The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes and Impossible Mysteries Part 58

His voice stopped on a rising note. There was an instant's silence, then his voice flowed on. "Control yourself, dear lady. It is a shock. I see you understand. You clutch your throat, you look around, you see how the preparations were made. It was very simple. There, in that very chair, he sat. Yesterday there was no a.s.sistant, or, shall we say, I was the a.s.sistant. I held it, so. I pa.s.sed it across, saying: 'What a beautiful repair!' And it is done, so, in the twinkling of an eye, without noise or fanfare, a simple, innocent-"

A low sound came from Marceline like the cry of an animal. There was a rush, a scuffling, a gasped: "Give it to me!"

"Not quite so fast, dear lady." Dow's oily voice hardly faltered. "It is my whole purpose to give it to you for a price."

"What price?"

The bland voice was like honey. "Now that you are a rich woman, much money is accessible to you. Ten thousand dollars will not be too much. You will have a certified check for that amount tomorrow at nine thirty. On your discretion I can count. There is so much I know, you see, so much you did not tell the police."

Marceline said in a terribly altered voice: "Is that all?"

"That is all, dear lady, until the morning."

Marceline came out so precipitately she almost smashed the door into Sandra's face. Sandra reeled flat to the wall. Marceline didn't look back. She went down the corridor almost at a run.

The lights went out. Dow was coming out. Sandra started back toward the staircase, froze. She saw, vague in the darkness, a blank bulk standing at the head of the stairs.

Sandra's heart seemed to leap out of her mouth like a jackrabbit. Pure primordial instinct, the kind that freezes animals into replicas of posts, of weed clumps, glued her like an integral part of the darkness to the wall. She might have been a piece of the fire extinguisher whose bulging cylinder touched her forehead. A man, waiting there for what? For her? Had he seen her?

Her eyes swung wildly. She was caught between two fires. Already Dow was coming out; she heard the pad of his feet, the door closing.

It was an interminable moment, a moment that seemed to scream in the silence with all the voices of pandemonium. Behind her was Dow, his hand on the k.n.o.b; ahead was that shape, looming silent, waiting.

A voice from the stairhead said: "Dow."

Dow whirled around. Flame roared in a blasting streak across the dark. She saw Dow leap completely across the corridor like a chimpanzee. The dark was a wild havoc of noise. The man was plunging this way. Sandra had only one way to go. She flung down the fire extinguisher, fled like an antelope over its deafening crash. She made the stairhead, flew down the staircase like a streak in blackness. She twisted into the washroom, flung up the window, and darted down the fire escape.

IV.

The sunlight gilded De Saules' hawklike head, his back, the black spike of his beard, as he stood in the apartment lobby. His narrow eyes shifted down the line of bells, read the card opposite one: "Miss Sandra Grey." The odor of breakfast drifted down to him through the open lobby door, muted morning noises. De Saules did not ring the bell. He lifted the topcoat on his left arm, glanced once at the bulb-like swelling, the thin tubular nose that extended one pocket. He went rapidly up the carpeted steps to Sandra's apartment.

Sandra herself opened the door. She was ready to go out. The morning light made a halo around her trim little shako hat, touched the freshness of her face, made her eyes vividly brown, her lips as red as cyclamen. De Saules' hat was in his hand.

"Good morning, Miss Grey. You'll pardon such an early call? You're going out, but may I have just a moment?"

"Of course." Sandra's eyes widened as she let him in. De Saules did not sit down. He stood in the center of the living room, immaculate in dove-gray tweed, perfectly poised, his cool eyes mild and disarming.

"This is rather abrupt, Miss Grey, but I am a busy man and have not much time. This will only take a moment. I have been so impressed by your splendid welfare work that I wish to make a donation to it."

Sandra sat down. She stared at the smiling olive face, so freshly barbered, almost purringly soft. De Saules stepped across the rug. He sat very close to Sandra. It was a confidential, gliding movement.

"The size of the donation depends only upon yourself."

Sandra was very still. It was curious, what that simple statement did to the room. One moment the air was calm, relaxed; the next bristling with tension as though electricity crackled through it.

Sandra opened her mouth. "Oh," she said. "I understand."

"There is only one stipulation." De Saules' cool eyes were very close. "That is, that you devote your attention to welfare work from now on."

"From now on?"

The cool eyes inclined forward.

"That means, from this morning on?"

De Saules' eyebrows rose, fell. "We understand each other perfectly, Miss Grey."

Sandra ran her tongue between her lips. She was a fool ever to have closed the apartment door. She felt the blood pound, racing in her ears.

"And if I do not accept this contribution?"

De Saules studied her. His eyes narrowed very slightly, as though he thought there might be some misunderstanding between them.

"Perhaps you have not seen the morning papers?"

"No."

De Saules unfolded an edition from his pocket. The headline screamed in blackface: COMPLETE REVERSAL OF TESTIMONY.

Three Witnesses Admit Delaunay Took Poison in their Presence Sandra's mind went blank. A reversal of testimony! It was impossible! Impossible! Admitted he took the poison! What on- De Saules' voice cut across her stupefaction. "It happened late last night. Captain Corrigan is extremely bewildered, but he will be obliged to accept the fact."

Sandra gasped: "All . . . all of you . . . you and Marceline-"

"Precisely."

"The Chinese maid, too?"

De Saules smiled with his eyes. "In her position it is, shall we say, difficult to get another job if discharged under suspicion of murder. She is a very level-headed girl."

Sandra managed to get the words out of her mouth.

"You want me to corroborate this absurd lie?"

"Not at all, Miss Grey." De Saules' tone was unruffled. "The gift I mean the settlement gift, of course-will enable you to study conditions abroad very comfortably, even luxuriously, provided you take the boat that leaves at noon. There are excellent airplane connections which I have already arranged."

Sandra sprang up. She was already at the telephone before De Saules cried: "What are you doing?"

"I will call up Captain Corrigan at once."

De Saules was across like the crack of a whip. He s.n.a.t.c.hed the telephone from her.

"No. I do not think so." His voice was low, staccato. "If you do not make it easy for me, you will make it hard. If you will not go as I suggest, you will stay here and see no one."

Sandra hurled the words in his face. "Until after the appointment at half past nine, is that it?"

"Perhaps." His eyes were very narrow. "Perhaps much longer."

Sandra laughed in his face. "How will you keep me?"

There was nothing cool or composed about De Saules' face now. Everything had been wiped off it but the elementals a savage locked bleakness like a bird of prey. "You are dealing with someone much more intelligent than you, Miss Grey. One who has thought of every contingency. I would hardly have come up here without being prepared for your refusal."

Sandra should have screamed then. The next moment she could not. One supple movement and his arm snaked under hers, a grip had her by the neck such as she had never felt before in her life. It was like two points of fire-freezing fire at the base of her brain-two closing, clamping points of a vice that flooded paralysis through her whole muscular system. She knew then. The man was a jujitsu expert. She felt herself crumpling, as weak as a doll. His topcoat was half over her head. From it his free hand had s.n.a.t.c.hed a gla.s.s atomizer with a long, thin nose.

His breath was close to her ear. "Cycloprophane is a relatively new anesthetic. Mixed with oxygen, it induces a very sound sleep. You will rest very quietly, quietly be carried downstairs, out of the house."

He had her over the chair back, crushing her down, the coat tented over her head. Fumes were pouring in her face, sickening, suffocating fumes. She tried to hit, kick, whirl, felt the strength suck out of her with each gasp of that sickening flood. The cold nose of the atomizer was between her teeth. He had to shift his hand for that. His thumb slued down across her mouth, keeping her lips open. With every last ounce of strength she bit his thumb. He gave a cry, dropped the atomizer on the front of her dress. She s.n.a.t.c.hed it, blind, wild, smashed it into his face. She saw the bulb burst, the contents splash starwise over his face.

It was like the long, slow, incredibly endless movements of a nightmare. The room was reeling around her; the s.p.a.ce to the door seemed to stretch out to infinity. He was there on the floor, gasping, clawing weakly, no longer able to make coordinated movements. She blundered into the table, sent it crashing. Her bag was there on the floor, spinning like a top before the door. She caught it up, plunged sobbing, gasping, through the door.

The taxi driver stared at Sandra. She was very pale.

"You feel all right, lady?"

"Yes! Yes!" She gasped out the Delaunay address. "Please hurry! Hurry!"

The cab buzzed like a hornet through early morning traffic. Sandra sat in the window corner, gulped in great mouthfuls of fresh air. Her head was steadying; if the nausea would only subside- The appointment! Dow and Marceline! Sandra glanced for the twentieth time at her watch, watched the minutes crawl across the dial. 9:39 . . . 9:40 . . . Would she be too late? Too late?

The cab swung into the sweeping lawns, the rippling trees of the Delaunay street. She rapped hard on the gla.s.s part.i.tion.

"Pull over to the side behind those trees."

She was out the door almost before the cab reached the curb. "Wait here!" She was gone between the ma.s.sed shrubbery of the Delaunay drive.

Before her the big house stood quiet, dappled with sun and shade. She darted around the side, in the service door. Bulky packages from market were lying, still unretrieved, within that told her Marceline had dismissed the servants. As Sandra's feet sounded in the kitchen, she heard Marceline's startled voice: "Who's there?"

Sandra whirled through the kitchen, down the hall, straight into the library.

Marceline was standing bolt upright against the very cas.e.m.e.nt Dow had used for his ghoul's visit. She was alone. In the blaze of yellow light behind her, her face looked extraordinarily white, her black eyes feverishly brilliant. Whatever movements she had had time to make between Sandra's entrance and Sandra's appearance in the library were few and brief. She wore an ornate house coat, whose gorgeous flowers of scarlet and gold emphasized her frightful pallor, the brilliance of her eyes. She let her hands drop from behind her back as she exclaimed: "You!"

Then Sandra knew what she had been doing with her hands. She had been closing the cas.e.m.e.nt. That told her the story; that and the faint but unmistakable reek of violet in the air. Dow had just gone; Sandra had caught her almost in the act of receiving what Dow had brought; she had not had time to dispose of it. The crisis of the whole affair swung like a pendulum in the quiet room. Sandra felt strangely cool, knife-hard. It was woman against woman, and it was going to be fought out with women's weapons.

Her velvety eyes were as soft as Irish honey. "Why, darling, how upset you look! Did I frighten you by running in?"

Marceline sat down on the sofa. It was a quick, crouching movement. Sandra could see the pulse beat in her throat. Her voice was unkeyed.

"What are you doing here?"

"I've the most wonderful thing to tell you!" Sandra's voice rippled with excitement. That wasn't hard. Under that locked coolness she had never been so excited in her life. She crossed to the sofa, sat quickly by Marceline. "Mr de Saules has just made me the most wonderful gift for my welfare work!"

Marceline stared at her. It could be seen from her wild, uncollected eyes just how unready this sidelong shot caught her. Their brilliant depths had almost a stupid blankness. She was in the position of one who cannot estimate her antagonist, has no idea what she knows, and is so caught by the jeopardy of her own position that she cannot collect herself to fence. Sandra didn't give her time to marshal herself. She burst out: "I'm so excited, darling! I just had to rush over! May I have one of your cigarettes?"

With quick, hard hands she patted the pockets of Marceline's house coat. It had only two pockets; its zippered length was otherwise unrelieved. The two pockets were empty.

"Oh, you've got them here, of course." Sandra picked up Marceline's bag, unsnapped it, raked inside. A compact, lipstick, gold pencil, rolled away beneath her fingers. Nothing else. Her eyes darted around the room. That d.a.m.ning bit of evidence was here somewhere. Where had she put it? Where? The room was singularly bare of places of quick concealment. The books lining three walls were packed solid, behind gla.s.s. There was only a cloisonne jar on the mantel, a tabouret with a red drawer, and the ma.s.sive bulk of a combination radio and victrola.

Marceline said harshly: "What are you doing here, if you took the gift?"

Sandra crossed to the mantel. "I had to thank you." She took the cover off the cloisonne jar. It was empty. That left only the tabouret drawer and the radio combination. Once she lifted the lid of the radio, the game was up.

"Thank me? What do you mean?"

"I knew it came from you." Sandra snapped open the tabouret drawer, looked at blank red wood. Her voice rippled, flute-soft. "You do keep your cigarettes in the most outlandish places." She crossed to the radio, lifted the lid, saw nothing inside whatever.

Marceline sprang up. The b.u.t.tons were off the foils now. She cried: "What are you doing?"

Then Sandra saw it. The sight gave her such a rush of relief she felt for an instant free and giddy as if swept into mountain air. She crossed, almost in a run, to the far end of the sofa. She knelt on the cushions. She leaned over the arm. She said, in the same dulcet, flute-soft voice: "Why, darling, the fish are all dead."

The goldfish in the bowl were floating bellies up. Around the little ornamental castle that had been their home the water was colorless, the green fernlike fronds of bladder-wort undisturbed. Only in the sand before the castle something half immersed was gleaming that might have been the polished side of a small sh.e.l.l.

Sandra murmured: "What could have killed them? Poison, do you suppose? Poison, on something that's been dropped in?"

She lifted her hand to dip into the bowl. Marceline took two wild, darting movements toward a wing chair and came up with a gun from beneath the cushion.

"Put your hand in that bowl and I swear I'll kill you."

Her brilliant eyes were like a leopard's. Sandra took one look at them and knew that she meant exactly what she said. Slowly she let her hand drop by her side, slowly sat down on the sofa.

"Marceline, the game's up. You don't think I took that bribe from De Saules, do you?" Sandra talked very rapidly. She held Marceline's eyes, not letting that dilated gaze escape for a second. She didn't dare. "I left him lying in my apartment. I called the police before I left the apartment lobby. You see, I was in the Mohican Building last night."

It was hard to tell, from the wildness of those eyes, whether she heard or not. Sandra drove the words in hard.

"Do you love him very much?"

A quiver went over that face. The brilliant eyes seemed stricken to their depths. Sandra slipped her compact from her pocket. Now her voice was low, soothing, as one speaks to a child.

"Did your father have great hopes for you, Marceline? Would he have disinherited you if he knew what you had done? Is that why you kept the marriage a secret?"

Marceline began to shake. She could not control it. It was all over her body, from her lips to the elbow of the arm holding the gun. The words seemed to jerk out without her volition.

"Marriage? How did you know?"

"It had to be, Marceline. He had to be your husband to have a motive. I know how you feel. You love him. You want to protect him at all costs. He's going to kill you, Marceline. He has to, now. Because you know. Marceline, he's standing right behind you in the door."

Marceline whirled. Sandra was across like a flash, smashed at the gun with her hand. It exploded point-blank into the floor; the recoil knocked it from Marceline's hand.

Sandra s.n.a.t.c.hed it up, flung it to the far end of the room. She whirled toward the fishbowl. She was too centered, going too headlong, to see the cas.e.m.e.nt swing open. Even the fan of sunlight, leaping like a spear across her path, didn't warm her. She was two steps from the bowl. She never reached it. Something crashed down on her head. That fan of sunlight seemed to leap up, swallow the whole room in a bursting yellow star.

It didn't knock her out. She could thank her shako hat, her thick hair, for that. She felt herself hit the sofa, go headlong into its cushions. Strong hands twisted her on her back. Whipsaws of sound were whanging and snapping in her brain. She was staring as through the wrong end of a telescope at the yellow face of Dow.

"Very lucky, dear lady, I remained to overhear." His voice poured like thin oil from far away. "It would do for the proper party to have it, but never for you. In that case I will take it back."

She saw Marceline spring at him, a screaming, clawing form. She saw the yellow man tear her from him like a kitten, fling her across the room. He hardly stopped talking to Sandra.

"I see you are not the naive, child-like little lady I took you for. It was you, then, who were in the Mohican Building last night. I made a mistake not to kill you the last time. This time I most certainly shall."

Sandra tried to roll off the sofa. She could not. The fishbowl was above her. Dow was holding it, staring into it. She would always see his face, distorted through the curved gla.s.s like the flat, prodigiously wide face of a sting ray.

Then he dipped in his yellow hand, took out the bright object.