Hasty Wedding (11 page)

Dorcas felt herself cringe. She did know what it meant. The
Call
specialized in love nests and murder was an added fillip.

Jevan said coolly: “There’s bound to be a certain amount of that kind of thing. Can’t be avoided.”

“Sophie, you were grand about that suit,” said Dorcas wearily. “The policemen were questioning——”

Sophie glanced at her once discerningly, accepted a cigarette and a light from Jevan and said, puffing for the light: “Good heavens, Dorcas, I knew you went to see Ronald. At least, I—well, when I took the suit to my own room this morning (she gave it to me last night, Jevan) I saw it was damp—knew you’d been out. Guessed it was to meet Ronald. Guessed—well, to tell the absolute truth, Dorcas, I had rather hoped you would manage to see Ronald before your wedding. Now don’t look at me like that, Jevan. It was only fair to Dorcas and fair to Ronald. I—well, I’m a little sentimental. And I did think we’d all been a little hard on Ronald. I even went so far as to hint to Dorcas it wouldn’t be a bad idea to see him.”

“What did you expect to come of such a meeting?” inquired Jevan.

Sophie shrugged. “Nothing. Dorcas wasn’t in love with Ronald. I thought—if I thought anything, really—it was a good time for her to discover it. But don’t credit me with sensible and psychological motives, for mainly I only wanted her to arrange somehow to see him if she wanted to. That’s all. And I’m sorry. Good God,” said Sophie, her smile vanishing so that all at once her pretty, well-bred face was pale and drawn. “Good God, I never dreamed of anything like this. Dorcas, did you—that is, could you——”

“Dorcas didn’t murder him, if that’s what you’re trying to say,” said Jevan shortly.

“Oh,” said Sophie. “Well, that’s good. So long as the police don’t think she did! Did they know you were there, Dorcas? Is that why they came——”

“No,” said Jevan. “They only knew that she had talked to him last night. They had a record of the telephone call he made to the number here. That’s all.”

“Oh,” said Sophie again. “Thank heaven for that. Did anybody see you entering or leaving the apartment?”

Dorcas did not reply, for just then someone came along the hall rather quietly. Jevan had not closed the door and yet so heavily carpeted was the wide hall that they did not hear Marcus’ footsteps until he reached the door. Were not, in fact, aware of his presence there until Dorcas became suddenly conscious of a lightish patch of something looming in the shadow of the doorway and looked up sharply and Jevan, quickly, followed her glance.

The patch became Marcus Pett’s handsome waistcoat. He came forward into the pool of light from the table lamp.

“May I come in?” he said jauntily after he was already in. “Cary’s resting. God, what a day! Is the paper there? May I see it? Jevan, my boy, I could do with a highball. There’s a little business I’d like to talk to you about.”

I
T WAS SOPHIE WHO
came to the rescue and guided Marcus away and downstairs. He went without much reluctance.

“It’s about my trustee’s report,” he said to Jevan. “Everything’s ready. I’ll turn the papers over to you any time. Tomorrow? Very well. It’s all ready. Your wife is a rich young woman, Jevan. But of course you know that. Yes, yes, Sophie. I’m coming. Wait till I kiss the bride. I didn’t get a chance to downstairs with all the people buzzing around.”

He kissed Dorcas with a flourish and went away, propelled suavely by Sophie.

Afterward Dorcas remembered her wedding dinner; served at the little table drawn up before the fire with its glow upon the lace and glimmering in the crystal and silver, with candlelight on the table and a low vase of red roses and Jevan’s eyes unfathomable beyond the glow of the candles.

Afterward, too, she remembered that they talked, in circles, of the murder. The detective did not telephone and did not come. About ten, however, there was a telephone call for Jevan. He returned from it looking pleased. “It was Willy,” he said but did not explain. “My bags have come; Bench put them in my room. Here’s something I want you to take.”

He had a glass of water and a capsule. “It’s a sedative. I got it from Cary.”

“But I——”

“Take it”

She took it, choking a little on the capsule. He stood a moment looking down at her. “That’s good,” he said, then abruptly, “Good night, Dorcas.”

He went away abruptly, too, closing the door firmly, and did not return.

All night long the wind and sleet continued intermittently. Now and then Dorcas roused to hear sleet beating gustily at the black windows. Morning was still cold and dark. Mamie brought her breakfast tray and a wool jacket.

“It s bitter cold out, Miss Dorcas.”

“Are the morning papers here?”

“Mr Jevan has them.” Mamie smiled. “It’s good to have a man in the house, Miss Dorcas. We would have called the police this morning when Bench found it but I thought of Mr Jevan and he was informed and said not to call the police.”

“When Bench found what?” said Dorcas, sitting up abruptly. The dishes on the tray clattered and Mamie grasped and steadied it swiftly.

“That the house was entered last night, of course. I thought Mr Jevan had told you.” She gave Dorcas a curious, swiftly withdrawn glance and went to close the windows.

“The house entered! What on earth do you mean, Mamie? A burglar?”

Mamie’s neatly striped blue shoulders lifted.

“Nobody knows. Nothing was taken. It was the little door in the back—the grade door beside the basement steps. Standing wide open this morning, it was. Wind and sleet blowing in and the whole house open to any tramp going by. It’s just a lucky thing we weren’t all murdered in our beds.”

“What did Mr Jevan do?” inquired Dorcas slowly.

Again the woman gave her a veiled, swiftly withdrawn glance. She replied: “He came right away and looked and said not to call the police. Nothing was missing that we could discover. There were some smudges of dirt on the floor that might have been footprints but nothing else.”

“Where is Mr Jevan now?”

“Having his breakfast, miss. Shall I——”

“No, no,” said Dorcas quickly. “That’s all, Mamie. Thank you.”

So began Friday, March thirteenth—a dark, stormy day with lights on all over the great gloomy house. With newspapers and telephone calls and the doctor coming to see Cary. With caterers’ men removing chairs and ferns; with servants cleaning and rearranging the vast, chilly rooms downstairs. With roses all over the house left over from the wedding and fully opened so their fragrance drifted along the halls. With Marcus Pett arriving shortly before lunch.

The telephone calls that day were the worst, although the newspapers were even then, subtly, beginning to change. One of the newspapers carried along with the story of Ronald’s murder and on the front page a paragraph stating that Mr and Mrs Jevan Locke, whose marriage had taken place the day following the murder, had not yet gone on their wedding trip; it observed without further conjecture that they had been questioned by the police.

That was one of the more conservative newspapers. Dorcas did not see the
Call.

But others did and went to telephones.

WHIPPLE HEIRESS HELD IN MURDER INQUIRY.
The headline from the paper repeated itself endlessly over telephone wires, and eventually, a little cautiously, friends began to telephone to the Whipple house. Cary’s friends mostly, and loyally, yet with inquiries that were beginning to be a little edged with something more—or less—than friendly anxiety. However, that day the main note struck was indignation.
WHIPPLE HEIRESS HELD IN MURDER INQUIRY:
it was preposterous, outrageous. Yet—had the police really refused to permit Dorcas and Jevan to go on their wedding trip? And if so, why?

Sophie took most of the telephone calls, coming away with a wry face and giving very brief messages to Cary. “Mrs Mortimer telephoned,” she would say. And that was all. After the first few times Cary did not question further.

Jevan might have been a hundred miles away for all Dorcas saw of him that morning. He did not come to her room; she heard nothing of or from him until about eleven, when Marcus arrived.

They were waiting, Mamie told her, in her father’s study. Dorcas roused from staring out at the leaden sky and thinking in deep, troubled circles, dressed in one of her trousseau gowns, a soft, leaf-green wool, and went down. Her mother’s door was closed; Sophie was nowhere to be seen. In the drawing room men in gray aprons were carrying out pots of ferns. She went along the narrow hall and, again, entered her father’s study. Marcus bobbed up quickly from his chair. “Good morning, my dear. Good morning.” Jevan rose and said nothing.

Somebody pushed forward a chair for her. On the table was a leather brief case, packed and bulging. Marcus said: “It’s right that you should be present, my dear. I’m turning over your affairs to your husband. From now on you are his responsibility, not mine. Ha, ha. Well, now, here we are. Here we are.”

He looked old and tired in the cruelly clear light above his head. The pouches under his eyes were heavy; his hands trembled a little as he fumbled among the papers.

“Your wife is a very rich woman, Jevan,” he went on. “Here are the reports of all transactions I have made in her name. Here is my power of attorney—no, that’s a list of securities. Well, anyway, it’s here somewhere.” He dropped the papers, fumbled in an inner pocket for thick eyeglasses and adjusted them.

Jevan looked quietly at Dorcas. “We had an uninvited caller last night.”

“Mamie told me.”

“Apparently nothing was taken. There was no point in calling the police.”

“Police,” said Marcus. “What’s all this? Do you mean the house was entered?”

“Only that, apparently. A little door in the back was found open this morning. It’s very rarely used. Nobody could remember when it was last used. Nothing was taken, however.”

“Good God,” cried Marcus, his eyes bulging. “Good heavens! Why should anyone enter the house and not take anything? I mean—good heavens, Jevan, you should get the police.”

“Why?”

“Why! Because that’s what the police are for. Protection. Good God——”

“But, Marcus, nothing was stolen. What complaint would we have? Besides, I didn’t want to call the police.”

“But the thing is so pointless, so——”

“That’s it,” said Jevan. “No point to it. The door is now closed and locked and we searched the place and found no one.” He smiled a little ruefully. “Searching this house is no small job. The cellars alone—I didn’t know it was such an enormous house, Dorcas. There are fruit cellars and wine cellars and storage rooms and coal cellars. The laundry chutes alone are big enough for elevators—or nearly. Your father certainly had his notions of comfort. Or ideas about families; you ought to have had a dozen or so brothers and sisters. Even then the house would be too big. Ever been on the third floor, Marcus?”

Marcus shook his head. He looked a little bored and, under the harsh light, gray and lined as if overnight the thin, cobwebby film of old age had fastened itself upon him. Jevan went on cheerfully:

“Besides the servants’ rooms there’s a couple of game rooms; furniture all sheeted; a piano in one room; a billiard table so big it will have to stay here until the house dissolves, for it could never be moved. Well, anyway, we searched the place and I hope to God we never have to live here, Dorcas, I thought I was doing fairly well for a rising young broker but I can’t keep up a place like this.”

“You won’t need to,” Marcus pointed out. “There’s all Dorcas’ money——”

“No, thank you,” said Jevan politely. “I support my wife. At least I supply her food and her roof. If she finds sable coats and star sapphires necessary to her existence she can go and buy them with her own money. But she eats my food and lives under a roof I can supply.”

“But, my dear boy!” Marcus was plainly aghast. “Here’s all this money. What are you going to do with it?”

“Turn it straight back to you. Form another trusteeship. Unless Dorcas wants to manage it herself.”

“Turn it——” Marcus dropped the papers in his hand and leaned back in his chair. His eyes bulged and his mouth opened. “Do you mean that, Jevan?”

“Certainly.”

“But Dorcas——”

“Dorcas has nothing to do with it.”

“But—but it’s her money.”

“She’s my wife. Unless she wants to manage the money herself. Do you, Dorcas?” he said directly.

“Yes,” said Dorcas. “No.”

“Huh,” said Marcus in a disorganized way.

Jevan smiled. “She means, I imagine, that she would have to learn. I can help her if she wants me to. But I’ll not take charge of her money and I’ll not use it and so far as I’m concerned you can simply take your papers back. Dorcas can go through them some day at her leisure. But in the meantime you’d better carry on. Right, Dorcas?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Dorcas a little reluctantly and Marcus jerked abruptly toward Jevan. “Carry on!” he cried sharply. “What do you mean?”

“It’s this business of Drew’s murder——”

“Unfortunate,” said Marcus, fingering his mustache. “Most unfortunate.”

“Well,” said Jevan dubiously. “I suppose you can call it that. At any rate you knew the police were here yesterday.”

“Yes.” He sat down.

“They are likely to come again. There’s no evidence, of course, that leads them to think either Dorcas or I had any—knew anything of the murder. There’s no reason, except the fact that we both knew him, to lead them to think that we can inform them of anything in his life or circumstances that would lead to the murderer.” He said it all coolly, very clearly, very definitely, and waited an instant for it to sink into Marcus’ troubled perceptions. “But nevertheless I think they’ll be back to question some more. It may be that for—oh, some time (until they find the murderer or get some line on him) we’ll be sort of preoccupied with the affair. I hope not. As soon as they let us, however, we’ll take our honeymoon trip. When we return Dorcas will examine all these reports. I’ll help her if she wants me to. But until then I think you’d better go on as usual. If you will. Does that suit you, Dorcas?”