To love and to honor (10 page)

"I beg your pardon. I have the most curious feeling, as if my spirit really is soaring in space, as if I could close my eyes and sleep for an aeon or two now that the care of the oil property is off my mind. It won't be really, though, till I make out the tax returns on the sale, for myself and Ken—"

"Ken will take care of his own."

"That's a break, I'll tackle mine soon, hang a notice

on my workroom door, WOMAN AT WORK, and—" She yawned again, this time she didn't try to stifle it. Her eyes half closed. "I don't understand—"

"I do. Stand up, Cindy. Quick." He caught her hands and pulled her to her teet, held her tight in one arm as her eyes closed. Her head fell against his shoulder.

He glanced at the path which led down to his car. She had said this spot was a popidar rendezvous. Suppose a party were to come along now? Would they believe that she had succumbed to mental exhaustion? Would they believe his explanation that many a time he had seen a man in his outfit released from hours of the strain of life and death responsibility go to sleep on his feet? He shook her gently.

"Cindy, wake up. Come on, darling, try to walk. I'll take you home."

No response except her limp body sagging a little in his arm. He must get her to The Castle. She might sleep for hours. This was nature's reaction after the sudden release from years of responsibility. Only one way out, carry her to the car.

He picked her up in his arms and kicked the little pink jacket she had discarded ahead as step by cautious step he descended the path. Lucky she wasn't heavier. Her weight pulled painfully on the muscles stiffened by the wound on his shoulder.

"Cindy, try to put up your foot, darling," he pleaded when he reached the car, but her only answer was to settle her head more comfortably.

He lifted her and laid her on the back seat, pulled off his white coat and tucked it under her head for a pillow, covered her shoulders with the pink jacket.

"May the gods be with me," he pleaded as he sent the car ahead, "don't let us meet anyone who knows us. Lucky the top is up."

"Hi, Colonel Damonl"

It was the predatory Fane girl calling, holding up her thumb as he passed the Country Club gate. The man beside her—Good Lord, it was S/ad^—stepped into the road as if confident he would stop, and called: "Hey, take us-"

He pretended not to see or hear and drove on. That was a narrow escape. Had they seen Cindy they would have thought—Take it easy, they didn't see her, common sense reminded.

Seth Armstrong, seated in a car in front of the bank, called to him and waved a sheaf of papers.

"Stop! Take these for your files—" He ignored the hail and stepped up the engine.

His collar was wilted to a wet rag when he stopped the car at the entrance door of The Castle. Now he would have co-operation. Sarah Ann Parker would help him get Cindy to her room, then tuck her into bed where she belonged.

He sprinted up the steps and pressed the button concealed in the antique brass knocker. The bell resounded through the house. He pressed again. He must get Cindy into the house before anyone appeared. Was the Parker woman asleep? Damn! She had said she was going to the village to watch television! That tied that.

Now what? Only one answer. Get into the house. There was a key in the pink bag. Miss Parker had reminded Cindy of it when they came in from the patio. The patio! If he could get her there it would help. He charged down the steps and followed the drive around a corner. He could.

Back to the car. He glanced at the sleeping girl before he drove into the garage and shut off the engine. That path must lead—

"Hey, Cindy!"

The call came from the front of the house. A man's voice. Which one of her stag line? She had said there was a shoulder she would prefer to Ken Stewart's. Had she meant Tom Slade or that piker Harding? Perspiration trickled down his back. Now he knew how a murderer must feel when trying to get away with the corpus delicti.

"Cindy!" He could hear the ring of a bell in the house. "Hey, Cindy!" An instant of silence followed by a second shout, then the whirr of an engine, and the purr of a departing automobile.

He drew his hand across his damp forehead. Whew, it

was hot. He investip^ated the path. It led through the garden to the patio. He must get her there before another swain showed up. He'd better go to it, not stand here thinking about it.

It seemed an eternity before he laid the sleeping girl on the chaise longue and dropped her pink jacket and his white coat on a chair. He returned and carefully closed the door of the garage. That would shut his car away from inquiring eyes for the present.

He flexed his stiff shoulder, he sure had given it a workout. Looking down at her he had an instant of panic. She was so quiet. She looked like the little girl who had spoken to him in Ella Crane's shop. Ought he phone for a doctor? No. He couldn't be wrong. This was the sleep of mental exhaustion. He had seen it scores of times. She would awake refreshed. Her color was good. He laid his hand on her moist forehead, gently picked up her wrist with the other. Pulse was normal. It was sleep.

Wilting day. Unbearably humid. Curled leaves drooped. A spike of delphinium bent double for all the world like an old man carrying a heavy load. Nothing alive stirred. His mistake. A cicada was on the job. The shrill call fairly sizzled. Those pillows must be hot. He withdrew one and settled her head more comfortably, drew off white sandals from feet covered by sheer nylons. If he had water-Water. He looked toward the door to the house. Of course it would be locked and counterlocked, hadn't Sarah Ann Parker said she would lock up? Water? What was coming from the fountain but water, gallons of it, tinkling back into the pool? Even the sight of it was cooling. He drew two handkerchiefs from the pocket of the white coat.

He wrung out one of the white linen squares in the cool spray, grinned as he realized that he had made the trip to the fountain and back tiptoe. Crime motif again. He bent over the chaise longue and gently bathed the girl's face, dried it with the other handkerchief. She didn't stir, her sleep was too deep, but she looked cooler. He drew the wilted bachelor buttons from her belt

and laid the stems in water at the edge of the pool, then dropped into one of the green cushioned chairs, drew up another for his feet, jerked off his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his white shirt. That somewhat relieved his discomfort. He lighted a cigarette and watched a hummingbird poised above a giant dahlia filching honey from its blush-pink heart. With the exception of spray from the fountain the fanning wings were the only moving object visible. Even the shrill cicada had succumbed to the heat.

I'll relax for a few minutes, then I'll make a stab at breaking and entering. Another downward step on my career of crime. This is what it must mean to be a baby-sitter, he thought as his eyes lingered on the sleeping girl.

"Will you let her go?" Alida Barclay's question echoed in his memory. "Of course I shall let her go," he had answered. He hadn't told her of his mental reservation, that if Cindy showed even the hint of a desire to marry Harding, he would hold up the annulment. Neither had he confided that with his sense of responsibility toward her, which had been roused by the P.A.S. letter, he had used part of his first day in New York to start an investigation on the trail of the playboy.

Yesterday he had received a detailed account of the man's life to date. The most startling item was the statement that the two heavy alimonies he was paying made such inroads on his income that he had borrowed on his principal. Did need of money figure in his pursuit of Cinderella Clinton Stewart? Doubtless he had posted himself on the value of the oil holdings. "Sugar," he had called her. Cindy had been puzzled by his use of the word, had declared it out of character for him. Curious. It would be interesting to know where he had picked it up.

It was evident that she was not in love with him. It would be unnecessary to antagonize her by postponing her freedom on his account. That was a break. Ally Barclay had been right when she had prophesied that sooner or later he would wake up to the fact that he had lost something he would give his life to keep. That

TO LOVE AND TO HONOR h^

realization had been quicker than "sooner," it had struck like lightning the first time he had seen her.

Suppose I don't let her go? Suppose I induce Armstrong to hold up the annulment while I try to win her love, his thoughts trooped on. No. No. She has a right to freedom. I don't want the handicap of that contract marriage. Suppose she said "Yes"? I never would be sure her conscience hadn't dictated the answer. Ally is wrong.

Ally. With the name came the memory of her confidence last evening on the Inn porch. The smuggling yarn was unbelievable. Was she being fooled? He had worked with her before being assigned to the airlift-there had been espionage problems there, too. She was keen at her job or she wouldn't have been picked for this one.

"Willing to help?" she had asked. Willing to help with Cindy in possible danger? She couldn't know how willing. He would have the credentials he had used before O.K.'d, then somehow, somewhere he would pick up a loose end that would reveal the identity of the receiver of smuggled loot.

His eyes rested on the sleeping girl. He'd better quit planning the future and make a stab at getting into the house.

It was amazingly simple when he tried it. He braced his shoulder against the door in the ell for a mighty push. It opened so suddenly that he clutched the handle to keep from pitching forward.

"Is my face red," he said under his breath. "The dam thing wasn't locked."

He entered the kitchen darkened by half-drawn shades. Cool as a tomb. That last was a cheery comparison. An icebox suggested food. He glanced at the wall clock. Well past the lunch hour. He could toy with something to eat. He opened the door.

A whole chicken, roasted. Tomatoes, big, red, luscious and peeled. Looked like mayonnaise in a jar, must be bread somewhere, he had read that it kept fresher in a refrigerator. Right, there it was and sliced thin. He would make sandwiches. When they were finished he—

Confound that doorbell. Had everyone in town conspired to drop in at The Castle today?

He waited motionless until the second prolonged ring died away. He would make the sandwiches before he brought Cindy into this cool house. Moving her might waken her.

A few minutes later he glanced from the window, swore softly under his breath. Harding was crossing the patio. It must have been he who had rung the bell, had he left his car in the front drive? He was bending over the girl on the chaise. With the intent to kiss her?

Bill Damon opened and closed the door to the patio gently behind him.

"Don't waken her," he warned.

ELEVEN

Harding jumped as if the hand of the law had touched him on the shoulder, wheeled.

"Oh, it's you again." His angry eyes in a face drained of color met those of the man who had taken a few steps forward, dropped to the open collar of his shirt.

"Just what are you doing here, en n^gligS—SLXid how?"

Keep your temper, the man looking back at him reminded himself. You've got to. He pulled a cigarette from the package in the pocket of his shirt and lighted it.

"Let's be civilized and not get into a row, Harding," he suggested in a low voice. "You know what I'm doing here. I'm representing Kenniston Stewart. Cindy told you this morning that she and I had deeds to sign, that we were selling the oil holdings."

"Did the sale go through? Two million was the price offered, I hear." The inquiry was spiked with eagerness.

"Yes. It went through. After we left the bank she became sleepy, suddenly, in a minute was as you see her now. You're an ex-Marine, I understand. You must have seen deep sleep follow prolonged mental strain."

Harding looked from the girl to the man facing him.

"What mental strain has she been under? She's the most alive, gayest girl in this town."

"I have been told that she has carried the entire responsibility of the oil property that belonged to her father and Stewart's; has been the court of last resort •when there has been a difference of opinion among

department managers. This morning after she signed the deeds that disposed of the property she declared in a frightened voice that it seemed as if she were floating in space, then suddenly she was asleep. This excessive heat did its part in her collapse."

"That's a slick explanation."

"Maybe so, but a true one." He buttoned the collar of his shirt, and knotted his tie in place. He repressed, "What can you do about it?" which his mind suggested as an effective wind-up. Harding turned suddenly, bent over Cindy and stretched out his hand as if to touch her arm.

"Sugar," he said softly.

"I said, don't waken her. And I mean don't waken her."

At the low, tense warning Harding thrust the hand he had extended into the pocket of his white slacks and straightened belligerently.

"Who do you think you are, giving me orders?"

"I don't think, I know I am here to pinch-hit in a business deal for the man she married, authorized by him to act in all matters concerning her happiness and safety. I'm sure had he seen you bending over his wife a few moments ago he would have pinned your ears back, I'm not living up to orders not to do it for him."

"Is that so? Now we're getting somewhere." Harding took a menacing stride forward. The patio door slammed.

"What are you two men up to?" Sarah Ann Parker demanded. Her cheeks were as red as her checked dress. "I see you through the window drawn up like two pugs startin' to fight. You go 'long, both of you. Who's that on the chaise longy? 'Tain't Cindy. Cindy Clinton?" She pushed Harding aside with a force that rocked him on his feet. "What's happened to her?" Her breath caught in a sob. "She been run over."

"This guy Damon says she's asleep. Miss Parker. He gave me a song and dance about her being worn out by the cares of business. Phooey. Cinderella Clinton asleep at this time of day. Tell that to the Marines."

"He's right," the girl asserted as she slowly swung her

feet to the flagp^ed patio. She stretched her arms. Stood up. Swayed a little and steadied. "I was asleep, but I've been awake with my eyes closed since you bent over me, Hal. I thought for a minute you had the Sleeping Beauty story mixed with that of Cinderella who was not awakened by a kiss. If the gentlemen will excuse us, Sary, we'll go in where it is cooler."

Sarah Ann Parker picked up the white sandals and pink jacket and followed her into the house. The patio door banged.

"Something tells me you are not the person you claim to be, Damon," Harding accused furiously, "There's a report going the rounds that over 250,000 persons are living under assumed names in this country, some of them out-and-out swindlers, some of tliem posing as glamorous personalities."

"Surely you don't count me in the glamorous class?" "You won't feel so much like grinning when I get through with you. There is a rumor that queer things are being seen and heard in this neighborhood. From this minute I make it my business to find out who you are and why you are here."

"O.K. When you've found out report to me, I'd like to get in on this mystery at which you're hinting. I'm a mystery-yarn addict. Meanwhile—" he picked up his white coat, opened the door to the house, closed it behind him with a reverberating bang and shot the safety bolt.

I've made an enemy of him, he thought as he watched Harding stalk along the path, turn toward the front of the house. Let him find out the truth. I can't double for Ken Stewart much longer. I only hope he'll hold off until after the annulment, when I'll tell Cindy myself. Keen to know if the property was sold, wasn't he? Had the price down pat. That ties in with the report that he's desperately in need of money.

I don't like his hint as to a mystery. It may mean danger for Alida Barclay. If she— He stopped to listen to the sound of feet running down the stairs. Had Cindy-He started for the hall. Sarah Ann Parker narrowly

missed a collision in the doorway. He caught her shoulder and drew her into the kitchen.

"What's happened?" he demanded. "Is she all right?"

"Sure," Miss Parker adjusted her spectacles which were hanging by the band. "All right, 'cept she's scared 'bout out of her wits. She said she was with you on the bluff, remembers feelin' terrible sleepy, the next thing she knew she was lyin' on the chaise longy and Hal Harding was bendin' over her. 'Fore she could make a move to push him away you spoke. She's frightened for fear she had an attack of am-am—you know the thing folks have when they forget where they are?"

"You mean amnesia. Nonsense." He explained what happened. "She has been carrying a big responsibility for years. When it was lifted nature took over and put her to sleep."

She nodded in sage agreement.

"Responsibility, you're right, an' she couldn't ever have felt young an' happy the way a girl her age should feel. Her father was a good man, but a fusser, an' one of the leaning kind. Everything had to be just as he wanted it or he'd raise a rumpus. Want to know somethin'? Just before Trader Armstrong come to see her the first time she was talkin' 'bout the business an' tellin' about a man named Atlas holdin' up the heavens on his shoulders an' then she says, *I been holdin' up the oil business on mine. If ever I get rid of it I'll sleep for a week.' "

"You see, I was right in my diagnosis. I—" he stopped speaking as, after an experimental turn of the handle the door from the patio swung in cautiously. As if reconnoitering, a head appeared in the opening. Sarah Ann Parker caught his arm and administered a warning squeeze to command silence. The two stood motionless in the cool, darkened kitchen as a figure in a pink and white striped dress slipped in and soundlessly closed the door behind her. It was the girl in the red swim suit whose picture Cindy had snapped at the beach.

"My sakes, Rena, why you stealin' into this house as if you was afraid you'd be caught?"

Startled by Sarah Ann Parker's rasping query the girl dropped the basket she carried.

"Gosh, Miss Parker. You scared me out of a year's growth. I thought you'd gone to the—Coming in from the blazing sunlight I couldn't see anything in this dark kitchen."

"Hmp. So I gathered. What do you want?"

"Mrs. Drew has unexpected guests coming to dinner and she wondered if you could spare a dozen eggs. I couldn't get one in the village. The cook needs them." Her voice which had been shaky at first gained assurance.

"From the size of the basket you just picked up looks as if you expected to lug home a crate of them."

"It is big, I had a lot of things to buy. Can you spare the eggs?"

"I cannot."

"Nothing in my life, it's the cook's problem. It isn't part of my work to market. I was trying to help. Sorry I burst in on what looks to be a secret meeting." From under long black lashes she glanced at the man standing at the window hands thrust into the pockets of his coat.

"Don't be saucy, Rena Foster. The next time you come into my kitchen knock before you open the door."

"Sure, I will before I come into your kitchen. How long since you owned The Castle? I'll tell Mrs. Drew that you wouldn't accommodate her about the eggs."

The door slammed. Sarah watched from the window as she ran across the garden, the putting green toward the pier.

"Now, what do you make of that, Mr. Damon?"

"Is she in the habit of entering without knocking?"

"Yes, but she wasn't 'enterin',' she was stealin' in. Didn't you hear her begin, 'I thought you'd gone to the—' then she stopped short. 'Twas her that told me Ella Crane had a television set, an' she hasn't got one. Looks kinder like she was tryin' to get me out of the way so she could get in for somethin', don't it?"

"Who is the girl?"

"Rena Foster. She's what's called a parlormaid at Mrs. Drew's. Folks say she's runnin' round with a tough-lookin' man who's tryin' to get a job at one of the summer places."

A tough-lookini? man trying to get a job at one of the summer places. He mentally filed the description for further reference.

"Didn't you have a dozen eggs to loan, Miss Parker?"

"Sure, I had, you don't think I'd get caught with supplies so low I'd have to borrer, do you? I didn't like the way that girl came in, something sly about it. 'Twasn't eggs she was after."

"Any suspicion what she would come for? Ever heard that she is dishonest?"

"Nothin' that was proved. When she burst in I was just about to ask if you'd go up and tell Cindy what you told me, that it was natural for her to drop off to sleep. She's scared it may happen again when that divorce goes through."

"It won't, you may assure her of that. She has had no lunch. Tempt her to eat, then suggest that she drive to the Country Club and see her friends. It is too hot for tennis."

"It's too hot to live, if you ask me. You won't go up?"

"She doesn't need me. Tell her what I said."

"I will. Perhaps I can make her believe it, though she's terrible jittery." She dropped her spectacles by the band and drew her right hand across her wet eyes. "When I saw that child lyin' there so still, though I knew he had nothin' to do with it, I could have choked that Kenniston Stewart with my bare hands."

"Sarah Ann Parker, that goes for me too—and double. Better hustle up a lunch for Cindy. She'll be gay as a lark after she eats. So long."

"Queer things are being seen and heard in this neighborhood," Harding's voice echoed through his memory as he crossed the patio to his car. Sary was suspicious of the Foster girl's reason for surreptitiously entering the kitchen a few moments ago. "Folks say, she's runnin' round with a tough-lookin' man who's tryin' to get a job at one of the summer places." He had seen them together at the beach. The situation would stand looking into.

She was employed as parlormaid by the owner of the yacht which dropped anchor often off the Rockledge

shore Did these facts tie together? Had Ally Barclay missed a trick when she decided that "the rich businesswoman," Mrs. Drew, was above suspicion?

TWELVE

"Game and set for us, Cinderella, I hope we can add 'match' tomorrow. We knocked Lydia Fane and that boy she is running round with out of the tournament. Not that he isn't tops. I bet he's champ material. He has a volley that will take him places. Jupiter, Maine sea breezes have burned my Western skin to a crisp." Tom Slade tenderly touched his bright scarlet cheek before he tucked his arm under hers. "Let's go somewhere for lunch."

"Not today. Thomas, you are everlastingly wanting to 'go' somewhere. Don't you ever sit still and reflect on world problems or the beauties of nature?"

"I'm reflecting on the beauty of you in that white tennis rig and light blue cardigan, this minute. Sure I reflect on world problems, how can one help it if one reads of the menace of the cold war and the unrest simmering beneath the thin shell of diplomacy? But not when I am on vacation visiting my girl. Don't stiffen. I'm done. What a day. All green and gold and blue and a breeze straight from the ocean. Snift the salt."

"And is the coolness appreciated after the wilting heat of yesterday? The Stars and Stripes and the Club pennant are standing out straight."

"Did you get the oil deal tied up?"

"We did."

"Did it take you all day to do it? I called at The Castle soon after lunch, rang and rang. When I phoned in the evening that watchdog of yours said you'd had a hard day and had gone to bed."

"Sarah Ann Parker told you that? At about three I looked in at the Club-no one there, too hot-" evidently the news of her sleep-fest had not reached the air ^aves—"I went home and found Mrs. Barclay there, making a formal call, she is Counselor Armstrong's sister, in case you care, and accepted her invitation for buffet supper and an evening at Canasta with her brother and herself." Had Bill Damon prompted the invitation? The two exciting games had been just what she needed to restore her self-confidence. The sudden sleep had frightened her.

"Who made the fourth?"

"I object to the hint of suspicion in the question. Three can play. Of course you don't play partners, but it is lots of fun."

"Do you like Mrs. Barclay?"

"Very much. She is charming. A glowing sort of person, if you get what I mean."

"Sure I get what you mean, that's the sort of person you are. You give out something, friendliness and interest, that makes the other fellow respond with the best that's in him."

"Tom Slade. That is the loveliest thing ever said to me.

"Don't let it turn your head. Lyd Fane says she thinks the ruddy Armstrong has views about you."

"What does she mean, 'views'}"

"The next Mrs. Armstrong. Guess telling you that was a mistake. May get your hopes up."

"Now who is kidding? Thomas, when, if ever, I get out of the present matrimonial quicksands it will be many a day before I am drawn into one again."

"Is that so? Let's tune in on another station. I sure am sold on your Maine coast. When I have made an immortal reputation as a jurist and incidentally, my pile, I'll buy a place in this town and raise strawberries. I've never yet had my fill of big luscious ones. Would that suit you, Cinderella?"

"Like the girl in Mother Goose who sat on a cushion and sewed a fine seam, dined upon strawberries, sugar

go TO LOVE AND TO HONOR

and cream? No thank you. The prospect leaves me cold."

"Wrong number. I'll try again. Darn it, here comes the Fane menace. Wonder i£ she's sore because we beat her?"

"No. Whatever Lyd's faults, she's a good sport. She's had a curious life, parents separated, each has had two additional marriages. She spent several years abroad, Ella Crane says 'with a fast set.' "

"She may have had a curious life, but she remains a pest," Slade muttered.

"You'll come to the Bal Masqu^ at the Inn next week Friday night, won't you, Tommy?" Lydia slipped her hand under his arm and raised appealing eyes to his. "Small name band but a good one. Be-bop, jazz and waltzes. No do-si-do. Five dollars per person, not couple— for the hospital. Be a dear and make him come, Cindy."

"Wrong slant, Lyd. Thomas Slade, Second, can't be told to do anything. Of course he will go under his own power."

"Sure of that?" By shifting his racquet Slade detached the clinging hand from his arm. "How do I know I'll have any partners? You gals all but mobbed that Damon fella when he came out to get into his car this a.m. You had no eyes for me sitting on the porch rail."

"Don't be touchy. Tommy. We are all crazy about you." Lydia cooed, "but there is an unwritten law that we can't cut in on another girl's beau." The expression in the green eyes as they flashed to hers brought color to Cindy's face. She means Tom is mine, she thought.

"To return to Bill Damon; did you see him beat Tod Currier a few minutes ago? Our returned hero will draw a crowd tomorrow when he appears for the finals. This morning we were trying to sell him on the Bal Masqu^."

"What luck?" Cindy asked.

"He promised to take tickets. \Vhether he came would depend upon what he could think up for a costume. There is a rumor that he is at the Inn to be near his heartbeat."

Where did she pick up that gossip, Cindy wondered.

TO LOVE AND TO HONOR Ql

Should she tell her the real reason for his presence in this village, that he had come to clear up Kenniston Stewart's business, matrimonial and otherwise? Lydia would love to broadcast that morsel.

"The plot thickens," Tom Slade declared dramatically. "Which gal at the Inn is his heartbeat?" Above tlie liglit he was holding to a cigarette he winked at Cindy.