcas, looking up at him from her deep chair. The little points of light made a glow on his face but she could read nothing in his expression. The cigarette was half finished before he spoke. He said then:

“I’ll have to ask you some questions.”

“I’ve told you everything.”

“Yes, I know. But—well, first I think we’d better get this straight. It will simplify things. Did you love Ronald?”

Had she? His voice demanded complete honesty.

“I don’t know. I suppose I thought I did—or I felt sorry for him. But—but now—I don’t know. Last night——”

“Well?” The word was short and sharp and still he didn’t look at her.

“Oh, I don’t know. I was confused. I——”

“Did you consider eloping with him as he suggested?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I—couldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because——”

“Well?”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” she cried, throwing out her hands in a desperate little gesture which was like a plea for mercy. He said nothing and she cast about in her mind for reasons and there were many. “The wedding was all arranged. I couldn’t let my mother down like that. Or—or you.”

This time his eyes flickered her way quickly, lingered for an instant and then went back to the fire.

“Oh, I see. The wedding was arranged and, after all, you did have a nice picture of yourself going down the aisle in white satin and all your bridesmaids around you. And you didn’t want to let your mother down. Yes, I see. That would have been difficult. Otherwise you might have considered Ronald’s neat suggestion. Is that right?”

“No! No; you are unfair. I—there wasn’t time to analyze. You have no right to question me!”

“Oh, don’t I!” He threw away the cigarette and turned abruptly and came to stand over her. He looked angry; there was a flash of smothered violence in his eyes. “Don’t I! You’re my wife. I have a right to ask if you were in love with another man. If you’re still in love with him——”

“Poor Ronald,” said Dorcas unexpectedly. “He’s dead——”

“That doesn’t matter. Listen to me. When he made love to you——”

“Don’t. I’ve told you because I—I thought you’d help me.”

“Yes, I know that’s why you told me. Sheer instinct for self-preservation on your part. And it hurts you to be questioned but I’m going to continue to be a brute and ask you questions. When Ronald made love to you—even then didn’t you weaken? Didn’t you forget even for an instant the fine wedding that was planned? Didn’t you just for a moment, in his arms,” said Jevan coolly, “forget your handsome wedding?”

“Don’t,”
she cried again sharply and put her face in her hands.

He waited and as she didn’t answer he said more gently: “Are you grieving for Ronald? Is that it?”

“No. No, I—oh, please don’t. I’m tired. This is horrible. His murder—who could have done it? Who could have murdered him? Why? He had no enemies…”

She felt Jevan turn again and walk away to stand before the fire. He said presently: “Who indeed? I suppose we’d better consider that, hadn’t we? After all, to keep our own heads out of the noose ought to be our first consideration. If we succeed in doing that there’ll be plenty of time later for—other things. Who did murder Ronald? Try to remember everything, Dorcas…Was there anything at all during the time of your—visit—in his apartment that struck you as being a little out of the ordinary? Unusual in any way, I mean. Even in his behavior or in anything he said?”

She thought back wearily; she had told him everything. “There was my impression that—that there was whispering in the kitchen. It was only an impression. And again I had the feeling that there was something in the apartment—someone besides us. It—there was no reason for my feeling. I saw no one. Except the door moved——”

He whirled around. “You didn’t tell me that. What about the door? What do you mean?”

She told him; there wasn’t much to tell because it was so slight an impression. He frowned into space and did not comment and she went on to another dimly noted, vaguely remembered circumstance. “And there was a car. A car passed us when we left the house. It went slowly and when I returned later there was a car just leaving. At least I had an impression it was just leaving. There was a car, too, just behind us when we drove up to the apartment house. That’s why the doorman left so quickly—I thought he left us before he could possibly have seen me.”

He did not seem interested in the car but he roused to question her at length about the doorman. About the telephone. Ronald had thrust it over the edge of the table, had he? It had fallen on the floor? Had Ronald answered it? She didn’t know.

“Is there nothing else, Dorcas? Think.”

“Nothing.”

“Where’s the nearest telephone? Is there one upstairs? I don’t want anyone to overhear.”

“In my room. I’ll show you——”

“Never mind. I know.”

The door closed behind him. Downstairs all was silent. She thought of the empty, lighted rooms, servants clearing away. Sleet and wind and darkness outside. Away off in town Ronald’s apartment was dark now too. With the mirrors veiled and empty.

Who had murdered him? What motive could anyone have had?

The little sigh of the gas flames filled the room gently, soothingly. She put her head back against the chair. There was no use thinking.

Mamie knocked and came into the room.

“I’ll fix the table for your dinner, if you please, Miss Dorcas. Mr Jevan said——”

“Yes, Mamie.”

She had brought a small lace cloth, napkins, a tray of silver.

“Your mother’s gone to bed,” she volunteered. “Mr Pett talked to her a long time; he was real sensible; made her feel better. I think she’s going to rest now.”

“That’s good.”

“Yes, Miss Dorcas. Is there anything——”

“No, thank you, Mamie.”

Jevan came into the room again with the evening paper, still rolled and wet, under his arm.

“That’s right, Mamie,” he said, unrolled the paper and spread it out flat on a footstool near the fire. Dorcas’ eyes went to the headlines as if magnetized.

“It’s all here,” said Jevan, reading. “They’ve been rather kind on the whole. Not a mention of your name. No evidence, no implication at all, in fact. Something about this man Wait—says he’s new to the Chicago detective force, came here from Wrexe County recently. Oh, here we are…” He stopped abruptly to read some particular paragraph over and over again slowly, frowning as he did so. Mamie went quietly away. And presently, without further comment he gave the paper to Dorcas and sat there smoking, looking thoughtfully at the fire.

She shrank from it and yet must read it. The account, as Jevan said, did not even hint at her own implication in the affair. What was the paragraph he had read and reread so intently?

There were pictures accompanying it: Ronald, handsome face in profile; photographs of the apartment—one of a room with deep, modern white furniture and mirrors, a room that was dreadfully familiar. She searched it, holding her breath, driven by a horrible need, for evidences of her own presence. There was the divan, there the table, there the white paneled door. He’d been murdered, then, in that very room. And Jevan had said her cigarette was still smoking when he arrived.

The telephone was on the floor. She sought for it, too, and found it in a tangle of wires at the base of the table. Below the picture was a paragraph: “…telephone flung to the floor was one of the reasons, Mr Wait admits, which led to his conclusion that the death of the socially prominent young man was not suicide as was at first reported. An autopsy leads the police to believe the murder was committed between nine o’clock and midnight. Fingerprints on the revolver were found to be those of the dead man but were so smudged and in such a position on the revolver that the police believe they were placed there deliberately by the murderer. Mr Wait refused to be interviewed at length but did say that the whole setup looked ‘phony’ and that the position of the telephone on the floor indicated either that some kind of struggle took place previous to the murder or that Mr Drew was endeavoring to summon help when the fatal shot occurred.”

“There’s no mention of a woman in a green suit,” said Jevan abruptly.

Dorcas looked up quickly; he was watching her, waiting for her to finish reading.

“No.”

“No mention of the man who came later—that’s me—no mention of the doorman. Looks very much as if Wait’s news items were hand-picked by Wait. As if his real evidence is being kept secret.”

Slowly she put down the paper. The photograph of the room in Ronald’s apartment was uppermost and she turned it over, face downward on the carpet, so she could no longer see it.

“You’ve asked me questions,” she said. “I have two to ask.”

“Very well. I know one of them: What was I doing in Ronald’s apartment? That’s it, isn’t it? I see it is. Well …” He leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees and looking straight at her. “Suppose I don’t answer it?”

“Why won’t you answer?”

“I’ll answer the question behind it. I didn’t murder Ronald. He’s small loss; I don’t think it would trouble my conscience much if I had. But I didn’t. Now your other question.”

She leaned forward this time, linking her hands despairingly upon her slender, satin-covered knee.

“Do you believe I murdered him?”

He looked at her quickly, looked away, waited at least a moment before replying and then said: “I don’t care.”

“You——”

“I don’t care. He was …” He hesitated. A note of something chill and hard came into his voice. “He was thoroughly rotten. He needed shooting. I don’t care whether you killed him or not. What I want to know—what I must know—is something else. Something that concerns only——”

There was a knock at the door. Jevan listened, got up as if rather thankful for the interruption than otherwise and went to the door. It was Sophie. Jevan pulled up a chair for her, too, and she sank into it wearily.

“The legs,” she said, “are exhausted. I’ve walked a thousand miles today and old Mrs Mortimer dug one of her sharp heels into my instep. Everything all right, Dorcas? I told Mamie to fix these rooms. A reporter was on the telephone just now; said they understood your wedding trip was postponed and wanted the rumor confirmed. I told him there was no change in your plans at all. He didn’t believe me of course. Said he’d found that your reservations had been made for today and were not canceled but that you didn’t leave.” She sighed.

“What did you say?” asked Jevan.

“There wasn’t anything to say. I repeated, said there was no change in your plans and hung up. And I hadn’t more than put down the receiver when another one called and said the same things except he—well,” said Sophie reluctantly, “he had whatever it took to ask if the delay in your departure wasn’t due to the Drew murder investigation. I said no and hung up again. But God knows what the papers will have. The second one was from the
Call.
And you know what that means.”