Murder at Arroways Page 6

  Oliver saw her hesitation. He said persuasively, moving closer to her, “I’m not asking you to keep quiet indefinitely, Damien. The police will find the murderer. Already things are beginning to clear up. Anne's purse is missing, and she generally carried a lot of money with her. They'll get the man who did it. If you just won't say anything for the next day or so—''

  Damien wished Oliver wouldn’t stand over her. She needed space to breathe in, think in. Anne Giles's purse was missing—she hadn’t known this. It was important. For one thing, it provided a clear-cut motive, robbery—

  Oliver was holding her pinned with that bright, searching, and insistent glance. A day or two wouldn't matter, surely. She capitulated. She said, “All right, Oliver, I won't mention it to anyone, now, anyhow," and felt herself coloring. He had called her Damien and she had called him Oliver. Again the room seemed small, close, as though the walls had moved in, cutting down the supply of air.

  After she spoke there was an odd little silence. Oliver didn't move. The painter-sitter scrutiny was back in his hazel eyes, narrowly bright under gold-brown brows. “You've changed a good deal," he said unexpectedly.

  The non sequitur took Damien off guard. “Have I?"

  “Yes,", he said, “you've grown up."

  She didn't know what the answer to that was. “One does," she murmured, turned away—and saw the scarf.

  It was lying across the back of a wicker chair, a square of vermilion silk burning redly. The scarf belonged to Anne Giles. She had worn it when she first appeared on the terrace the day before. Anne Giles had been here in this little house—and the only time she could have been here was late the preceding afternoon, because the rest of her afternoon and evening was accounted for. She had been here with Eleanor Mont, had remained on after Eleanor walked out. What had transpired at that interview that had shaken the older woman so terribly? Or was she imagining things again? Was it simply, as Eleanor Mont had said, a business interview? And wasn’t Jancy the cause of Eleanor Mont’s breakdown? Probably.

  Damien ignored the scarf, went through the door Oliver held. Walking back with him through the dusk, she felt relieved, almost lighthearted. And immediately he was proven right. The police were making progress. The lights were all on when they entered the hall, and voices came out of the living-room at the far end. The town prosecutor was there, with Eleanor and Hiram St. George and Roger Hammond. Damien knew at once from the general air that there had been a lifting of pressure. Luttrell told Oliver about it.

  They had found out things about Anne Giles’s visitor of the night before. Her visitor was a man. He had arrived at the cottage in a rowboat. The marks were deeply imbedded in the soft mud of the river bank at the foot of the lawn. Also imbedded in the mud were several footprints. The boat itself had been found floating around the next curve. It was a rowboat that had been stolen from the Lawrence place near town and on the other side of the stream. Joe Lawrence had tied the boat up safely at around eleven o’clock on the preceding night; it was gone in the morning.

  In addition to the boat there were the fingerprints. Superimposed on those of Anne Giles on the brass knob of the front door were two clear prints. Ordinarily two prints wouldn’t be much good, but in this case they were lucky. The man who had entered Anne Giles’s cottage had cut his forefinger deeply at some time and there was a small scar across the whorls of the finger tip.

  “One of the things I came for,” Luttrell said, “was to ask you people to be fingerprinted.”

  At that there was a general movement of recoil. Eleanor Mont frowned. Oliver stared. Roger Hammond said smilingly, “My dear fellow, you don't suspect any of us of having killed that woman, do you?” St. George pulled on his pipe, examining his own square, capable hands. “Well, I have no scar,” he remarked cheerfully. “Here, Fred, take a look.”

  Luttrell was gently jibing. “You don’t suppose I’d have told you about the scar if I’d suspected one of you? No, but you people have all been over there at the cottage and your prints are scattered around. We want to separate the sheep from the goats, isolate any strange prints, maybe get a full set to complete the two on the doorknob.”

  They all expressed willingness to have their fingerprints taken. After Eleanor Mont described some of the things that were in Anne Giles's missing handbag, a black calf handbag lined with red leather, gold compact and gold lipstick, red wallet, and corroborated Oliver’s statement that she generally carried rather a lot of money, three, four, five hundred dollars, Luttrell left.

  Eleanor Mont looked tired. Her face was drawn, haggard. As soon as Luttrell was gone she went upstairs to lie down. Then Bill Heyward called Damien. Bill wanted to see her. Oliver had disappeared. Damien refused Roger Hammond’s suggestion of Russian bank, and he had wandered off, and she was left alone with the house, its size and silence and shadows. She was overjoyed to hear Bill’s voice. Ten minutes later he picked her up in the battered Chevy coupe.

  The skies were still low and the wind cutting, but getting away from Arroways was like dropping an unbearable weight. As they went through the gates Bill said with unusual violence for him, “My God, what you ran into, Damien. That woman!”

  Damien tightened the scarf around her head. Bill spoke almost as though Anne Giles had killed someone else rather than been killed herself. But Bill had loathed her and had made no secret about it. Like Jancy. Damien touched his sleeve. “Let’s not talk about her, Bill. I want to get away from it for a while.”

  “I should think you would," Bill said understandingly, and asked about the lawyer and what she had done that morning about the house. Damien described her visit to Mr. Silver at the bank and told him about the mortgage that, if it were granted, would really solve things for her. Inwardly she thought of the fingerprints on the knob of Anne Giles’s front door with a lift. Oliver hadn’t gone into the cottage with Anne Giles last night. He had told her the truth.

  “Light a cigarette for me, will you?” Bill said and, complying, Damien asked, “Did you ever hear of a man named Muffit?”

  “Sure.” Bill eased the car over a bump. “He’s a farmer. Lives down the river road. Used to be a bootlegger during prohibition. Still sells stuff—you can always pick up a bottle there on Sunday, or late at night.”

  The cigarette was lit. “Here you are,” Damien said, and Bill put out his hand, looking ahead at the narrow banked curve he was negotiating.

  “But where did you hear of Muffit? For a city slicker you’ve been getting around.”

  Damien didn’t answer. She was looking at Bill’s extended hand, a good hand, broad palm, well-made fingers. Across the tip of the right forefinger, across the middle of the tip, there was a small white scar.

  Chapter Six

  The Opening Door

  “Damien, what is it? What’s the matter?” Bill turned to stare at her, his clever face concerned.

  Damien felt frozen. She looked through the windshield and said slowly, “A man who followed Anne Giles into her cottage last night had a scar across the tip of his forefinger.” Bill didn’t seem to get it at first. “What? Oh, the police discovered something, did they? Then they’re getting some place. But why are you so—” He broke off short, looked at his hand himself, pulled abruptly to the side of the road, and stopped the car. He was white and very angry. “Now, let’s have this out,” he said, facing her squarely. “I've got a scar on my forefinger. Yes. Got it opening a jackknife when I was a kid. I didn’t go to meet Anne Giles last night. I didn’t kill her. Is that what you’re thinking, Damien? Is it?”

  Damien was miserable, confused. “No. No, of course not. But the scar—”

  Bill laughed. “Good Lord, how many people do you suppose have scars on their forefingers, all their fingers? What shape was this scar? How long was it, how wide, how recent?”

  Damien said, “I’m not accusing you, Bill. I was startled, that’s all. I was thinking of fingerprints and scars and when I saw yours it made me jump. If you tell me that you didn't kill Anne Gile
s—”

  “I do tell you that.”

  “Then I believe you.”

  Bill started the car, and they drove on. But there was a constraint between them that hadn’t been there before, not on the surface but underneath. Damien tried to break it down in herself and in him. She was very fondof Bill even though she wasn’t ready to marry him. She told him that the police thought that Anne Giles had been killed at somewhere around midnight, not later than one o'clock, at the most, and about her missing purse and everything that had happened in the house.

  Bill was interested when he heard that Roger Hammond was at ^Vrroways. “I can’t stand that fellow,” he said, scowling. “Jancy should never have married him—but that was Maria Mont for you again. Maria made that mar* riage, aided and abetted by Eleanor Mont.” His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Roger Hammond would be in the other camp—”

  Bill spoke with such extraordinary bitterness about Jancy’s marriage that Damien wondered fleetingly whether Bill had been in love with Jancy himself. “What camp?” “The Mont camp, my pet. Don’t you remember my telling you yesterday that Anne Giles had the inside track with Maria, that she was her personal spy, court favorite, and general factotum combined? Sure, Randall Mont was executive vice-president of Mont Fabrics, sure Eleanor was and is general manager, but poor Randall was only a figurehead, and Eleanor had all the dirty work to do.” “Well, there are no camps now,” Damien said reasonably. “When Maria died that was all over. Eleanor owns the whole shooting-match.”

  “Exactly,” Bill said. “And Roger Hammond’s married to Eleanor’s daughter, and is in the firm. Oliver Mont’s not interested in it, he’s got a business of his own. Don’t be fooled by that fellow Hammond’s plausible front, Da* mien. He’s as hard as nails. I’d like to know what time he got to Eastwalk last night.”

  Damien didn’t know quite what Bill was getting at with his talks of two camps. On the edge of the town they stopped in front of a rambling white house with a lovely doorway. Before she could ask Bill, he said, “Here we are, I want you to meet my aunt, and after that let’s have a drink at the Black Horse.”

  Frances Kendleton was a small, slight woman with bright, dark eyes lighting up a shrewd, weather-beaten face. She welcomed Damien cordially into an attractive living-room with a beautiful Bokhara on the floor and some fine antiques. There evidently wasn’t much money —the white paneling needed painting, the draperies were faded and darned, and the slip covers extensively patched —but the whole effect was charming.

  Tea in paper-thin cups before an open fire; Miss Ken-dleton was more interested in her nephew’s affairs than^ she was in Anne Giles or what had happened to her. “There's nothing as dull as murder when you know the solution. The woman was always flaunting around. She was probably robbed by some poor devil who needed the money. Bill, have you told Miss Carey about the Process?” She put it in capitals.

  Bill grinned at her affectionately. Damien looked inquiring. It appeared that Bill had discovered a new method for the manufacturing of rayon that would cut costs in half and enormously increase production. Listening, Damien felt guilty. Bill had mentioned the subject to her weeks ago, but she hadn’t paid any particular attention. So that accounted for the change in him, the new force and purpose.

  “Don't count your chickens,” he warned his aunt “Fogler and Benson are interested, but they may be only nibbling. I won't be sure of anything until they put their John Hancock on the dotted line.”

  Presently the talk switched to Arroways. Miss Kendle-ton understood Damien’s dilemma. It was she who made the suggestion. Damien couldn’t see it at first but, considering it, she began to take fire. “Why not," Frances Ken-dleton said, “if you could get the financial backing, make it over into apartments like May Powell did her place? Remember, Bill? You know, the big Powell place on the comer? May's got five apartments in what was once an old rat trap of a place, and every one's rented. She's going to spend the winter in Florida and last month she bought herself a new Cadillac. All that out of the proceeds.”

  They argued the matter pro and con. Even though it was only an idea it was like a burst of sunshine to Damien. The house might not be a white elephant, after all. It might give Jane the things she needed, might be made to

  yield a solid income. Might, only might, Damien warned herself. The pleasant half hour in the Kendleton living-room was marred by one curious incident, no, two. Apropos of Anne Giles, Bill said, putting a log on the fire, “Well, we’ve both got alibis, Frances. We were in bed and asleep at around eleven.”

  “That’s right,” Miss Kendleton said comfortably. “The only one they might accuse could be James.” James was the cat, and Miss Kendleton had found him outside the house instead of in the kitchen when she got up that morning. “I thought he was under the stove but he must have slipped past me when I locked the door, Bill. The poor fellow was half frozen.”

  Bill agreed too quickly and heartily. “By George, yes, I believe that’s what he must have done. You probably didn’t notice. Maybe he wanted a night on the tiles.”

  Cats, Damien thought, Mrs. Cambell’s—and now Miss Kendleton’s. The scratch on Linda’s hand, Linda who was much stronger than she looked— Not only cats went through doors. Had Bill gone out last night after he had pretended to go to bed?

  After that there was the incident of the man she didn’t see. They were ready to leave, and Bill was standing near one of the front windows when he dashed outside and closed the door behind him. Voices murmured beyond the door, Bill’s and another man’s. The other man’s was loud, blurred. He seemed to be insisting on entering the house. She couldn’t hear what Bill said. The voices receded. Bill was evidently taking the caller away somewhere. He came in alone in a couple of minutes. “Kit,” he said carelessly to his aunt. “Drunk again. I put him in the kitchen. You might try him with some coffee.” He gave Frances Kendleton a significant glance that didn’t match his idle tone. There seemed to be some sort of message, warning, in it. Damien was puzzled and uneasy.

  She and Bill didn’t, after all, go to the Black Horse for a drink. As soon as they were in the car Bill glanced at his watch and gave an exclamation. “After half past three— I didn’t know it was so late.” He explained that he had to see a man in town. “Mind if I take you back to Arroways now and ring you when I'm through?"

  Damien said, “Of course not," but her vanity was faintly piqued. Bill had intimated earlier that he wanted nothing more than to devote the rest of the afternoon and evening to her. Any doubt of his feeling for her was removed when they reached Arroways. Standing in its shadow the chill was in Damien again. She disliked the thought of going into it, submitting herself to its soft encroaching darkness, the insidious pressure of the unknown, the strange.

  Bill must have read what she felt in her face because he took her hands in his and said, looking down at her, his brown eyes serious, “Damien, come back to Frances's with me. She’ll be more than delighted. This is no place for you. I hate you to be mixed up in this business of Anne Giles, even if you're only on the fringe.” Suddenly he was drawing her toward him, a new note in his entreaty. “Say you’ll marry me, Damien. I’m a persistent son of a gun. I'm going to keep after you until you do. Why not agree now?"

  He had never been more attractive. He seemed to have come alive, to have sloughed off the shell of pleasant inertia, ineffectualness, that generally characterized him.

  Damien shook her head. She didn't smile when she spoke. “I can’t, Bill. I like you a lot but—not enough. It wouldn’t work."

  Bill let her hands drop and stepped back, his face dark. For the first time there was iron in him. “What is it, Damien?" he demanded, studying her closely. “I think I’ve got a right to know. Is there another man? You’ve been different today." His eyes left her, roamed the bulk of the house, came back to fasten themselves on her face. “You wouldn't by any chance have fallen for our friend Mr. Oliver Mont, would you? He’s got quite a reputation along that line."

&nbs
p; Bill's tone, his whole manner, was ugly, jibing. Damien was outraged at the way he spoke, the suggestion he made. She said icily, “Don’t be more of a fool than you can help, Bill. And don’t bother to call me up later this afternoon. When and if I want to see you again, I’ll let you know.” She was still shaking when she entered the hall and closed the door behind her.

  There was no one around, but the shadows were there, thick, enfolding. The stillness was broken only by the ticking of the clock near the library door. Faint purplish light seeped down the well of the staircase, fell on the carved banisters, polished the great round ball of wood surmounting the newel post. Damien went upstairs to her room. How dared Bill talk to her like that? Oliver Mont had a reputation in that line. Was what Bill said true? She took off her coat impatiently, threw it over a chair. Oliver and Anne Giles— Oliver and other women? He was engaged to Linda St. George, was going to marry Linda. It was Linda’s business not hers.

  She emptied her mind of it, forcibly, turned her attention to the house and Frances Kendleton’s suggestion. Could it be made over into apartments? As Miss Kendle-ton had pointed out, it was near enough to town to be convenient, and there was certainly plenty of space. Go over it, she decided. Not that she knew anything about remodeling, but she might get a rough notion of what was possible and what wasn’t. Anyhow, it was something positive to do.

  Begin at the bottom. She was on her way downstairs, had reached the landing when she paused at the sound of her name.

  “Miss Carey, I presume?” It was Jancy Hammond who spoke. She was standing at the foot of the stairs, looking up. At first glance Damien would scarcely have known her. Jancy’s dark hair was a helmet of brown satin brushed smoothly against her head. Her color was fresh and her eyes bright above a green gabardine suit that modeled her tall figure in springing lines.

  Damien nodded. It was an embarrassing situation. She didn’t want to say, “We met yesterday on the terrace, but I don’t suppose you recall it.” She said instead, “Yes. You’re Mrs. Hammond, aren’t you?”