The Girl Who Had To Die

by Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

  “And it's about Jocelyn too,” he said.

  “You're right,” said Harriet. “Pretty nearly every damn thing is about Jocelyn.”

  “Maybe you don't like her.”

  “I don't dislike her,” said Harriet. “I'm sorry for her. But I wish she was dead.”

  “Out of sheer kindness?” asked Killian.

  “I want to tell you about Eric,” she said. “I'm going to marry him.”

  “Is that bad news?”

  “You needn't be so flip,” said Harriet. “You won't be when I've finished. Eric was on the way to being a famous surgeon. And Jocelyn ruined him.”

  “I knew that was coming,” said Killian.

  “This happened two years ago—”

  “She started ruining people at seventeen?”

  “God knows when she started,” said Harriet. “This was two years ago. Eric had offices in New York then, and a fine practice. Somebody sent Jocelyn to him—I don't know why. She said she suffered a lot of pain; but he couldn't find anything wrong with her, and he told her so.”

  “Because he's like that,” said Killian. “Honest. Sterling. Noble.”

  “He's a professional man with decent standards,” said Harriet. “Does that seem so extraordinary to you?”

  “All right I I'll take Ponievsky's high standards for granted,” said Killian.

  Harriet gave him a steely look, which he met without wilting. They were enemies now, and perfectly frank about it.

  “She kept at him to give her something for this mysterious pain,” Harriet said. “When he refused, she went back to the waiting room and sat there, crying.”

  “Is that what ruined him?” Killian asked.

  “It didn't help him any. One of his patients tried to console Jocelyn, and she told Eric he was heartless about the poor child.”

  “Yes,” said Killian.

  “She came back the next day, and Eric thought it would be better to see her. He tried to talk honestly to her. He advised her to see a neurologist. But she said she'd taken a fancy to him.”

  “Girls of seventeen don't talk like that.”

  “She probably didn't talk like that,” said Harriet. “I'm just giving you the gist of it.”

  “And he repulsed her.”

  “He did. The next evening she came to the hotel where he lived and called his room from the lobby, where everyone could hear her. She said the pain was unbearable, and would he please give her something for it. That put him in a spot.”

  “Why?”

  “Doctors can't afford that sort of thing. He came downstairs to see her; and he gave her a prescription for some harmless little pills, to keep her quiet. Then he tried to find out who was responsible for her, and the next day he got in touch with her father. After that he had the whole crew on his neck. They tried to blackmail him; and when he wouldn't pay, they put on the screws. They came to his office and to his hotel. They accused him of giving her habit-forming drugs. They drove away his patients, and it finished up with a scene in his hotel that got into the newspapers. He had to quit.”

  “That's Eric's story.”

  “Yep,” she said, “that's Eric's story. He came out here, to start over again. Mother introduced him to people, and he was just getting on his feet again. You can imagine how he felt when she turned up yesterday.”

  “No, I can't imagine Doctor Eric Ponievsky's feelings.”

  “He knew he was likely to meet her some day at the house. He was ready for that. But she started right in again with the old game. Begging him to give her something for her nerves.”

  “And he still wouldn't.”

  “Naturally not.”

  “Does he expect to be ruined all over again?”

  The Captain appeared and began clearing the table. “I lash de wheel,” he said. “I know dese waters like a book. Like a book.”

  “You certainly do,” said Harriet.

  “Maybe Miss Jocelyn come out dis afternoon?”

  “Maybe she will,” said Harriet.

  “My! Such a lovely young lady,” he said.

  He took off the cloth and shook it out over the rail. Seagulls came swooping down for the crumbs. “Dose birds are wise,” he said, and vanished again.

  Harriet was trying to light another cigarette, but the wind blew out one match after another.

  “Allow me!” said Killian, rising. He shielded a match in his hands, and their eyes met. She drew on her cigarette, and leaned back again.

  “Eric's gone,” she said. “He waked me up last night and told me. He said Jocelyn had taken some sort of drug. And he said she'd be sure to say he gave it to her.”

  Killian remained standing. “I wonder how he knew she'd taken this subtle drug?” he said.

  “He went to her room,” said Harriet. “He wanted to talk to her. And he found her in a stupor.”

  “Then what did he do?”

  “He waked me. He told me he was going to get out and stay out until Jocelyn had gone.”

  “Then I suppose you sent for Doctor Jacobs?”

  “No. Eric said there wasn't any danger.”

  “I think Eric understated the case.”

  “Think whatever you please,” said Harriet. “Now I've told you.”

  “Was it just to warn me?”

  “No,” she said, “I want to make a plea. I want to beg you to take Jocelyn away.”

  Killian stood with his hands in his pockets, looking out at the water. “Let's go home,” he said.

  Harriet got up and called inside to the Captain. “Let's go home!”

  The boat made a fine sweeping curve, and headed back.

  “You don't believe me?” Harriet asked.

  “It's not your story,” he said. “It's Ponievsky's.”

  They didn't say another word. A kid of seventeen, Killian thought, crying in a doctor's waiting room. A blackmailing family. What sort of life has she led? What sort of breaks has she had? And if there could be anyone to give her a break, anyone to stand by her, who knows if she wouldn't turn out to be quite a decent little guy? She's stopped drinking. Maybe she'll stop all the rest of it. Maybe it's worth trying.

  The boat was heading toward the pier, straight as an arrow.

  “Anyhow, I've told you,” said Harriet. “You know what to expect. Jocelyn's going to accuse Eric of giving her something. Poison, she'll probably say.”

  “And what's her motive for that?” Killian asked. “Just for the sheer fun of ruining Eric?”

  “She's afraid of Eric. She's afraid hell tell you the truth about her.”

  “A subtle revenge,” said Killian. “She poisons herself so that Eric can be accused of poisoning her.”

  “All right!” said Harriet. “I quit.”

  The boat glided along into the pier, and Harriet jumped ashore, quick as a cat. “Thanks, Captain!” she said. Come again! Come again!” he said. They moved toward the car, side by side.

  “There's this,” said Killian. “Jocelyn won't stay in your house forever—”

  “Not my house,” said Harriet.

  “She won't stay in Mr. Bell's house forever. She'll leave, and this Eric can come out of hiding, and all will be well.”

  She said nothing to that; she started the car and they drove off.

  “Eric isn't hiding,” she said presently. “He's just staying at a sort of little hotel until Jocelyn gets out. We'll stop and see him.”

  “I don't want to see him.”

  “I do,” said Harriet.

  “In fact, I won't see him,” said Killian. “I want to get back to see Doctor Jacobs.”

  “You'll get back in plenty of time,” said Harriet. “I'm just going to stop by and see Eric.”

  “I suppose I can get a taxi,” Killian said.

  She drove down the lane that was like a miniature canyon again, and this time she turned right, along a smooth, empty road lined by fields, up a hill, through a stone gateway with a sign: The Maples. Private Board.

  What's private board, anyho
w? Killian thought. What would public board be? Before them was a big, old-fashioned house with a veranda. Rocking chairs, he thought. Stewed apricots and baker's cake, Sunday night.

  “I'll only be a minute,” said Harriet. “I want to tell Eric that you know the truth.” She stood in the road, looking down at the ground. “Look here!” she said, glancing at him. “If I bring Eric out here, could you say something?”

  “No,” he said. “I'm sorry, Harriet.”

  “You wouldn't have to say anything direct. You could just have an attitude. Just let him see that you don't think he's a—a criminal.”

  “I'm sorry,” he said again, “but I haven't got any attitude yet.”

  “You've seen Eric,” she said. “You know perfectly well he's not a poisoner.”

  “I don't know anything,” said Killian. “You don't believe what I told you?”

  “I believe you believe it,” he said. “But everything has two sides, or more. Don't bring him out, Harriet.”

  “I'm going to,” she said. “If you can look at him, and Still think he's poisoned anybody, all right.”

  “Let's skip it, Harriet. Give me time to think about this.”

  “Time to hear Jocelyn's version,” she said. “No! You've got to see Eric, even if it's just to say good morning, before you listen to Jocelyn.”

  She went off along the drive, and Killian lit a cigarette. I don't think Ponievsky tried to poison Jocelyn, he thought. I don't believe in murder. It's unnatural—very poor taste. I won't countenance it. It's quite possible that Jocelyn will accuse Ponievsky. She did it to me. She said I murdered her. But I lived through that, and I wasn't ruined. Ponievsky can bear it. Harriet takes the whole thing too seriously. That's love.

  The Maples was very quiet, very, very quiet. Why wouldn't it be, on a Sunday morning? I must be nervous. I'm having presentiments. Behind this Sunday-morning quiet lies Tragedy. Battle, murder, and sudden death. Harriet didn't seem to be coming out and bringing Eric. I'll smoke one more cigarette, and then I'll take steps. I want to get back and see Doctor Jacobs.

  The screen door gave a muffled bang behind Harriet. Coming out alone. She walked jerkily, coming down hard on her heels. He opened the door of the car, and she got in beside him.

  “Well!” she said in a loud, harsh voice. “Well, he's gone.” Killian waited until they had turned into the highway, leaving The Maples behind them.

  “Gone?” he repeated.

  “He's run away,” said Harriet.

  CHAPTER NINE

  DO you realize what this means, you poor little devil? thought Killian. He glanced sidelong at Harriet. Yes, he thought. You realize, all right.

  “Harriet,” he said. “I'm sorry. I mean it.”

  “Well,” she said, “you ought to be glad. It's a big help for Jocelyn's version.”

  “Jocelyn hasn't given any version yet.”

  “Please don't be mild and wise!” she cried. “I'm not going to be hypocritical about this. I— Here! Do you want to drive?”

  “Yes,” he said. She was crying. She stopped the car, and they changed places. “Next left turn,” she said. “I know what this means. Eric wouldn't run away for nothing. It's possible that he made some pretty awful mistake. Gave her the wrong medicine—something like that.”

  “Yes,” Killian said, in a thoughtful way. “That's possible.”

  “Well!” she said. “I don't believe that, and neither do you.”

  “Well have to wait and hear what Jocelyn says.”

  “Oh, no, we won't! Eric left a note for me. He said he had to sail for Poland on the next ship. He said it's to see about an estate over there. All of a sudden, on a Sunday morning. No. He's running away.”

  “If he's made a mistake,” Killian said, carefully, “that's probably the best thing he can do.”

  “It isn't!” she said, flatly. “It's never the best thing, to run away.”

  “You're wrong, sister,” said Killian.

  “Well,” said Harriet, “maybe it's a good thing for him. But it's a damn bad thing for me. I had a lot of respect for him. I honestly looked forward to marrying him.”

  “That's a funny way to put it. How about love?”

  “Phooey,” she said, briefly.

  “Love is a lot of things,” said Killian, “but it's not phooey.”

  She was silent for a while, blinking her ginger lashes. “I want a life with some sense to it,” she said. “Eric was doing a good job. Doctors are useful when they're intelligent, like Eric. He'd have done his work, and I'd have done mine. But—well, it's finished.”

  “Maybe hell come back,” said Killian.

  “Not to me,” she said. “The landlady at The Maples said Eric telephoned to someone this morning. She heard him ask, 'How is Jocelyn?' She was all agog; she knew there was something queer. He said, 'Oh! She's better? Jacobs has seen her?* Then he went upstairs and began to pack, and he told the landlady he was called away on business.”

  A mistake? thought Killian. It doesn't look like that. It looks— My God! Jocelyn said five men wanted to murder her. Is it true? Ponievsky was one of them? Is this true?

  He stopped the car before the house, and Harriet got out. “Thanks!” she said. She ran up the steps and into the house, and Killian went slowly after her. Elly was sitting on the terrace, and he sat down in a chair beside her.

  “Hello!” she said gaily.

  Her face shocked him. She had too much rouge on her cheekbones; her mouth was too red, and it was tight and stretched, like a poor little clown's.

  “Hello!” he answered. “Elly, how is Chauverney?”

  “He's fine!” she said.

  “Good!” said Killian, heartily. “That's good.”

  “Have you seen the newspapers?” Elly asked, and picked up a section from the floor beside her; she opened it and folded it over and handed it to Killian.

  It was an inconspicuous item. Passenger Rescued at Sea, New York Girl Falls Overboard in Mid-Ocean. Miss Jocelyn Frey, nineteen, residing at the Hotel St. Pol, had an attack of vertigo while sitting on the rail of the Williams Line M. S. Las Pampas on the evening of May 12th, and fell overboard. Prompt action on the part of Captain K. E. Portman resulted in her immediate rescue by the crew of a lifeboat. Miss Frey is resting at the home of friends on Long Island.

  “Not much, is there?” said Elly.

  “No, there isn't,” said Killian. There was a little silence. “Well,” he said, “I'll see you later, Elly.”

  He went into the house, with a sort of timidity. I'm nothing but a guest, after all, he thought. And Jocelyn's a guest. What you might call an inconsiderate guest. Always getting murdered.

  He looked into the drawing room, with some idea of asking somebody, politely, if he might go up and see Miss Frey. But there wasn't anybody there, or in the library, and he went up, and knocked at her door. “Come in!” she called.

  She was sitting up in bed in a little blue silk jacket, her soft hair loose; there was a breakfast tray across her knees, white cloth, pink and white china, a pink rose in a little vase. The sun was shining into the room, there was a glitter of silver from the dressing table; the whole effect was luxurious and charming. And sweet. A delicate and beautiful young girl, having her breakfast on a spring morning.

  “Hello, Jocko, dear!” she said, with a little anxious smile.

  “Hello, Jocelyn!” he answered, and closed the door. “How are you feeling?”

  “Tired,” she said.

  “But happy?” he asked.

  She took up the cup of coffee in both her thin little hands, and bent her head to drink it. Then she lay back on the pillow looking at him. “Take away the tray, will you?” she said.

  As he took it, he saw that she had eaten nothing at all, and that made him angry. “Here!” he said, with a frown. He sat down on the bed beside her, and cut two slices of toast into neat strips. “Here!” he said. She took a bite; she went on eating. He held the glass of orange juice to her lips, and she drank it. When the t
oast was all eaten, he took away the tray.

  “Give me a smoke, Jocko?” she said.

  “I don't know if it's good for you,” he said.

  “I don't care,” she said. He gave her a cigarette and lit it for her; she leaned back, and took his hand. “I'm tired,” she said.

  “Tell me about this drug business,” he said. “Last night I asked Eric to give me something to make me sleep, and he did.”

  “It looks that way.”

  “Maybe it was something new, that he didn't understand very well,” she said. “Or maybe I was especially susceptible to it.”

  “You're taking a very reasonable tone. Admirable.”

  “I'm saying what you'd say. There's no use telling you the truth.”

  “The truth being that you've been murdered again?”

  “What's the use of talking about it?” she said.

  “I'd like to hear,” he said. “I'd like to hear the whole story about you and Eric.”

  “That means you've heard somebody else's version already,” she said, “You can hear mine, if you like.”

  “I won't like.”

  “I don't remember when it was,” she said.” About two years ago, I guess. I was just about crazy with pain from a sinus infection, and somebody sent me to Eric. He gave me something that helped a lot. It was cocaine, but I didn't know that. I didn't care, anyhow. It stopped the pain, and it made me feel glorious. Some people react that way to cocaine. I was wildly excited and happy. But that night the pain came back. I wanted that stopped, and I wanted to feel glorious again. I wasn't reasonable. I don't stand pain very heroically. Eric took a lofty tone. I think he told me the pain in my head wasn't bad. I just didn't agree with him. I tried everything. I drank God knows how much whisky. I went to Eric's hotel. I didn't know what it was he had given me, but I wanted more of it quick. Do you want the rest of it?”

  “I think so.”

  “He went all Continental,” she said. “Maybe it was just to keep me quiet. We went into a little sort of sitting room. I led him on. I wanted to get my pain-killer, and I thought it was worth a little love-making. But he went too far. The pain in my head was awful. I made him a scene, a good one.