The Cases of Susan Dare (23 page)

Duane caught the flicker of Susan’s eyes. He was near her now, so near that he could have touched her. He cried:

“It’s you that’s done this! You that advised her! You were on his side! Well—” He’d reached the door now, and there was nothing they could do. He was gloating openly, the way of escape before him. In an excess of dreadful triumphant excitement, he cried: “I’ll shoot you first—it’s too bad, when you are so pretty. But I’m going to do it.” It’s the certainty, thought Susan numbly; Idabelle is so certain that Derek is the other one that Duane knows it, too. He knows there’s no use in going on with it. And he knew, when I said what I said about the pearls, that I know.

She felt oddly dizzy. Something was moving. Was she going to faint—was she—something
was
moving, and it was the door behind Duane. It was moving silently, very slowly.

Susan steeled her eyes not to reveal that knowledge. If only Idabelle and Derek would not move—would not see those panels move and betray what they had seen.

Duane laughed.

And Derek moved again, and Idabelle tried to thrust him away from her, and Duane’s revolver jerked and jerked again, and the door pushed Duane suddenly to one side and there was a crash of glass, and voices and flashing movement. Susan knew only that someone had pinioned Duane from behind and was holding his arms close to his side. Duane gasped, his hand writhed and dropped the revolver.

Then somebody at the door dragged Duane away; Susan realized confusedly that there were police there. And Jim Byrne stood at her elbow. He looked unwontedly handsome in white tie and tails, but very angry. He said:

“Go home, Sue. Get out of here.”

It was literally impossible for Susan to speak or move. Jim stared at her as if nobody else was in the room, got out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead with it.

“I’ve aged ten years in the last five minutes,” he said. He glanced around. Saw Major Briggs’s body there on the floor—saw Idabelle Lasher and Derek—saw the fortune teller and the bellboy.

“Is that Mrs. Jeremiah Lasher over there?” he said to Susan.

Mrs. Lasher opened her eyes, looked at him, and closed them again.

Jim looked meditatively at a revolver in his hand, put it in his pocket, and said briskly:

“You can stay for a while, Susan. Until I hear the whole story. Who shot Major Briggs?”

Susan’s lips moved and Derek straightened up and cried:

“Oh, it’s my revolver all right. But I didn’t kill Major Briggs—I don’t expect anyone to believe me, but I didn’t.”

“He didn’t,” said Susan wearily. “Duane killed Major Briggs. He killed him with Derek’s revolver, perhaps, but it was Duane who did the murder.”

Jim did not question her statement, but Derek said eagerly:

“How do you know? Can you prove it?”

“I think so,” said Susan. “You see, Duane had a revolver when I danced with him. It was in his pocket. That’s when I phoned for you, Jim. But I was too late.”

“But how—” said Jim.

“Oh, when Duane accused Derek, he actually described the way he himself murdered Major Briggs and concealed himself and the revolver in the folds of the tent until the room was full of people and he could quietly mingle with them as if he had come from the hall. We were all staring at Major Briggs. It was very simple. Duane had got hold of Derek’s revolver and knew it would be traced to Derek and the blame put upon him, since Derek had every reason to wish to revenge himself upon Major Briggs.”

Idabelle had opened her eyes. They looked a bit glassy but were more sensible.

“Why—” she said—“why did Duane kill Major Briggs?”

“I suppose because Major Briggs had backed him. You see,” said Susan gently, “one of the claimants had to be an impostor and a deliberate one. And the attack upon Major Briggs last night suggested either that he knew too much or was a conspirator himself. The exact coinciding of the stories (particularly clever on Major Briggs’s part) and the fact that Duane turned up after Major Briggs had had time to search for someone who would fulfill the requirements necessary to make a claim to being your son, seemed to me an indication of conspiracy; besides, the very nature of the case involved imposture. But there had to be a conspiracy; someone had to tell one of the claimants about the things upon which to base his claim, especially about the memories of the baby things—the calico dog,” said Susan with a little smile, “and the plush teddy bear. It had to be someone who had known you long ago and could have seen those things before you put them away in the safe. Someone who knew all your circumstances.”

“You mean that Major Briggs planned Duane’s claim—planned the whole thing? But why—” Idabelle’s eyes were full of tears again.

“There’s only one possible reason,” said Susan. “He must have needed money very badly, and Duane, coming into thirty millions of dollars, would have been obliged to share his spoils.”

“Then Derek—I mean Dixon—I mean,” said Idabelle confusedly, clutching at Derek, “this one. He really is my son?”

“You know he is,” said Susan. “You realized it yourself when you were under emotional stress and obliged to feel instead of reason about it. However, there’s reason for it, too.
He is Derek
.”

“He—is—Derek,” said Idabelle catching at Susan’s words. “You are sure?”

“Yes,” said Susan quietly. “He is Derek. You see, I’d forgotten something. Something physical that never changes all through life. That is, a sense of rhythm. Derek has no sense of rhythm and has never had. Duane was a born dancer.”

Idabelle said: “Thank God!” She looked at Susan, looked at Derek, and quite suddenly became herself again. She got up briskly, glanced at Major Briggs’s body, said calmly: “We’ll try to keep some of this quiet. I’ll see that things are done decently—after all, poor old fellow, he did love his comforts. Now, then. Oh, yes, if someone will just see the manager of the hotel about my pearls—”

Susan put a startled hand to her gardenias.

“I’d forgotten your pearls, too. Here they are.” She fumbled a moment among the flowers, detached a string of flowing beauty, and held it toward Idabelle. “I took them from Duane while we were dancing.”

“Duane,” said Idabelle. “But—” She took the pearls and said incredulously: “They
are
mine!”

“He had taken them while he danced with you. During the next dance you passed me, and I saw that your neck was bare.”

Jim turned to Susan.

“Are you sure about that, Susan?” he said. “I’ve managed to get the outline of the story, you know. And I don’t think the false claimant would have taken such a risk. Not with thirty millions in his pocket, so to speak.”

“Oh, they were for the Major,” said Susan. “At least, I think that was the reason. I don’t know yet, but I think we’ll find that he was pretty hard pressed for cash and had to have some right away. Immediately. Duane probably balked at demanding money of Mrs. Lasher so soon, so the Major suggested the pearls. And Duane was in no position to refuse the Major’s demands. Then, you see, he had no pearls because I took them; he and the Major must have quarreled, and Duane, who had already foreseen that he would be at Major Briggs’s mercy as long as the Major lived, was already prepared for any opportunity to kill him. After he had once got to Idabelle, he no longer needed the Major. He had armed himself with Derek’s revolver after what must have seemed to him a heaven-sent chance to stage an accident had failed. Mrs. Lasher’s decision removed any remaining small value that the Major was to him and made Major Briggs only a menace. But I think he wasn’t sure just what he would do or how—he acceded to the Major’s demand for the pearls because it was at the moment the simplest course. But he was ready and anxious to kill him, and when he knew that the pearls had gone from his pocket he must have guessed that I had taken them. And he decided to get rid of Major Briggs at once, before he could possibly tell anything, for any story the Major chose to tell would have been believed by Mrs. Lasher. Later, when I said that the police would search the room, he knew that I knew. And that I knew the revolver was still here.”

“Is that why you advised me to announce my decision that Duane was my son?” demanded Idabelle Lasher.

Susan shuddered and tried not to look at that black heap across the room.

“No,” she said steadily. “I didn’t dream of—murder. I only thought that it might bring the conspiracy that evidently existed somewhere into the open.”

Jim said: “Here are the police.”

Queer, thought Susan much later, riding along the Drive in Jim’s car, with her white chiffon flounces tucked in carefully, and her green velvet wrap pulled tightly about her throat against the chill night breeze, and the scent of gardenias mingling with the scent of Jim’s cigarette—queer how often her adventures ended like this: driving silently homeward in Jim’s car.

She glanced at the irregular profile behind the wheel and said: “I suppose you know you saved my life tonight.”

His mouth tightened in the little glow from the dashlight. Presently he said:

“How did you know he had the pearls in his pocket?”

“Felt ’em,” said Susan. “And you can’t imagine how terribly easy it was to take them. In all probability a really brilliant career in picking pockets was sacrificed when I was provided with moral scruples.”

The light went to yellow and then red, and Jim stopped. He turned and gave Susan a long look through the dusk, and then slowly took her hand in his own warm fingers for a second or two before the light went to green again.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

copyright © 1939 by Mignon G. Eberhart

cover design by Heidi North

978-1-4532-5727-2

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