Hasty Wedding (25 page)

Cary, who had said childishly: “Promise to tell me, Dorcas, before they arrest you.”

Mirrors all around them watched. And Wait came back.

Instantly Dorcas knew there was something different about him, something that had not been there when he went away. She couldn’t have said in what subtle aspect he was different but she knew it and she said in a little gasp: “My mother——”

He gave her an absent glance. “We’ve got a little time to wait,” he said to the room at large but chiefly to the policemen. “You may as well sit down, Mrs Locke. You, too, Locke. It ought not to be long. O’Brien.”

“Yes sir.”

“You’ll see that Mrs Whipple is taken care of.”

“Oh yes, sir. Certainly.”

O’Brien turned around and went out the door. Dorcas’ hands were clutching into the edge of the divan; she said hoarsely: “You mustn’t bring my mother here. She had nothing to do with all this. It—It will kill her.”

Wait, this time, looked at her consideringly for a moment before he replied. “You underestimate her strength and her intelligence. She—she saw you return, you know, the night Drew was murdered. She managed very cleverly not to tell me.” He paused thoughtfully. Jevan was watching him with strained attention which had in it a tinge of knowledge. Did he know—did he guess—what was in the detective’s mind? “I may as well tell you what happened while we wait,” said the detective coolly. “Perhaps you can help me piece out the story——”

“Story”
said Willy burstingly, with his eyes bulging. “What do you mean?”

Wait gave him a disapproving look. “Exactly what I say.”

“But—but do you mean Mrs Whipple——”

“I’ll tell you what I mean,” said Wait. “And as I say, perhaps you can help.”

“Me? But I——”

“Go on, Wait,” said Jevan shortly.

Wait sat down, taking time to adjust himself comfortably, while Willy’s eyes bulged and he ran a finger nervously around his collar.

“All right,” said Wait. “There were some things I overlooked; some things that didn’t quite balance and at least two things to which I failed completely to give proper weight. Now,” he said simply, “I see that there had to be a third person in the scheme Drew and Pett had engaged upon. Neither man would have been at all likely to approach the other; Drew was not in any position to discover Pett’s embezzlement, for he was in no way associated with him. Indeed, one of the salient points of the case was the fact that Drew and Pett were associated because of only one person and that was Dorcas Locke. That their orbits, so to speak, touched at only one point and that point was Mrs Locke. Mrs Locke and, naturally, the people closest to her. Also what I now see was a real attempt to steal Pett’s reports later took place; it was a real attempt, not phony camouflage, because this third person realized that the instant Pett’s embezzlement came to light the whole story would come out too. And thus almost inevitably the truth of the murder——”

“The murder of—Drew?” said Jevan.

“And of Pett. But the murder of Drew—listen.” He paused, got up, prowled about the room for a moment and then said again: “Listen. You hear often of reconstructing the crime; let’s do a little reconstructing here and now. On the scene of the murder. To begin with let’s agree that the person in the kitchen was the murderer——”

“A woman,” said Willy. “There’s the lipstick on the cigarette——”

“Perhaps,” said Wait briefly. “Listen. That person, impatient to know the outcome of Drew’s last attempt to achieve their mutual end, has come to the apartment and entered, waiting in the kitchen, perhaps, trying to overhear. Drew naturally knows of it, having been in the kitchen to mix a drink, and the realization spurs him on. But he fails and Mrs Locke leaves. We’ve gone over this before. Well then. After Mrs Locke’s departure a quarrel takes place—each perhaps accuses the other of not having done his part. They are both bitterly disappointed, both perhaps have been drinking. In the end, however, Drew realizes that he has lost everything. And he …” He paused again, in deep thought. His voice had taken on during the last moment or two a kind of dreamy, musical quality; his eyes were almost mystic in their dark opacity; actually he was only drawing conclusions from results, adding well-recognized motives of human conduct together to make a sum which he already knew. Working backward slowly and ploddingly, yet with the sure tentacles of imagination and insight. He took up the small, mirrored cigarette box and looked into it dreamily as if it were a crystal ball and said: “Perhaps Drew demanded more money. Perhaps he realized that of the three conspirators he was the only one in actual need of money and that while both of the others had not only sufficient money to live on but also possible ways to get more money from Dorcas Whipple he had nothing. He had lost everything and thus had nothing more to lose. But they—both of them still had something. Yes, I think that’s the way he would reason. I think in the end he would say: ‘Look here—give me more money or I’ll tell Dorcas Whipple the whole story. Make Pett dip into her fortune again for money for me or I’ll tell her the whole dirty scheme. I can’t lose thereby, for I’ve already lost. But you can lose the money and the opportunity to get more, that you still have.’ Yes, he must have said that, for he was a stupid man. And it brought to its hearer instant, sharply clear and inescapable realization of the truth. For the truth was that Drew could not be permitted to live. So,” said Wait, looking into space, “he was not permitted to live. He was shot then and there…”

He stopped again. No one moved, perhaps no one breathed.

It was as if the room itself had become at last articulate, but articulate only to the sensitive ears of the man before them. In a moment he continued more certainly now, as the thing gained momentum. “Escape was easy. Locke came along later and we know what he did. But almost at once another realization became clear to that third person and that was that Pett was now a danger. For Pett balked at murder; Pett must have guessed what had happened, though probably, cowardly, he dodged the truth. And in the end Pett’s troublesome conscience got the better of him. He brought the reports which would show up his own embezzlement and thus certainly the conspiracy; for there were those checks to Drew to be accounted for. There was, as I say, the attempt to steal those reports and it failed. Pett was a danger. And then suddenly another danger developed and that was Elise—Drew’s wife—who might be supposed to know something of the plot. And Elise actually came to the Whipple house. It was a mistake on her part.

“She may have come simply to tell of what she must know in an effort to discover her husband’s murderer. She may have had a less admirable motive. Whatever her motive was (and we’ll know if she recovers) she was frightened away. No one knew exactly when she left; she may have been in the house for some time. It happened by a not extraordinary combination of circumstances that every one of the little inner circle of people close to Dorcas Locke was at the Whipple house that afternoon. Thus any one of them might have done it.”

“The green scarf …” It was Willy, white around the mouth and agitatedly twisting slender fingers, but still apparently helpful.

Wait’s dark eyes shot briefly toward him: “Showing that that interview took place in the house—somewhere less public, certainly, than the room in which Elise was told to wait. The house was quiet at that hour; the interview was easy enough to arrange and Elise was frightened away. And then Marcus Pett came, ready to unburden himself and—had to be killed. Silenced then and there as Drew was silenced. With Drew it was his own revolver—he kept it in the drawer of this table.” Wait touched the white table lightly. “Any of his acquaintances might have known it was there. With Pett it was a knife which, again, anyone long familiar with the Whipple house would have known where to find. And then next day Elise looms again as a danger. The police are trying to find her; Locke wants to find her; very well then, she must be found and silenced and the murderer must find her first. A personal notice appears in the paper——”

“I didn’t kill Drew,” cried Willy shrilly and Wait swerved around with an expression so suddenly savage that it seemed to check Willy, and repeated swiftly: “A personal notice appears which anyone may see and there’s a slip-up in Locke’s arrangements to come here. He is delayed and arrives later alone. And Elise mysteriously—how we may never know if she herself doesn’t live to tell us—but with a ruthlessness typical of everything we know of the murderer, is shot——”

“Wait,” broke in Jevan suddenly. “Wait, listen to me. You’ve left out motive. The obvious motive of money doesn’t apply. You are all wrong——”

“Money?” repeated Wait. His eyes all at once became opaque again and dreamy. He shook his head slowly. “No, Locke, you’re wrong. There’s a motive as old as the world. And as mad and ugly and tragic as a life warped by it may be. And that motive,” said Wait simply, “is jealousy…And a jealousy, a deep, grudging jealousy, nourished for years only upon itself, which is the worse because of a necessity always to hide itself. To veil itself in friendliness and affection. Never to come out, to remain hidden like a cancer, destroying secretly——”

Jevan was standing, his face like granite. “You’re all wrong, Wait! It’s a twisted, unnatural motive you’re suggesting. All this is only theory. You’ve no fact——”

“I have fact and I have proof. I have reason and logic. You’ve heard my reconstruction of the crime. Reason always needs facts as a basis; I had facts and I now also have the one key fact which links the others together. Circumstantial evidence,” said Wait, “and identification.”

Someone was coming up the stairs; there were footsteps and a murmur of voices in the corridor outside. Dorcas’ heart was in her throat; she looked at the door and then jerked back toward Wait as he spoke again.

“Money,” he said musically, two small rubies glowing deep in his eyes. “Money—and jealousy. Two of the simplest, strongest motives in the world. Mrs Locke, about a week ago you made a small purchase. After spending a lot of time on the subject I managed to trace it to you—the sales number appears on your charge account. At Field’s this time. The record of that purchase if brought against you during a trial for murder would almost certainly convict you; it was, indeed, such important evidence that I intended to save it for the trial; to keep it a secret until we were ready to use it and thus take the defense by surprise. I could not, however, discover that object in your possession and until I talked to your mother just now I had no way of knowing what you had done with it. Now I know that it was your custom——”

The door opened.

O’Brien looked in and caught Wait’s eyes and Wait stopped short and said: “All right.”

O’Brien’s face vanished. The policeman beside Dorcas, up to now a mute, rigid blue column, made a swift, barely perceptible movement and had a revolver in his hand and Cary Whipple came into the room. She was huddled in a fur coat and her blue eyes darted once around the room and fastened upon Wait, and a man followed her and stopped just beside her. Dorcas must have made some motion to go to her mother, for Jevan’s hand gripped her own and held her near him, and Sophie, too, had risen.

But no one spoke. For a strange, sharp instant or two they were all as still as so many wooden people. Then Wait said: “Mrs Locke. Answer me quickly, please.”

She tore her eyes from Cary to look at him. His voice was perhaps a little deeper than usual; otherwise she had no way of knowing how much he was staking upon her reply.

“Tell me what you did with the lipstick you bought at Field’s shortly before your marriage.”

“Lipstick?”

“Did you give it to anyone? As your mother says is your custom to give your dresses, suits——”

“I—don’t——” But suddenly she did remember. A new tube of lipstick and she hadn’t liked the shade of it and the night Ronald was killed …

That was as far as she got. For the man beside Cary leaned forward at once so his face jutted out into the light and he was the taxi driver; the first taxi driver; the one who had said Dorcas was not the woman he had brought to the Whipple house. He said now loudly: “That’s the woman. That one over there. In black,” he said and pointed at Sophie Whipple.

Dorcas always was to remember that. And she always was to remember the look in Sophie’s eyes as if all the hatred and envy in the world were distilled therein and allowed for the first time to show itself, seething.

“You,”
said Sophie with dreadful, cold clearness. “You always had everything! And I nothing but what you chose to give me. Living on your charity, taking what you gave me, despising you all——”

“Take her away,” said Wait.

It was long after midnight and the street before the Whipple house dark and quiet when a car came slowly to the gate and stopped. Willy drove it and Dorcas and Jevan were with him. Cary long ago had been brought back home.

Willy turned off the engine and they sat in silence, staring into the light lanes stretching ahead of them. Finally Willy sighed. “He must have recognized the lipstick the instant she took it out of her bag—he said he’d spent a lot of time having the lipstick analyzed that was on the cigarette she smoked in the kitchen.”

“Obviously,” said Jevan.

Dorcas said stiffly:

“But how did she dare come down in my green suit and show herself to the doorman and Wait?”

“It was no risk,” said Jevan. “She hadn’t been there, probably, often enough to be recognized; the doorman was new and she knew he hadn’t seen her that night. It was perfectly safe for her and yet, paradoxically, the very fact that she did it made her seem utterly and completely guiltless. As if, if she’d been guilty, she wouldn’t have dared.”

“And there never was anybody breaking into the house,” said Willy. “I suppose she figured the range of suspects was sort of limited and she’d better fix up something to indicate that there was somebody else in on the thing. Somebody outside. To divert suspicion, huh? A—a what-do-you-call-it expedient?”

“Sophie,” said Jevan a little dryly, “was nothing if not—expedient.”

Sophie, thought Dorcas, Sophie.

“But she really did try to get those reports. And Dorcas nearly caught her at it. And she made one slip when she left bloodstains on the towel after wiping the knife or washing her hands. She remembered later and washed the towel while the police were actually in the house. And calmly admitted it to Dorcas.”