The velvet hand Read online

  Wilder removed his hat, baring his handsome head. His handsome face was calm. He wanted Libby. He was composed about it, and firm.

  “I’ve called a half a dozen times, Miss—ah—Haven, and been put off. I’m getting a bit tired of it. I love your cousin. I’ve asked her to marry me, and I’m hoping. . .”

  He didn’t raise his voice. It was evidently audible in the living room. “Like hell she’ll marry you.” Philip came charging into the hall.

  “Where’s my niece?” he demanded furiously, walking up to Wilder. “Where is she? You’ve taken her away. This is a holdup.” He grabbed the lapels of Wilder’s coat, gathered them into a bunch.

  Wilder pushed him back gently, held him off, and turned to Kit. “Would you mind telling me what this is all about, Miss Haven?”

  Mr. Strait took charge then, suavely. He said that Miss Tallis wasn’t in the house, that she had been gone some days and that her cousin and her uncle were very naturally worried about her.

  The large eyes opened a little. “You really don’t know where Libby is?”

  Mr. Strait shook his head. “We haven’t the slightest idea.” Philip growled softly in his throat at the use of Libby’s first name. But his brain was beginning to function.

  He had moved away and was wiping his fingers on a handkerchief as though Wilders touch was distasteful.

  They went into the living room and sat down. Philip watched every move Wilder made; so did Kit. He didn’t trust them, you could say that, and nothing more. Sculptured marble doesn’t change color or shape, is not susceptible to emotion of any kind. The blueness of his eyes, the clearness of the whites, carried out the idea of an inhuman perfection, they were like glass eyes. He had the inherent vulgarity of the blatant. He asked when, exactly, they had first missed Libby.

  Mr. Strait countered with, “Will you tell us where you’ve been since early Monday afternoon, Mr. Wilder? We tried to contact you at your apartment in New York. You left there on Monday, I believe? If you know nothing of Miss Tallis’ whereabouts you won’t, naturally, have any objection to telling us.”

  Kit was wrong. Marble could flush. Wilder’s head went up haughtily. “My actions are scarcely in question. I see no reason why. . .”

  Mr. Strait broke him down, nicely. When Wilder found out that they knew he was being hounded by bill collectors he recovered his composure. It was a temporary emergency; he had foolishly gone overboard for a friend and was waiting for repayment so that he could discharge his own debts. But those loan sharks could be a bore so he had shifted his quarters. He had taken a room in the Hotel Bronson Monday afternoon, and had been living at the Bronson since. He had talked to Libby over the phone on Monday, telling her where he was and giving her his phone number. He had asked her to have lunch with him in town on Tuesday, but she said she couldn’t as her uncle was coming home from Mexico, but that she would ring him on Wednesday. He had waited in all Wednesday and Wednesday night. Libby didn’t call, so he had called here repeatedly and each time had been told she wasn’t at home. That was why he had come.

  He showed his anxiety, as though he were putting goods on display. The man was a mass of affectation with an essentially simple core. It was vanity. He was Adonis, the beautiful one, whose every word, every gesture, had to be perfect—he probably played the part even when he was alone. He might have asked Libby to marry him—that didn’t mean that she had any intention of doing so. Since the arrival of the tissue and the glove everything had changed—horribly. Kit found it difficult to sit still. The impulse to do something—anything—was almost uncontrollable.

  To her surprise, Mr. Strait didn’t ask Tony Wilder anything about Eleanor Oaks or the yellow convertible that was at his disposal. Instead he offered Wilder a lift back to New York. Miss Haven would let him know as soon as they heard from Miss Tallis.

  Five minutes later the two men were gone, but not before Mr. Strait made a long-distance call to his office from Philip’s study, with the door closed. A car was to pick them up at the city line and trail Wilder, a man was to go to the Hotel Bronson and make inquiries there. The lawyer gave Kit parting instructions to do nothing without consulting him, and advised a doctor for Philip. “Your uncle is pretty well shattered. And don’t worry too much, Miss Haven.” He looked at her shadowed eyes, her white face. “I’m sure everything will be all right. The thing to do is not to lose your nerve.”

  Hugo came shortly after Mr. Strait drove off with Tony Wilder. He was stunned when he heard what had happened, and saw the white doeskin glove and the tissue. He stood with his back turned looking out of the window for a minute or two. Philip absolutely refused to have Dr. Terry; he was fierce about it. “Don’t bother me.” He shut himself into his own room. They could hear him walking the floor, steadily.

  Hugo had gotten hold of himself. He said, “What your uncle needs is some knockout drops,” and studied the altered planes of Kit’s face, the desperation in her eyes, her mouth. “Sit down. I want to talk to you.”

  He gave her a cigarette, lit one for himself. Talking, smoking, sitting on a sofa and looking across at a June meadow white with daisies while Libby—Kit’s tapping foot made a little rhythm in the quiet. . . you’re not listening to me.” Hugo took her hand.

  She let her hand he limply in his. It was because of this man that she had abandoned Libby. . . . With all her heart, she wished him away, out of sight and hearing. He wasn’t to be thought of any longer with any faintest touch of emotion. But he was their link with all sorts of trained, invisible people who would begin looking for Libby competently. He was Keogh, Campbell, Strait and Frobisher. He was strength and power and something to hold onto.

  “Go ahead, Hugo. I’m listening.”

  He said, “First of all, Kit, there are two ways of handling this. You can drive yourself and everyone around you mad, or you can use your brain. What you’ve got to do is to look at this as a first-class piece of chiseling, and not a prelude to tragedy. Your uncle inherits a large sum of money and immediately someone sits down and tries to figure how he can get some of it. This seemed to be the best way. Your uncle would do anything for Libby, money means nothing to him—and he’s not the man to haggle or ask too many questions.”

  “You think there’ll be a demand for money?”

  Hugo said dryly, “I’m sure there will. It looks as though this whole business was planned by someone who knew what was going on in this house, someone who knew, for instance, that your uncle was coming home from Mexico on Tuesday, a couple of weeks earlier than he was expected —it would have been almost impossible to get hold of her when he was here.

  Hugo got up and began to walk around, pushing the tip of his nose about with a balled fist. “The thing to keep in mind, Kit, is that Libby is a valuable piece of merchandise. This is a conspiracy to defraud, plain and simple. She’ll be returned safe and sound as soon as. . .”

  It was then that the telephone rang. Kit and Hugo both started for it. Philip got there first. They leaned close to him—and heard it, a hissing sound that was at first meaningless. Philip said into the mouthpiece, “What is it? For God’s sake, speak up. Speak up.”

  Kit hung onto the newel post. The hissing sound was a whispering voice. The voice was sexless, inhuman. It went on and on. It told Philip to pay attention or they wouldn’t get anywhere. It said that it had Libby and that Philip could have her back for twenty-five thousand dollars. It said it had sent the tissue and the glove, but that if Philip was in any doubt it would send something else. It went on to say in detail, lowering itself so that Kit and Hugo heard only in bits, what it would do if Philip got in touch with the police. It said that further instructions would be sent to Philip shortly about the payment of the twenty-five thousand dollars, and repeated its warning about going to the police. Then it stopped.

  IX

  Time stopped too. There was no time after that. There was nothing but a now of terror and pain. Philip was strangely calm. He had taken all he could bear. No further response was p
ossible, except dissolution. For a little while it looked as though it might be that; his features had sharpened and his eyes were burningly bright. They pushed Kit away. There was room for only one person in his thoughts and that was Libby.

  They talked. Philip spoke precisely in a high clear voice. “I want you to promise me, Cavanaugh, I want your word that you will tell no one about that can.”

  Hugo wasn’t in much better shape than Philip. He was a javelin gathered together to hurl itself at something, anything. Only there was no target. He said to Philip coldly, “Of course I promise. What else would I do? What else can you do but take it? This is the pattern. This is how it’s accomplished, why it goes on. Fear.” He lipped a cigarette furiously, didn’t light it. “In all probability not a hair of Libby’s head will be touched. She’d be no good to these rats dead—except as a one-way ticket to the electric chair —but you can’t take the chance.”

  As soon as Philip hung up Hugo had called the operator, to be informed that no record was kept of incoming calls, that the board was much too busy. So that was a blind alley. They couldn’t hope to find Libby by themselves, and they couldn’t go to the police. Kit felt as though her heart had been taken out of her body and was being trampled underfoot. The horror of that whispering voice was in her blood and bones.

  Philip went on. Miriam VanKreef wasn’t to know, William wasn’t to know—no one was to know about the ransom demand. The money, then; he said that he had more than enough to cover it lying idle in three banks, one up here and two in New York. “We’d better,” Hugo glanced at his watch, “go to the bank here now, and get that over with. Then we’ll be ready.”

  The two men went. Kit sat bonelessly in a comer of the couch. Dreadful pictures began to form themselves . . . She started to shake from head to foot. She put her hands together, finger to finger and thumb to thumb, stared at them. Hugo’s words came back to her. “You can drive yourself and everyone around you mad—” Well, you couldn’t do that, could you? Her palms were wet. She wiped them on a tissue. Because later on you might be needed. Philip might need her. Or Libby, when she came back. Yes, of course, Libby would need her. She would be tired and frightened, but so glad to get home. Kit got up. Miriam and William were still out. Philip had had no lunch. He would be hungry when he got in. She went into the kitchen to speak to the maid.

  Terror was a thing you learned to live with, adapt yourself to. Like bitter cold. You were quiet, and you didn’t make any noise, you were careful in your movements. You thought them out in advance, so that they’d go smoothly, be a success. Kit didn’t go far from the phone because the whispering voice might speak again at any time.

  Miriam and Wilham came back from their drive shortly before one.

  The Lincoln had had a flat and William had to go to the garage while Miriam did her shopping. “There’s—no news?” He peered at her through his thick-lensed glasses. The reflections in them hid his eyes. Kit shook her head.

  Her uncle and Hugo came back half an hour later. Doing something active had helped Philip. He was very alive, too alive. He couldn’t go on long at the rate he was going. A late lunch; it was marvelous how habit, custom took over. You went around doing the usual things and outside you looked all right. They all ate except Eat, who had two martinis and no food whatever under Miriam’s cold gaze. She was caustic. “You’re not setting a very good example, Catherine. The rest of us are bearing up as well as we can, but you—” she paused to help herself to more chicken “—are determined to hold the limelight, I see. Reach me my pills from behind you. There, on the buffet.”

  Philip put his fork down gently. He looked at his sister-in-law. He said in a calm voice, “Miriam, I don’t want, ever again, to hear you address my niece as though she were a second housemaid.”

  William jumped nervously. Miriam went a deep magenta and her prominent eyes bulged. “Really, Philip! I only. . .”

  But already Philip had forgotten. Drinking a large cup of coffee, hot and black, Kit thought about the whispering voice. Anybody could whisper and be unrecognizable . . . William at the garage, her aunt shopping—either of them could have made that telephone call. It was at least physically possible. In all probability it was nonsense, but it stuck stubbornly in her mind.

  At half-past three Mr. Strait called from New York and was told by Philip that there was nothing at their end. The lawyer then talked to Hugo at length. Tony Wilder appeared to be telling the truth. He had checked in at the Hotel Bronson at three o’clock on the previous Monday afternoon and had been living there since. It was by no means conclusive. The hotel was big and busy and no adequate check on any guest was possible. Tony Wilder himself called a little later and Kit gave him the same reply Philip had given Mr. Strait. Nothing.

  At around four Anita came. She greeted Kit pleasantly, as if that scene of the morning had never occurred. But her eyes were shadowed and she was paler than usual. Philip was glad to see her. They went out on the terrace and strolled up and down, her arm in his. Watching their faces Kit decided that they were very definitely attracted to each other. With Libby out of the way Anita would have a clear field.

  “Oh, stop it,” Kit cried to herself, revolted at the shape her thoughts were taking.

  Hugo threw aside his paper and told her about the money. Philip had drawn nine thousand from the Denfield bank, leaving only a small balance. Hammond, the vicepresident, had been curious, but her uncle had simply said, without explanation, that he needed cash. No one appeared to know anything about Libby, at least her absence wasn’t yet causing any talk. Philip had gotten the money in hundreds and fifties. “Maybe it will have to be changed into smaller bills later, but anyhow it’s ready. He’s going to get the rest in New York.”

  Anger boiled in Kit. “Can’t the money be marked so that. . ”

  “Sure it can,” Hugo said, “but that wouldn’t get us any place particularly, not for sure. There’s a market for that sort of stuff. You sell it and take a loss, but you’re still in the dough. Besides, I don’t think your uncle will hear of it.”

  Hopelessness wherever they turned. Philip was probably right. Any move might be the wrong move. Presently Anita went, and then Hugo, suddenly and impatiently, without explanation. Miriam was in her room and William off on his hike. The house was quiet when the second telephone call came.

  Philip took it. The phone had been silent for a while. As soon as it rang he was on his feet and launching himself across the floor. This time there was no furor. The terror was there, but they were both as cold as stone. They were becoming indoctrinated. Listening, Philip said yes, he was Mr. Haven, and again, “Yes.” He reached for a pencil. He began to write on the memorandum pad. He kept saying yes at intervals. “Yes, I’ve got that . . It went on interminably.

  Finally Philip hung up. His weakness was gone. He was no longer on the verge of collapse. He looked strong and decisive and businesslike. He held a sheet of paper tom from the memorandum pad in his hand. He sat down in his accustomed chair, the wing chair in the comer near the hearth, stretched out his legs, stared at that he had written on the sheet of paper and began to read aloud.

  “14,42,72,42,14-”

  Kit couldn’t stand it any longer. “Please, Philip,” she said shakily. “Please”

  Philip raised his head. He looked at her, and nodded. He said, “You have to know, of course. Because you’re the one.”

  X

  Dusk was sifting down over the city, a purple dusk shot through with rain. It was ten minutes past five on the following Monday afternoon, almost a full week since Libby had been taken, and four days since the second telephone call. Kit and Philip Haven were in the living room of Kit’s apartment on Ninetieth Street. Kit stood at the window and looked down at cars and wet black asphalt throwing back light, the lights of buildings, of neon signs and shop windows, the florist’s, the drug store, the delicatessen. People were umbrella tops except for an occasional stalwart here and there who strode along flamboyantly, indifferent to the spring d
ownpour.

  Kit’s eyes ranged. Was there someone there in the street below, in some dark doorway, area, alley, watching and waiting for her to appear? Certainly there was. From the moment she left the apartment she’d be picked up and followed. That went without saying.

  “You won’t be in any danger,” her uncle had declared when he first told her. “You’ll be surrounded by people, in the middle of crowds.” Kit didn’t care about the danger. If she succeeded, if she pulled it off, it would wipe out her terrible feeling of guilt. That was what haunted her, the

  knowledge that if she had remained close to Libby none of it would have happened—they wouldn’t have been able to get at her.

  Philip had collected the last of the money that afternoon. It was there in the candy box, tightly tied with great loops of peppermint-striped ribbon, on the coffee table in front of the couch. The five pounds of expensive chocolates it had held—the brand and that particular wrapping had been specified—lay in a heap on a silver tray beside the box.

  From behind Kit her uncle said, “You’ll have to allow an extra few minutes on account of the rain. You’d better start soon.”

  “Yes. What will you do, Philip?”

  Til go on up to Denfield and wait. Libby will be returned to us there. You’ll come when you—when you’re finished?”

  His new dependence on her was throat-catching. There was nothing personal in it. She was someone who shared the same endeavor perforce, who had been selected as the proper tool. “I’ll come as soon as I can.”

  “There may not be a train.”

  “Then I’ll take a cab ”

  “You have plenty of money?”

  “Lots.”

  The whispering voice had said, “Miss Haven will wear her red coat.” The coat wasn’t red. It was a soft rose, a Scotch tweed she had bought with her own money, proudly, three years ago.