The Hangman's Whip (27 page)

“He married Diana for her money; he’s crazy with ambition! Without Diana’s money he couldn’t get anywhere; he had to murder Eve. It wouldn’t do any good to kill Richard; Eve would still know, and Eve would have inherited from Richard. There was no other way. I had to go along with him. I—you will tell the sheriff that I tried to save you! I came here, I told you the truth—”

Calvin’s’ voice cut into Howland’s flood of protestations. He said: “He’s lying. He did it. He killed Eve and he killed that fellow under the willows. Can’t you see the guilt in his face?”

“I didn’t,” cried Howland shrilly, terror in his face. “I tell you I didn’t. Search, do something. Can’t you see he’s dangerous?”

“Don’t move,” said Calvin. “I’ve got him cornered and he knows it. Search—that green silk cord you found. What did you do with it?”

“I”—her voice was husky—“it’s there. On the table. Calvin, he called the police. I heard—he said suicide. He—he said the window—ą woman—he meant me. And there was a note—”

“I said nothing of the kind!” cried Howland. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His eyes went around the room like a frightened animal’s, and Calvin said: “Get that cord. I want to see it.”

She hesitated and then crossed to the low table. She felt queerly defenseless, as an animal might feel leaving a covert and venturing across an open space. All at once she had a poignant sense of height and insecurity, as if she were perched upon a narrow cliff above a steep and measureless abyss. It was too near the truth. She shook the green cord and tiny green celluloid ball out of her bag and onto the table, where it lay—vividly green. It was only then that she realized she was still clutching Ludmilla’s letter tight in one hand. And she was horribly bewildered. Howland had been in the room; Howland must have telephoned the police; yet that cord—

Calvin said sharply, interrupting her thought: “What do you know about that cord? Quick …”

“It—it was oņ the table in the cottage. That night. Then it was gone.”

“For God’s sake, what is that?” cried Howland, his eyes bulging. “Is that what he killed her with?”

“There’s been no mention of that green cord,” said Calvin.

“But it was there. I saw it before I left the cottage,” said Search.

Howland cried: “It was gone when we entered it with the sheriff! It—” He jerked around again toward Calvin.

“
That’s what you came back to the cottage for!
I saw you. After you killed her you hurried into the woods alone. Then Richard came and I waited and watched, and then Search came. And the light in the cottage went out. And after it went out you came sneaking back and went into the cottage very quietly and came right out again. It must have been while Richard and Search were in the kitchen. You came out, hurrying, and I saw you. I was close to the cottage. I knew it was you. You went straight home then and managed to get up to your room and get your wet clothes off before the alarm. You—”

“Do you know what that thing is?” said Calvin, eyes on Search. She said falteringly: “I thought you’d got it. That day when you brought the kitten home …”

“I did,” said Calvin. “Howland took it in order to cast suspicion on me. He took it and—and Ludmilla’s bathrobe cord and Richard’s handkerchief that night he tried to kill you. And my raincoat. All in order to cast suspicion away from himself. He left nothing to incriminate himself. All the false clues he arranged lead to other people.” He glanced at his watch and then at Howland.

Howland cried: “
But I didn’t do it!
His raincoat was—was because he hated to touch her when he had to lift her. He’s like that. You know he’s like that, Search. And he—always plays for the grandstand. Can’t you see through him?”

Calvin said: “Don’t move, Howland. Search, why did you come here tonight?”

“I had a—a telegram.” She started to move away from the table and a little toward the kitchen door, but something in Calvin’s eyes stopped her. She was unutterably confused; she only knew that somehow,
now
, she must escape. That was still the uppermost thing in her mind. Let them accuse each other; let them do anything; she must escape.

“From Richard, I presume,” said Calvin. “Is that all?”

“No—no, a telephone message—” She tried again to move toward the kitchen door; from the kitchen was another door into the corridor.

Calvin said quickly: “Message? From Richard?”

“Yes.” Again, she thought fantastically, she must play for time. Anything to get away.

“Then he knows you are here?”

“No—he said to meet him at the Drake. I—I’d better go, Calvin.”

“What’s that in your hand?” Calvin’s voice was sharp.

“That—why, it—it’s a letter. From Ludmilla. She sent for me, you know. She asked me to come—” She was babbling, like Howland. She caught herself. Calvin said:

“Read it. Read it aloud. Hurry.”

Read it.

She fumbled to open it, did so, had to move nearer the desk lamp to see, began to read. All of it in a nightmare.

The room was perfectly still except for her own voice. “ ‘Dear Search:’ ” she read. “ ‘I want you to come up here as soon as you can. I want to see you. You must take a vacation.

“ ‘There is not much news here. Calvin and Diana are well; Calvin’s running for state senator at last, if he gets the nomination; Diana will have him in the White House if he’s not careful. This place always reminds me of the old times, so much nicer than now. A few weeks ago I got out some of my little keepsakes and looked them over. Things belonging to the old life—your old doll (Betsy, remember her? With yellow curls?) and a gold case of Isabel’s and Richard’s ribbons from riding school. Calvin caught me looking at them and had me tell him all about each one and laughed, but I want you, Search dear. Please come. …’”

Her voice dwindled and stopped.
Calvin!
Calvin had seen the case of Isabel’s too; probably when Eve saw it. But Calvin had known at once what it meant.
Then Howland had been telling the truth.
All along. Howland—

Through a kind of mist she head Calvin’s voice, quite cold and sharp and assured. He said to Howland: “Listen; you will be arrested and convicted. All this you’ve told her—I heard you, I was in the kitchen—only goes to convict you. You haven’t got a chance—”

Howland’s big body seemed to shrink. His voice was high and thin. He said: “But I came to help her. She’ll intercede.”

“You fool, you. She can’t save you. You are in this with me and you can’t get out of it.”

There was an instant’s complete silence. Then Howland whispered: “What are you going to do?”

The whisper seemed to fill the room.

Calvin said: “You’re afraid, aren’t you, Howland? You jeered at me when you thought you had the upper hand. Now you’re afraid.”

Howland was babbling, half in a whisper, half aloud. “You can’t, Calvin, you can’t! She said something about suicide—the window. You can’t get by with anything like that!”

“Oh yes, I can. It’s simple,” said Calvin. His eyes were hard and bright and strange, as if a different being had taken possession of him. “The window—a note she left on the desk saying ‘This is the end.’ I’ve a perfect alibi, for I telephoned to the police saying she was about to do it, giving them a number like this one—”

“
You can’t do this!
” cried Howland again in a shocked kind of whisper.

“I’ve got to,” said Calvin.

“No—no—”

“Listen, you’ll go along with me now, Howland. Or hang with me. There’s no middle course.”

“But I—I can’t—I can’t stand by—I—”

Search’s lips moved. She heard her own voice, strained, pleading. “Howland, don’t let him—” Her hands seemed to move outward of their own volition.

Howland would not look at her. Calvin said scornfully: “Go into the kitchen. Wait for me. I may need you.”

“But—but you—” stammered Howland.

“
Get out!
”

Howland tried to look at Search—failed—wavered and then ran, shamblingly, toward the kitchen door.

H
E VANISHED INTO THE
dusk of the little kitchen.

He closed the door.

He wouldn’t go for help. He was afraid. He was an accessory. Calvin had completely won him over.

And Calvin had killed Eve and had killed Saul Gleason. And it had been Calvin at the telephone. Telling the police about a woman and a suicide note and a window.

She heard her own voice again and could not stop it: “You—that was you last night, running in the moonlight—like an animal—”

Calvin’s bright eyes met her own; they were the eyes of obsession. “So you saw me then; I was afraid someone might be watching. But you couldn’t see my face; you didn’t recognize me. I saw to that. There’s not much time. There’s not a chance, you know. Howland won’t help you. You saw that.”

“
You
—I know now. The elevator boy said it was cool that night in Chicago.” (Curious that small discrepancy, only half noted and remembered, returned just then!) “You said it was hot, people sleeping on the park benches. When I met you there on the stairway that first morning—” (Only, she thought dazedly, it had been somebody else she had met on the stairs; not this creature that looked out of Calvin’s face.)

“Certainly. I came back that night quietly; I dosed Ludmilla’s tray while you were all at dinner. Nobody saw me; I know that house too well. I saw the candy you had brought—” (Horribly she realized that he was walking toward her very slowly, holding her with his eyes, mesmerizing her by the things he said.) “I took it then. I returned it later—the next day, well dosed. Hurry—there’s not much time. Don’t be a fool, Search. Go on—get over there. It’s already been too long—”

In spite of herself she moved away from that steady, cold advance and knew with utter horror that the move brought her within four feet of the window ledge. That terribly low ledge. It’s not safe, somebody had said—long ago—in another life.

The palms of her hands were moist. She snatched at the play for time she had attempted with Howland, but it was different now; it had been Calvin all along, not Howland. “You—were here at the telephone. You went away—”

“I saw Howland’s car. I was looking out the window, down. I saw him come. He was early. I’d meant him to come later; after you—jumped and I left. If there’d been any doubt it would attach itself to him. I can still fix that perhaps.”

“
Calvin
—” She was going to beg. The look in his face stopped her.

It would be so easy. The low ledge—the space beyond—sheer plunge downward. One quick hard thrust would send her over into space. Only one—she must fight; she must struggle; that was dangerous too. The ledge pressed against her—and over his shoulder something moved.

It moved and her eyes must have flared wide, for Calvin whirled around. And in the same instant someone charged furiously, a hard swift projectile out of the dusk in the kitchen, upon Calvin.

It was Richard.

He tackled Calvin at the knees; the two men crashed to the floor. There was a struggling, writhing melee of legs and arms and straining bodies.

Search shrank away from the window—unaware of that instinctive motion, aware only of the two men. The lamp beside the divan went over. Richard’s face came momentarily into view and vanished. Then all at once there was a hard dull impact; another. Silence.

Calvin’s body relaxed limply, slowly, on the carpet.

Richard pulled himself free, looked at Calvin—shook him a little, let him fall back and got to his feet.

She didn’t move or speak. She was only dimly aware of Richard’s going to the bathroom, returning with towels, bending over to tie Calvin securely. She knew when he took Calvin under the arms and dragged him along the carpet toward the bedroom.

She knew when he returned, settling his tie, smoothing back his hair. He went to the telephone. There was a cut on his chin and another on his forehead.

“Desk clerk? Listen—Sheriff Donny is due to arrive to see Miss Abbott. He ought to be there any time now. Tell him I’ve got his man, will you? Send him right up.”

He came to her then and took her in his arms.

“Did he hurt you? Did he touch you—Search—”

She shook her head.

“He did it. He killed them both. We knew this afternoon—when we got back from Avion and talked to Ludmilla, but we had no proof. Then Jonas told me about the telegram and that you were on your way here. Didn’t they give you my message? I telephoned right away, trying to head you off. I said to tell you under no circumstances to go to your apartment; to wait for me at the Drake. And I came, driving Diana’s coupé, as fast as I could. Search, are you sure—”

She thought of the garbled telephone message. She thought of the things she knew. She said faintly: “I’m all right. Scared —that’s all.”

His arms tightened around her. “He—he tried once before to get you. When he thought you had seen him at the cottage; then I was arrested, and he knew that if you had recognized him you would have told that he was the man you saw. And now this afternoon Why, Search? Did Ludmilla tell you about Isabel? It wasn’t murder—John and Isabel’s death. I’ll tell you all about it later. The fact is, she outlived John, and a little case Ludmilla had proved it. It was the money—Diana’s money—”

“I know,” she said faintly. “I know—” She looked around the room; there was something—oh yes. A vivid spot of green upon the table. A white paper, fallen on the floor. Ludmilla’s letter which told so much. She made a kind of motion toward them. Richard picked them up. She would explain, she thought dimly, later. Just now it didn’t matter; nothing mattered, because Richard had come and she was safe. But he had already unfolded the letter. He read it swiftly, glanced once at her, started to read it again and the doorbell buzzed.

Search heard herself say: “It must be Howland—he was here—in the kitchen—”

“He’s not here now. The kitchen door was open—that’s how I got in.” Richard opened the door.

And Diana, hatted, gloved, walked coolly into the room. “I followed you,” she said calmly to Richard. “Jonas told me where you were going. I had to know …”

There was a moment of silence. Then Richard said slowly: “Are you sure, Diana, that you don’t know?”