The Girl Who Had To Die

by Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

When I went out into the lobby, I was crying; and suddenly I had a terrific nosebleed. That made things worse. People thought Eric had hit me, or something. It cured me, though, and I went home. I didn't know until later what all that had done to Eric. I didn't care when I did know.”

  Tour family took an interest in it, didn't they?”

  “My family's always taken a wonderful interest in my career,” she said. “Do you want to hear that, too?”

  “If you feel like talking.”

  “I was fifteen, Jocko, when I met a man on a Fifth Avenue bus.”

  That was the first man you'd ever seen,” said Killian.

  “I wasn't a very nice kid,” she said. “I thought I was going to be the world's greatest actress—without doing any work, of course. But I was a kid. He was old, and I thought he was being fatherly. He was sitting behind me, and he began to talk. I told him about my ambition, and he seemed to be impressed. He said I was a remarkable girl, and that I ought to have everything—clothes, education, and so on. That was just what I thought myself. He came that evening to see my mother and father. They thought he was the chance of a lifetime, and he began to ease things up for them and my brother.”

  “And you?”

  “And me. He bought me a fur coat. It was a lousy little coat, but I didn't know much then. I wore it to school, and I thought I was a lucky girl. He talked about my taking dancing lessons and singing lessons and going to a private school, but that never happened. He took me around to restaurants and shows. He took me out in his car, and my great ambition sort of vanished.”

  “All this time you thought he was just your rich uncle.”

  “Oh, no!” she said. “I found out what he was like. But my mother and father knew, too, and they didn't care. I made up my mind then that I'd look out for myself, and get all I could. For nothing. That didn't help my disposition any. And it gave me a champagne appetite, Jocko. Well, he passed on, and he left me my little income, and I drifted around. That's my story.”

  “Dictated, but not read.”

  “Do you believe it, Jocko?”

  “Yes. It doesn't matter. I wasn't going to ask you any questions about your past, ever.”

  “I've never loved anybody but you. That sounds like old stuff, doesn't it? Only it's true. Nobody else ever made me eat toast. Maybe I can be nice now, Jocko.”

  “Maybe you can,” he said. Her cold little fingers hurt, he thought. A pain runs up my arm to my heart, and squeezes it. “Let's skip the past,” he said. “How's about the present?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Why did you get us all here?”

  “I wanted you here.”

  “Yes. But why Chauverney? And Elly? And Angelo?”

  “Chauverney wanted to meet Luther. He loves rich people. And I asked Elly because she's in love with Chauvie.”

  “All right Now Angelo.”

  “I didn't ask him. He came. He'd signed off, and he didn't want to go back to sea. He begged me to get him a job on shore.”

  “Luther Bell seems to be very obliging.”

  “He's no mystery,” she said. “He's just a damned old fool. You can see that for yourself. He was married to one of these Ladies with a big bust and grey hair and pearls, very social. She kept him in order. But when she died, he went off the rails and married Sibyl, the artiste. She was in vaudeville a million years ago. A real old-timer in tights, winking at the boys.”

  “You're a gentle little thing.”

  “I don't like anybody but you,” she said.

  He was silent for a while. “All right!” he said. “Where do we go from here?”

  “Anywhere you want,” she said.

  “The thing is, you're rather exotic for my income,” he said. “I make all of thirty-seven fifty a week.”

  “I've got that income. Two hundred a month.”

  “You're a clever little manager,” he said. “Traveling to Rio, so de luxe, on fifty dollars a week.”

  “I'll tell you about that, if you want,” she said.

  “Never mind.”

  “Plenty of things. I'd hate to tell you,” she said. “It's a nasty little story. I'm a nasty little tramp. But maybe I could be nice, with you.”

  “I'm old-fashioned,” he said. “I want to get married.”

  “You want to marry me?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I think I do. Only I don't like your little income.”

  “I've been poor,” she said. “Mother had a sort of boarding house once, and I cooked for ten people.”

  He stroked her hair back from her temples. “Thirty-seven fifty a week?” he said.

  “Do you think I care about that?” she said. “All the other men I've known have hated me. They called it loving me, but it was hating. Nobody's ever been kind but you. Go on feeding me little scraps of toast. That's all I want.”

  “We could try,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said. “We could try.”

  He unclasped her fingers, and laid her hand neatly at her side. “Get well,” he said. “I'm going to do some thinking.”

  But it wasn't thinking. He went into his own room and stood by the window. “It's so damn sad,” he said to himself. “It's so sad. Not only Jocelyn and me, either. There's Ponievsky, and Harriet. And Chauverney and Elly. The whole house is so damn sad, it chokes me. I'm going downstairs to see what's going on.”

  He went down the stairs; and in the lower hall he stopped, listening for voices. Nothing to be heard, and he went out on the terrace. Luther Bell was sitting there in white flannels and a grey coat with a belt; he looked very handsome and very noble.

  “Oh, good morning, Killian!” he said, seriously. “Good morning!”

  “Good morning!” Killian answered.

  Bell put down the newspaper he had been reading. “I'd like to have a talk with you, Killian,” he said. “We seem to be alone for the moment.”

  “Yes, we do,” said Killian._

  “It's a little matter of business,” said Luther Bell. “You probably know something about Bell, Fiske and Waters.”

  Killian sat down opposite him, and met Bell's earnest glance with one just as grave.

  “There's one thing a man learns in business,” said Bell. “And that is to size up people. I find that I do that almost subconsciously.”

  “I see!” said Killian.

  There was a brief pause. “I'm always willing to back my own judgment,” said Luther Bell. “I've studied you, Killian, and I believe I know you.”

  “I see!” said Killian again.

  “I believe you're intuitive, forceful—and loyal,” said Luther Bell. “Excellent executive material. We'd like you in our organization, Killian.”

  “I scarcely know what to say, sir,” said Killian, looking modestly at his shoes.

  “We can start you at seventy-five a week,” said Luther Bell. “And your future is whatever you choose to make it Killian.”

  “Well, I swan!” said Killian to himself. “This is so sudden, Mr. Bell. This smells, Mr. Bell.”

  “I propose,” Luther Bell went on, “that you stop over until morning, Killian. Then you can come into town with me, and I'll introduce you to my partner, Harvey Fiske.” He waited, and a faintly uneasy look came into his blue eyes. “I'm a great believer in intuition,” he said.

  “I see!” said Killian.

  “Then well take it as settled.”

  “If you don't mind...” said Killian. “I appreciate this, sir, but I'm afraid I can't go so fast. You see, I've got a job already.”

  “It's possible that we may be able to do somewhat better in the way of salary,” said Luther Bell. “I'll take it up with Harvey Fiske tomorrow, after he's met you.”

  “I'm sorry,” Killian said, “but I'm afraid I'll have to take a little time to think, sir. That's the sort of mind I have. Judicial.”

  He's baffled, Killian thought. Judicial is a word he can't help respecting, even if he doesn't like to hear it used against him. I certainly need time to consider this
offer. Seventy-five a week is bribery. But bribing me to do what? To keep still about something? What important secret do I know?

  Mr. Bell coughed—hem, hem. “If I'm going to think over this bribery, it's only decent to go away and think privately,” Killian said to himself. And to Mr. Bell he said, “May I reopen this matter later, sir?”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Bell indulgently. “This evening, no doubt.”

  Killian moved away, with a serious and purposeful face. He had no idea where he was going. He walked deliberately to the end of the terrace and turned the corner. All very sad, he thought, but in a way I'm happy. Happy, because Jocelyn really was murdered. It wasn't a lie. She sat in Ponievsky's office, and she cried, and she was seventeen years old. A nice family, she must have. She's been well brought up. She ate because I fed her. That's symbolic, of something. It might mean that she needs me. Maybe that stimulates and inspires me, and maybe it paralyzes me with fright. I fed her, and she held my hand.

  From this side of the house he saw a little plantation of pines and, through the trees, the roof of the garage. A chauffeur in uniform was coming through that little wood, very slowly, in a wandering way. He stopped, looking at Killian, and Killian looked at him. Everything here was peaceful, in the morning sun, and everything had been quiet at The Maples. After a while this sunny peace gets on your nerves. You think it's the quiet before the tempest, or something like that.

  The chauffeur came out of the little wood, and stopped again; a stolid, thickset young man with blue eyes. He stared and stared at Killian.

  “What's the idea?” Killian asked.

  “Could I speak to you for a moment, sir?” he said.

  Killian went down the steps. “There's a man out in the road, sir,” the chauffeur said, very low. “It looks to me like he's dead.”

  “Where?” asked Killian, brisk and business-like. “If you'll get in the car, I'll take you, sir,” said the chauffeur.

  “I'll come,” he said to the chauffeur, and went with him, through the wood, to a clearing in front of the garage.

  They got into the car that stood there, and off they went down the drive. It's Chauverney, thought Killian. Someone had to be dead. For days and days everything's been working up to that Up to murder. A good old-fashioned murder, with a body.

  They went out on the highway. Very quiet there at this hour of a Sunday morning; no cars passed. The trees stirred in the light breeze, there were little clouds, white as milk, in the blue sky. The car stopped just where the wall of Bell's place ended. There was a man lying face down on the side of the road. Not Chauverney. It was Angelo.

  He's dead all right, thought Killian, standing in the grass and looking down at him. Jocelyn was murdered, and she's still alive. But Angelo is dead, all right.

  “Looks like he's been run over,” said the chauffeur.

  “Yes, very much so,” said Killian, and suddenly felt sick.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “I GUESS I ought to tell Mr. Bell,” said the chauffeur.

  “You'd better tell the police,” said Killian.

  “Well, I'd better tell Mr. Bell first,” said the chauffeur.

  “Why? What's this got to do with Mr. Bell?”

  “Well, he hired this man yesterday.”

  “Even at that it's a matter for the police.”

  “Well, I better tell Mr. Bell first,” said the chauffeur. “See what he wants done about it.”

  “Afraid he won't like this?” asked Killian.

  “He's funny about things,” said the chauffeur.

  “Funny about people getting killed?”

  “About anything getting in the papers,” the chauffeur explained.

  “This will get in the papers,” said Killian. He lit a cigarette and drew on it, not looking at Angelo.

  “Hit-and-run driver,” said the chauffeur. “Only there's elements in it.”

  “Elements?” Killian repeated.

  “Yes, sir, I'd say so. Look how far on the side of the road he's lying. Straight road, too.”

  “As if someone had moved him, after he was run over?”

  “He was some land of an Eyetalian,” said the chauffeur. “That's another element you got to consider.”

  “Undoubtedly!” said Killian.

  “They're great ones for that, the Eyetalians are,” said the chauffeur.

  “For getting run over?”

  “Well, for revenge,” said the chauffeur.

  Killian threw away his cigarette; it had a bitter taste. “Where's the police station?” he asked.

  “I'll have to tell Mr. Bell first, sir. I'd lose my job if I didn't.”

  “Why did you bring me here?” asked Killian.

  “Well, like a witness, sir,” said the chauffeur. “The cops ask you how the body was lying and all.”

  They got into the car and drove away, leaving Angelo lying in the sun. It's happened, thought Killian. It had to happen. After all this talk about murder, somebody had to be dead. In a way, it's a relief. Everything's been working up to a crisis, and this is it.

  “Maybe he was chased,” the chauffeur preferred.

  “What d' you mean?”

  “Well, for revenge,” said the chauffeur.

  Chased? thought Killian. I'm sorry you said that. It gives you images. After all, a murder isn't a relief. It causes a lot of unpleasantness. It causeth the cops to come. It casteth a shadow upon the dwelling, and all those within. All those. Let's call it an accident. Let's forget it. Let's skip it. Let's not think who was driving around this morning.

  He was glad to find the terrace deserted. “I'll tell Mr. Bell,” he said. “Or Mrs. Bell.”

  “Thank you, sir!” said the chauffeur. He sprang down to open the door, and stood as if frozen. Another car was coming. It was a sedan, driven by a cop, with two men sitting side by side in the back seat. It drew up beside them, and the two men in the back seat got out.

  “Mr. Bell around?” said one of them, a severe, youngish man in spectacles. “Tell him that Captain Warren would like to see him.”

  “Well, if you'll ring the door-bell, sir...” said the chauffeur.

  Captain Warren and his companion, burly and red-faced, went up the steps shoulder to shoulder. The Captain rang the bell; they stood there very straight until the butler opened the door, then they marched in.

  “They must of received information,” said the chauffeur.

  “Yes,” answered Killian.

  “Had I ought to wait here, sir?”

  “Don't ask me,” said Killian. “I don't know anything— about anything.”

  He sat down in a deck chair and stretched himself out comfortably, clasped his hands behind his head, and stared up at the sky. This is an interval, he thought. Sensible, to relax, while I can. Things are going to happen. Things I won't like. Because this is the real McCoy. This is the kind of murder people get arrested for, and put into jail for. And get hanged for. The police won't overlook the “Elements.” They'll ask questions. Who was driving around this morning? Harriet and I were driving around. Maybe well get arrested. But we haven't any motive. At least, I haven't. Harriet might have one.

  All clear as daylight. Harriet gets up early and takes out the car. She chases Angelo and runs over him. Then she returns to the house, to get me. She takes me out on the boat and then to The Maples, for an alibi. The flaw in that theory is, that Harriet is not a murderess. How do I know that? By instinct. By intuition. I never knew anything so well.

  I could suspect Sibyl. I could suspect Luther Bell—if he even knows how to drive a car. I could suspect Ponievsky. Elly? Not Elly. My girl friend? She was in bed, recovering from her latest murder. Personally, I prefer Ponievsky. For excellent reasons. He's already committed one murder; and that will count heavily against you, Doctor Ponievsky. And then he's run away. That's as good as a confession. All these murders have been committed by. this fiend in human form. This man, masquerading as a healer of human bodies is at heart, gentlemen of the jury, a ruthless murderer. H
e has run away—to Poland. Give a verdict of guilty, gentlemen, and let's drop it. Let's forget it. It makes me nervous.

  “What are you doing?” asked Sibyl.

  “Thinking,” Killian answered.

  “Let's take a stroll before lunch,” she said.

  “Lunch?” Killian repeated.

  “Come on!” she said, and led him across the lawn, where they slackened their pace, out of hearing but in full view of the house.

  “My dear,” she said, “if you're going to take Jocelyn, take that job Luther offered you, too.”

  “I'm high-minded,” he said. “I don't want a job I can't fill worthily.”

  “You'll be worthy, all right,” she said. “I've worked hard to fix this up for you.”

  “You?”

  “Me,” she said. “Take it, John. You'll be worth anything they give you. You're a smart boy. I gave you a wonderful build-up to Luther.”

  “That was certainly friendly.”

  “Well, I am friendly,” she said.

  They strolled on in silence. Used to wear tights, thought Killian, and wink at the boys. A million years ago. Not quite a million. In your forties, now, I'd say. And a good sport. Fighting for a place in the sun. “What happened to the police?” he asked.

  “They've gone,” she said.

  “Coming back, aren't they?”

  “Why should they?”

  “I thought maybe they'd want to ask me questions.”

  “My dear, they don't know you exist,” she said. “A truck driver saw this man in the road, and he reported it to the police. They came here because it was the nearest house. They wanted to see if anyone could identify him, and, of course, Luther could. The poor man had been run over, and left there. They'll try to check on cars that might have done it, but it's practically impossible. Luther's going to get in touch with the steamship company tomorrow, and try to find out if the poor man had any relations.”

  “Chauverney might know about that.”

  “My dear, a Purser really doesn't know much about the private lives of the stewards.”

  “He might,” said Killian.

  “Well, well ask him,” said she. “Luther's going to pay for the poor man's funeral,” she added.