The velvet hand Read online

  Miriam said to Kit, frowning, “Give me some of that brandy, in a small glass. I don’t like her color.” They were trying to get the brandy through Libby’s flaccid lips when Dr. Terry walked in.

  He took one look at Libby and went straight to the phone. His nurse, Lucy Barrett, had gone to school with Libby and lived only a short distance away. She was there almost at once. Doctor Terry said that Libby had been heavily drugged. She was also suffering from shock and exposure. After that they were all excluded from the room and there was nothing to do but wait.

  Walter Rolfe, the man who had brought Libby home, told his story. Rolfe was a paper salesman. He had gotten a very early start out of New York that morning, and because he had to stop at Danbury, he had taken the short cut through Denfield. In the long stretch of woods beyond the town, in about the middle of it, his attention had been attracted by something agitating bushes on a bank above the road. He thought at first that it was a large animal, perhaps a deer that had been wounded. Getting out to investigate, he found Libby, crawling around in a circle on her hands and knees, her face covered with blood. She was just barely conscious then. She kept mumbling, “Haven, Thome Road,” over and over. Rolfe was already on Thome Road. Putting her in his car—he was fairly familiar with the terrain and knew there weren’t too many houses on Thome—he had started looking for mail boxes and had found theirs just as he was about to turn back and search for a doctor, afraid that Libby would die if she didn’t get help.

  Dr. Terry had insisted on Philip’s lying down and it was to Hugo and Kit that Rolfe talked, showing them his credentials, his driving license, a book of samples, other papers. There was no doubt of his honesty. He said he would be at the Hotel Green in Danbury overnight if they should want him. When he left Hugo went with him to examine the place where Libby had been found.

  Miriam phoned William. “The poor boy must be told that Libby’s back”; and Anita and George called and Kit talked to both of them. She didn’t go into details. She simply said that Libby had been returned early that morning and that she was ill and in bed. George wanted to come up but Kit said no, and that she’d get in touch with him later. George was perceptive; he didn’t bother her with questions, although quite clearly he was mystified. After that Kit sat down with a book in her own room to rest for a few minutes, and woke at four o’clock that afternoon to find Dr. Terry standing over her.

  Terry said that Libby was out of immediate danger. “We can’t be sure, of course, but I think she’s over the hump.” She was sleeping naturally now—she had been under heavy sedation when he first saw her. It had probably gone on for some time, there were hypo marks on both her arms.

  Libby being held, needles being plunged into her flesh —Kit closed her eyes. Terry went on to speak of Philip, gravely. “His heart isn’t good, Catherine, it’s got a bang in it you can hear across the room."

  “Oh, no,” Kit cried, sitting up. She had never realized how fond she was of her uncle until that moment. Kind, irascible, generous Philip; if he hurt you it wasn’t deliberate, he didn’t mean to do it. There wasn’t a grain of meanness in him anywhere. He had never willingly done anyone harm in the whole course of his existence—and he was so terrifically alive, and loved life so much. The thought of his possible death was a knife thrust. “Oh, no, Dr. Terry!” she said. “He’s so strong—and he’s got so much energy. I can’t really believe. . .”

  Terry nodded. “That’s just it. Your uncle has driven himself too hard all his life—and then with this about Libby . . . Don’t look like that, my dear. It’s just that you ought to be warned. With care your uncle can live for years. Hundreds, thousands of people, with hearts worse than his are walking around at eighty.”

  He patted Kit’s shoulder. He had been taking care of the Haven family for more than a decade and he was fond of this girl with the beautiful eyes and the fine mouth. She wasn’t only clever, she had plenty of guts. “I’ve told you because he’ll want watching, Catherine. Don’t let him work too hard, and don’t let him get excited. . .”

  “Come, Doctor.” Kit smiled at Terry, and he smiled back. “I know. Well, don’t let him get any more excited than can be helped.”

  Terry picked up his bag. He had been given a rough outline of what had happened. “I suppose that now Libby’s safely home you’ll be getting in touch with the police?” At Kit’s blank expression—it simply hadn’t occurred to her— he said that in any event nothing much could be done until Libby was able to talk, and went.

  Kit threw cold water on her face, ran a comb through her hair, and walked along the corridor, and very softly, into Libby’s room. Lucy Barrett was in a chair near the window. She put a finger to her lips, and Kit nodded and tiptoed over to the bed. Libby was deeply asleep. Under the covers her breast rose and fell evenly. Her lips, the short upper one, the fuller lower one, were a little parted. Between them her teeth gleamed whitely. She was still pale, but there was more color under her skin and her brown lashes made long curved shadows on her cheeks. She looked so infinitely better than she had looked that morning that Kit’s heart filled with gratitude.

  Standing there, she made a vow to herself. I will never be jealous again. No matter how much Hugo Cavanaugh loves her, no matter how openly he shows it. Libby might or might not be attracted to Tony Wilder but if she was, for the moment, she had a lot of common sense and she’d get over it. Right now, perhaps, Wilder had what someone had called the enchantment of the strange. It wouldn’t last. Hugo was so much the better man that it wasn’t worth speaking about.

  Libby stirred but didn’t wake and Kit slipped quietly out and along the corridor to her uncle’s room. She started to open the door by inches, pushed it wide. Dr. Terry said that he had given Philip a sedative and that he’d sleep for some time. Philip wasn’t asleep. He was in an armchair, smoking, in a robe that had holes in the elbows. There were two new robes hanging in his closet that he never wore. It was typical. Money for everything, money for everyone, nothing for himself. Hugo was with him, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  Kit said, “I’ve just been with Libby, and she’s much better—so much better. What did you find out, Hugo?” He shrugged moodily. “Nothing much that will help. There’s an old logging road that ends a short distance from the spot where Rolfe found Libby. She was probably dumped out of a car in there in the woods at around four or five o’clock this morning. You can see where she crawled towards the main road—but if there were any distinguishing marks in that lane, of tires, things like that, the rain washed them away. It’s no good. The police are the only ones who can. . .”

  “No,” Philip blazed, bringing his fist down on the table beside him so that the ash tray jumped. “No, I tell you, I won’t have it. Libby’s home and safe. Terry says she’s going to be all right. I’m not going to put her into jeopardy again. The gang of ruffians who took her can have the money. They played fair, they sent her back. The hell with it.”

  Hugo said narrowly, his eyes cold, “So that those gentlemen can go on to bigger and better things? So that they can grab other girls?”

  Philip’s face tinned livid. “I’ll thank you to mind your own business, Cavanaugh.”

  Over her uncle’s head Kit flashed Hugo a warning look. She said to him lightly, “You get out of here.” Hugo went, and she spoke soothingly to Philip, telling him that he had to rest. “You’ve got to lie down for awhile, my pet, you’ve simply got to. Haven’t we had enough trouble around here?” She smiled at him. “The first thing you know you’ll be sick yourself, and that won’t help a bit. Come on, get into bed and stretch out.” She piled pillows. “You can read if you like, but you’ve got to get off your feet, if only for an hour or so—that is if you don’t want to look like the wrath of God when you see Libby later on.”

  Astonishingly, her uncle obeyed her. He didn’t even look surprised at her tone, her new air of authority. Always before they had been separate individuals, each going his own way. Kit handed him his book, switched on the bed lamp and
left the room.

  Hugo was waiting for her in the hall outside, and he was furious. His face was set, his mouth stem. “Look, Kit, this is crazy. Do you mean to say that your uncle is going to lie down under this, that he’s going to let those people . . . ?” Kit stopped him. She told him about Philip’s heart, and what Dr. Terry had said. “If Philip doesn’t want the police, then that’s the way it will have to be.”

  Hugo gave her a long, considering stare. “A heart condition? It doesn’t seem possible—but Terry ought to know. Excitement, yes, I can see that . . .” He thrust his hands deep into his pockets, eyed the mg, raised his head and lifted a shoulder. “I’m sorry, Kit, but as far as the police go, I’m afraid it’s too late. They’ve already been informed.” Kit was dismayed. What would her uncle say when he heard that? Would he have another heart attack? That was what had sent him down the terrace steps when he saw Libby’s blood-covered face. . . . Somewhere along the hall a door closed softly. It wasn’t the door to Libby’s room, it was in the other direction. The sound was tiny, but clear. It must have been her aunt’s door. There was no one else up here. Miriam must have been watching them, listening to them. Why was Miriam skulking like that? Why didn’t she come out into the open? Ask her. The chips were down. Libby was no longer in danger.

  Kit started for her aunt’s room, but Hugo stopped her. “Don’t,” he said in a low voice. “Let her alone. Talking to her won’t get you anywhere. Come on.” They went downstairs and outside. On the terrace, away from the windows, Hugo said, leaning against the low wall, “It must have occurred to you, Kit, that a lot of peculiar things have been going on—and I mean peculiar. Whoever’s at the bottom of this whole damnable business knows this house well, well enough to prowl about it at will—don’t forget Libby’s hat and the kettle—well enough to tell you what clothes to wear when you started out to deliver the money.”

  “You think that Miriam . . Kit was openly incredulous. “But Miriam was here all the time, and William-well, he was here most of the time.” She didn’t mention Anita, but her heart was heavy.

  Hugo said, staring in front of him, “These affairs are seldom one-man jobs. It takes more than one man. And I’m not accusing your aunt, particularly. I’m not saying that she’s involved in it, or William, either. I’m only saying that a lot of information was necessary to pull the whole thing off, and that someone familiar with this house and the people in it is sitting pretty with that twenty-five thousand in his jeans.” He went on slowly, "And if it’s the last thing I do on earth, I’m going to get him.”

  The depth of emotion in Hugo, his contained savagery, startled Kit. Like Philip, she herself had been inclined to rest on her oars. Libby was home and safe—that was as far as she had been able to see; thought hadn’t projected itself beyond that. But Hugo was right, it couldn’t stop there. A new wave of depression overwhelmed her. Ought she to tell Hugo about Anita, her conviction that Anita was tied up with Samuel Pedrick in some way? No, she decided, go to Anita first and give her a chance to explain. The thought of the police worried Kit, too.

  Hugo said that Strait was handling it. “He’s a diplomatic guy. The velvet hand—he doesn’t need a glove. And don’t worry about your uncle; he’ll come around. He flies off the handle at the drop of a hat, but it doesn’t mean anything —not,” he looked keenly down into her face and smiled for the first time, “not unlike you. You really are very much alike in some ways, that’s probably why you don’t get on better, why you strike sparks. Anyhow,” he sobered, and his grimness came back, “watch your step, and keep your eyes and ears open. I’ve got to get to New York. Strait’s waiting for me.”

  Kit watched him drive off in his car and went thoughtfully indoors. The rest of the day was uneventful. Libby slept on, gathering strength; Dr. Terry was pleased with her condition when he came in after dinner. They were all exhausted and went early to bed. Tony Wilder called just as Kit was going upstairs. She had forgotten him. When he heard that Libby was home he wanted to speak to her, he was demanding about it, insistent. Kit told him curtly that it was impossible, and cut him off.

  Terry had said that Libby would be able to talk to them tomoiTOw if her improvement continued. Her improvement did continue; they were in her room before ten o’clock the next morning.

  “Philip, darling! Kit!” Lying against piled pillows Libby smiled her crinkle-eyed smile at them where they stood on either side of the bed.

  Her pale blue jacket deepened the blue of her eyes, her bright hair was no longer unkempt, and the scratches were hidden under bandages. But in spite of the front she put up, you could see what she must have been through. She was thinner, and very tired, as though she hadn’t slept for a week and that to speak or to move was an unbearable effort, and yet she insisted on talking.

  “It’s so good to be back.” She looked from one to the other, and her chin quivered. But she conquered her shakiness. They let her talk—it was probably better for her to get it out of her system—and listened to her, for the most part, in silence.

  Everything was pretty much as they had imagined it to have been except for a few odds and ends. On that Monday night Libby had decided to give her wardrobe a thorough going-over and at around half-past eight she went upstairs to her room after a sandwich and a glass of milk in the kitchen. She said that Agnes was gone and Miriam was in bed. The house was quiet. She didn’t hear any sound, anything alarming, but all of a sudden, turning from the closet with an armful of clothes, she saw the man. He was standing in the bedroom doorway looking at her. Just standing there. Before she could scream he raised his hand. There was a gun in it. He said, "Just stay where you are, Miss,” and came in and closed the door and leaned against it.

  “God.” Philip wiped his forehead.

  Libby’s face was white with remembered terror. She didn’t speak for a minute. Then she got hold of herself, started to nod, and winced. “Well, it wasn’t very—very nice.” Her fingers plucked at the spread. “I was scared out of my wits. I knew Aunt was asleep, she had taken one of her pills, and except for her the house was empty—and it’s so big.”

  What did the man look like? She pondered determinedly, her eyes wide and dark above tight hands. He was small and not young and had on a soiled gabardine topcoat with the collar turned up. She thought there was a muffler inside the collar and his hat was pulled well down over his eyes so that she couldn’t see much of his face. Anyhow she had done exactly what the man had told her to do. She threw some clothes in a bag, pulling things out of the closet indiscriminately, and then wrote the note they had found. The man wasn’t satisfied with the first one she started, made her write the second one, telling her what to say. After that he made her pick up her bag and go in front of him down the stairs and outside and down the driveway. She paused there, her breathing short, uneven.

  “When we got near the road he told me to stand still. It was pitch dark under the maples, and I couldn’t see anything but I felt a bandage, a scarf or something, being tied around my head and over my eyes. I didn’t think the man could do that and shoot me. I tried to get away, but I couldn’t.”

  She gave her head a shake, and stared into sunlight at shadows. “I couldn’t because there was another man there. He was the man who tied the bandage on while the first one, the one who came upstairs and into this room, held me, with his hand over my mouth. I couldn’t scream but I did manage to kick off my pump, my green lizard.” She settled deeper into her pillows. "Didn’t you find it? I thought maybe if you did find it you’d guess.”

  Philip and Kit both said no, and Libby’s lip quivered. “And I thought I was being so smart.”

  Her nervous energy was beginning to flag, but it was better to let her finish. She said that after that she had been put into a car and a needle had been jabbed into her arm, and that was all she could remember for a long while. When she woke up she was lying on a sofa in a dark room. It was so dark that she couldn’t see anything at all and she only knew it was a sofa because her head was again
st the upholstered arm. The upholstery had a big hole in it, and it smelled horrid, of mice, and dust. They kept her in the dark all the time. They gave her food in the dark. The only time the light was turned on was when they jabbed needles into her arm, but she couldn’t see anything then because her eyes were bandaged. “It was always dark. . . .” The brightness of her eyes dulled. Her mouth bunched and she began to shake, badly.

  “That’s enough,” Philip said in a peremptory voice. “Don’t, Libby—don’t think of it any more. You don’t have to. It’s over.”

  Libby drew a long shuddering breath and tried to smile. “Yes,” she said, “it’s over, isn’t it?—and I’m here and they won’t be able to get at me again.”

  Her color had completely faded. It was hurting to see the white shrinking in her. The nurse came in with a tray then. Dr. Terry followed her. “Out,” Terry said cheerfully to Kit and Philip. “This young lady is going to have some lunch now, and I’m the boy who’s going to stay and see she eats it.” They went without a word, too overcome to say anything.

  That afternoon Tony Wilder telephoned again. At first he appeared to have resigned himself. He asked how Libby was and when Kit said much better he said that was splendid, and that he was delighted to hear it. “Will you give her a message, Miss Haven? Will you tell her I’m coming up to Denfield?”

  Kit scowled at the wall. If they needed anything less than a visit from Tony Wilder just then she couldn’t think what it was. Philip was still nervous and on edge, and he didn’t like the man anyhow. She said as quietly as possible so as not to antagonize him further, “Libby is better, Mr. Wilder, but she’s not nearly well enough to see anyone yet.”

  "Then let me talk to her.”

  Kit deliberated. Anything was preferable to having the fellow camp on their doorstep and get into Philip’s hair— and Wilder was frightfully persistent. The upstairs extension was close to Libby’s room, just outside the door. Kit chose the lesser of two evils. She said, "Hold on, Mr. Wilder, and I’ll see.”