Hilda was in the lower hall when it happened. He said nothing to anybody. When she saw him he was carefully selecting a stick from a stand, and he spoke to her quietly.
“If my wife asks for me,” he said, “tell her I have some things to do downtown. I may be late, so ask her not to wait up for me.”
She saw the car outside, with Captain Henderson and a detective waiting, and felt sorry for him, adjusting his hat in front of the mirror. When he turned she saw he was pale.
“I was fond of my mother, Miss Adams,” he said strangely, and without looking back went out to the officers and the waiting car.
At four o’clock that same afternoon Marian Garrison came home.
Chapter 17
She arrived apparently unwarned. Her first shock came when the taxi, violently honking its horn, tried to make its way through the crowd. The police officer drove it back, but when the driver stopped under the porte-cochere he found her collapsed in the seat and rang the doorbell.
“Lady here’s in poor shape,” he told William. “Want me to bring her in?”
William ran down the steps, to find her with her eyes shut and her face colorless.
“What is it? What’s wrong, William?”
“I’m sorry, madam. Mrs. Fairbanks is dead.”
“Dead? But the crowds! What’s wrong? What happened to her?”
“It was quite painless. Or so they say. She was asleep when it took place. If—”
She reached out and caught him by the arm.
“Not poison, William? Not poison!”
He hesitated, his old head shaking violently.
“No, madam. I’m afraid—It was a knife.”
She did not faint. She drew a long breath and got out of the car. The driver and William helped her into the house. But she could not walk far. She sat down on a chair inside the door snapping and unsnapping the fastening of her bag, her eyes on William.
“Who did it?” she asked, in a half-whisper.
“Nobody knows. Not yet. The police—”
She got up.
“I want to see Jan,” she said wildly. “I must talk to her. I’d better try to go up to my room.”
William caught her by the arm.
“Not right away, Miss Marian,” he said in his quavering voice. “You see—”
She shook him off.
“What’s the matter with you?” she demanded. “I’m going up to my room. Get Jan and tell her I’m here, and don’t act the fool.”
That was the situation when Jan ran down the stairs, Marian standing angry and bewildered, and William evidently at a loss to know what to do. She gave them one look and kissed her mother’s cold face. But Marian did not return the caress.
“Why can’t I go upstairs in my own home, Jan? What is all this?”
It was on this tableau that Hilda appeared, Marian’s face flushed, Jan’s pale, and her young body stiff.
“I’m sorry, Mother. We’ll get her out as soon as we can. You see—”
“Get whom out?”
“Eileen. She’s sick. She is in your room, Mother.”
Marian’s frail body stiffened.
“So that’s it,” she said. “You’ve brought her here and put her in my room. The woman who ruined my life, and you couldn’t wait until I was gone to get her here!”
She would have gone on, but Hilda interfered. She took her into the library and gave her a stiff drink of Scotch. All the fire had gone out of her by that time. She seemed stunned. The liquor braced her, however, although she listened to Jan’s story with closed eyes. But her first words when Jan finished her brief outline were addressed to Hilda.
“So you let it happen after all!” she said. “I left her in your care, and she was killed.”
She was badly shaken, but she was frightened, too. Hilda was puzzled. She caught Marian watching Jan, as if the girl might know something she was not telling. She was more frightened than grieved, she thought. But she was coldly determined, too.
“Get that woman out of here,” she said. “At once, Jan. Do you hear? If she can’t walk, carry her. If she won’t be carried, throw her out. And if none of you can do it I’ll do it myself. Or strangle her,” she added.
That was the situation when Hilda got the inspector on the telephone. He seemed annoyed, as though he resented the interruption, but he agreed to let Eileen go.
“She’s hardly a suspect,” he said. “Sure. Better get young Brooke’s okay on it first.”
She called the doctor, who agreed willingly, and went to Eileen’s room. To her surprise Eileen was already out of bed and partly dressed. She was sitting in a chair while Ida drew on her stockings, and she was smiling coldly.
“I heard the fuss and rang,” she said. “Tell them not to worry. I’m leaving. She can have her room. She can have the whole damned house, so far as I am concerned.” She slid her feet into her pumps and stood up. “I suppose,” she said, “that my loving husband has come back, too.”
“He came back last night. From Washington.”
Eileen looked at her sharply.
“From Washington? How do you know?”
“I saw him this morning.”
“Where? Here?”
“I went to the apartment. Jan asked me to. He had been here last night and she was worried.”
A flicker of alarm showed in Eileen’s face.
“What do you mean, he was here? In the house?”
“In the grounds. He says he didn’t know where you were, so he came and called up to Jan’s window to find out.”
Eileen sat down on the bed, as though her knees would not hold her.
“When—when was that?”
“Between one-thirty and two, I think,” Hilda said.
“His plane got in at midnight, but he went home first. Then he walked here. It’s quite a distance.”
Eileen’s face had turned a grayish color. She seemed to have difficulty in breathing.
“Do the police know that?” she asked, her lips stiff.
“They know he was in the grounds. He admits it himself.” And then, because she was sorry for her, Hilda added, “I wouldn’t worry too much about it, Mrs. Garrison. Of course, they’re suspecting everybody just now. I’d better order a taxi. I can go with you if you like.”
Eileen, however, wished for no company. When Hilda came back from the telephone she was looking better, or at least she was under control. She was in front of Marian’s table, eyeing herself in the mirror. Almost defiantly she put on some rouge and lipstick, and finished her dressing. Ida had carried down her suitcase, and at the door she turned and surveyed the room.
“Did you ever know what it is to pray for somebody to die?” she said bitterly. “Did you ever see someone riding around in a car in the rain while you walked, and wish there would be an accident? Did you ever lie awake at night hating somebody so hard that you hit the pillow? Well, that’s what Marian Garrison has done to me. And he still cares for her. After seven years he’s still in love with her. He’d even go to the chair for her! The fool. The blind, stupid fool.”
Carlton had not come home when Eileen left the house. He was still in the inspector’s office, his dapper look gone, but his head still high.
“Just go over that again, Mr. Fairbanks. You went into the room, went around the foot of the bed, turned off the radio, and came directly out again. How could you see to turn off the radio? Did you light a match?”
“I didn’t need to. It’s an old one. We’ve had it for a long time. I knew where the switch was. And, of course, there was some light from the door into the hall.”
“You still claim that you didn’t speak to your mother?”
“I did not. She had a habit of going to sleep with the radio going. I’ve gone in and shut it off at times for the last ten years.”
“You came out at once?”
“I did. Immediately. Ask the nurse. She was there.”
But he was tired. He had eaten almost nothing that day, and although they
gave him water when he asked for it and he was well supplied with cigarettes, he needed a drink badly. There was a cold sweat all over him and his mouth was dry. He moistened his lips.
“You had no reason, for instance, to investigate the closet where the safe is?”
“Why should I? It’s been there for months.”
“And the closet door?”
“Oh, for God’s sake! How can I remember? What does it matter? Suppose it was open and I shoved it out of my way? What has that got to do with my mother’s death?”
“Do you think anyone could have been hidden in the closet?”
“Who? My niece? My wife?”
“I’m asking the questions, Mr. Fairbanks,” said the inspector. “You are the only person known to have entered your mother’s room at or about the time she was—the time she died. I know this is painful, but we have to get on with it. If you had nothing to do with it you will want to be helpful. Nobody is trying to railroad you to the”—he coughed—“to jail. Now. You have said that you are one of the heirs to the estate.”
A little of Carlton’s dignity had returned. He was even slightly pompous.
“I presume so. My sister and myself. Probably there is something for my niece, Janice Garrison. I don’t know, of course. My—my mother managed her own affairs.”
“You must have some idea of the value of the estate.”
But here he was on surer ground.
“It was a very large one at one time. Some values have shrunk, but it was carefully invested. Mostly in bonds.”
“Did she keep those securities in the safe?”
“I don’t know. I hope she didn’t. She used to have several safe-deposit boxes at her bank. I suppose she still has them.”
But always they went back to the night before. The knife. Had he seen it before? Had he bought it anywhere? Of course, knives and sales could be traced. He would understand that. And he didn’t like the city, did he? He and his wife wanted a farm. Well, plenty of people wanted farms nowadays. He brightened over that.
“Certainly I wanted a farm, “he said, his face brightening. “There’s a living in it, if you work yourself. A man can keep his self-respect. I’ve studied it a good bit. These fellows who go out of town and play at it—they’ll only lose their investments. They’ll fix up the houses and build fancy chicken houses and pigpens, and in three or four years they’ll be back in town again.”
“The idea was to be independent of your mother, wasn’t it?”
“Not entirely. But what if it was? There’s nothing wrong about that.”
They took him back, to the attempt to poison Mrs. Fairbanks on her return from Florida. He was indignant.
“I never believed she was poisoned. Not deliberately. Some kinds of food poisoning act the same way. I looked it up. She’d come back from Florida the day before. She might have eaten something on the train.”
“The doctor doesn’t think so.”
“That young whippersnapper! What does he know?”
The inspector picked up a paper from his desk. “This is Doctor Brooke’s statement,” he said. He read: “‘Showed usual symptoms arsenical poisoning, heat and burning pain; was vomiting and very thirsty. When I saw her her pulse was feeble and she showed signs of collapse. Had severe cramps in legs. I gave her an emetic and washed out her stomach. Reinsch’s test later showed arsenious acid, commonly known as white arsenic. I also found it in the sugar bowl on her tray. At request of family made no report to the police.’”
“Oh, my God!” said Carlton feebly.
He sat clutching the arms of his chair, hardly hearing what they asked him. He looked smaller than ever, as though he had been deflated, and his replies were almost monosyllabic.
“Do you know anything about this campaign to terrify your mother? The bats, I mean.”
“No. Nothing.”
“Nor how they were introduced into the room?”
“No.”
“I’ll ask that another way. Have you any suspicions as to how or why they were being used?”
And at that he blew up.
“No. No!” he shouted. “What are you trying to do to me? Make me confess to something I never did? I didn’t poison my mother. I didn’t kill her with a knife. I don’t know anything about your damned animals. I don’t know anybody cruel enough to—”
His voice broke. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He mopped at them helplessly with his handkerchief.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” he said. “I didn’t mean to make a fool of myself. I was up all night, and I haven’t eaten anything today.”
They gave him a little time. He lit a cigarette and tried to smile.
“All right,” he said. “I guess I can take it now.”
But they got nothing of importance from him, except a pretty thorough idea that he was keeping something back. They did not hold him, however. At eight o’clock that night the inspector drove him home. They stopped and had something to eat on the way, and Carlton drank two neat whiskies. He looked better when they reached the house.
There was no one in sight. Marian, after having her room cleaned and aired, had retired to it and locked her door. Jan had gone with Courtney Brooke to see Eileen, and Hilda was packing her suitcase, preparatory to leaving, when she got the word. But Susie was waiting in the library. When she heard the car she flew out at the inspector like a wild creature.
“So you’ve had him!” she said. “The only one in this house who loved his mother, and you pick on him! If you’ve done anything to him you’ll be sorry. Good and sorry.”
“I’m all right, Susie,” Carlton said mildly. But she was not to be placated.
“Why didn’t you take that nurse of yours? Or Frank Garrison? Or me? I could have told you some of the things that have been going on.”
“Oh, shut up, Susie,” Carlton said wearily. “There’s been too much talking as it is.”
They were in the house by that time. He gave her a warning look, and she subsided quickly.
“What’s been going on?” the inspector inquired.
“Marian’s back, if that interests you. She raised hell until Eileen got out.” She lit a cigarette and grinned at him. “Nice place we’ve got here,” she said airily. “Come and stay sometime, if you ever get bored.”
He left them downstairs, Susie mixing a highball and Carlton lighting a pipe. It would have been quite a nice domestic picture, he thought, if he had not known the circumstances.
Hilda was in her room when he went up the stairs. She was standing by her window, looking out, and her suitcase was packed and closed on a chair. He scowled at it.
“You’re not leaving,” he said. “I need you here.”
“I have no patient.”
“You’ll stay if I have to break a leg. Get young Brooke to put the girl to bed. Nervous exhaustion. Anything, but you’re staying.” He looked at her. “Anything attractive outside that window?”
“No. I was just thinking.”
“About what?”
She had assumed again her cherubic look, and he eyed her with suspicion. “Not much. Just a can of white paint.”
“What?”
“A can of paint. Of course people do queer things when they’re worried. They play solitaire, or bite their fingernails, or kick the dog. I knew one man who cut down a perfectly good tree while his wife was having a baby. But paint is different. It covers a lot of things.”
“I see. Who’s been painting around here?”
“Carlton Fairbanks. This morning. He nailed the screens shut and then painted over the marks he made.”
“Very tidy,” said the inspector.
“But he fastened his mother’s screens weeks ago. I would like to know whether he painted them, too.”
He laughed down at her indulgently.
“What you need is a night’s sleep,” he told her. “Go to bed and forget it. And remember, you’re not leaving.”
But she was stubborn. She wanted to see Mrs. Fairbanks’s screens,
and at last he unsealed and unlocked the door, and gave her the key. The room was as it had been left, the bedding thrown back, print powder showing here and there on the furniture. She went straight to a window.
“You see, he didn’t.”
“I’m damned if I know why that’s important.”
“I don’t know myself. Not yet.”
“All right. Go to it,” he told her, still indulgent, and left her there, a small intent figure in the ghostly room, still gazing at the screens.
He yawned as he got into his car. The crowd outside the fence had practically disappeared. Only a scant half-dozen men still stood there, the die-hards who would not give up until all hope of further excitement was over. He did not notice them. What on earth had Hilda meant about white paint? What had white paint to do with the murder? The thing nagged him all the way back to his office and later on even to his bed.
Back in Mrs. Fairbanks’s room Hilda switched off the lights and prepared to leave. She knew death too well to be afraid, but the impress of Mrs. Fairbanks’s small old body on the bed had revived her sense of failure. She stood still. What could she have done? What had she failed to do?
And then she heard it again, a faint scuffling noise from the closet.
Chapter 18
She jerked the door open, but the closet was empty. The shoe bag still hung on the door, the safe was closed, and the sounds had ceased. Save for the low remote voice of Carlton and Susie from the library below the house was silent.
Out in the hall she felt better. The noise, whatever it was, had not been what she had heard before, and turning briskly she opened the door of Carlton’s room and went in. She stopped abruptly.
There was a man in the closet. He was standing with his back to her, and fumbling among the clothes hanging there.
She felt for the light switch and turned it on, to see William emerging, blinking.
“Is anything wrong, miss?” he asked.
She was surprised to discover that she was trembling.
“No. I was in Mrs. Fairbanks’s room and I heard a noise. I thought—”
He smiled, showing his excellent set of false teeth.
“It was me in the closet,” he explained. “I look after Mr. Carl’s clothes. He wants a suit pressed, and he’s got paint on the toes of these shoes this morning. I’m sorry if I scared you. I am afraid we are all in a bad state of nerves. If you’ll excuse me—”
The Haunted Lady Page 14