by M. M. Kaye
May I please speak to you. I am in great trouble, and need advice. Could you be very kind and make it after half-past twelve, as it is rather a private matter, and I do not want other people to know. My room is underneath yours, and I will wait up. Please come. A.K.
What on earth____? thought Dany, looking at it with wrinkled brows. She turned it over, but there was no more of it. The writer had presumably meant to add something else to it, but had thought better of it and thrown it away. But how had it got into her pocket, and when?
And then, as suddenly and as shockingly as though someone had treated her as Amalfi had treated Gussie’s hysterics and thrown a pint of ice-cold water in her face, she remembered____
It was the piece of paper that had fluttered against her skirt when she had knelt above Millicent’s body last night, and which she had snatched up and stuffed into her pocket without thinking. But it was more than that. It was proof of murder.
A fragment of conversation from the previous evening repeated itself in her brain as though it were a gramophone playing a record: ‘A third what?’ ‘Murder of course, darling. Things always go in threes…’ They had gone in threes. There had been a third murder. And an attempt at a fourth — her own. For the note was neither unfinished nor unsigned. It had been written on her typewriter — Miss Kitchell’s typewriter — and signed with her initials: Miss Kitchell’s initials. And if it had been found____
A clammy mixture of nausea and cold fear engulfed Dany, drowning out the moonlight and the sound of the casual, idle voices. She was caught in a horrible, clinging spider-web, and however much she twisted and turned she could not escape, because there would always be another strand waiting for her ready to wind softly and terrifyingly about her until at last she would be bound and helpless.
Hysteria rose in her, prompting her to leap to her feet and scream and scream, as Gussie had done. To run across the terrace and through the moonlight and out into the white dusty road, and to go on running until she dropped. She fought it down, driving her fingernails into her palms and biting her lip until the blood came. And then a hand came out of the fog and closed over hers. A flesh and blood hand that was firm and real in the midst of miasma and unreality, and that steadied the spinning world and brought it back to some sort of sanity.
The fog cleared and the moonlight was bright again and Lash was standing in front of her; his body a barrier between her and the seven other people on the terrace.
He said: ‘Come and take a walk down to the beach. I haven’t had the chance of a word with you all day, and there are one or two things that I’d like to go over. You’ll excuse us, Lorraine?’
He did not wait for permission, but jerking Dany to her feet he drew her arm through his, and holding it hard against him walked her away across the terrace and down the steps into the ink-black shadows of the tree-filled garden, where he began to talk of business matters and of names that meant nothing to her; continuing to do so as they passed along the shadowy, flower-scented paths, and leaving the garden by a door in the seaward wall, walked down a steep, rocky path to the shore.
The beach was deserted, and nothing moved on it save the quiet tide and a host of ghostly little sand crabs that scuttled to and fro as silently as moths. There were rocks at each end of it: tall rocks of wind-carved, water-worn coral that stood dark against the moon-washed sky and threw sharp-edged shadows on the white sand. But Lash avoided them, and keeping to the open beach stopped near the edge of the tide, where no one could approach unseen and they could not be overheard.
Releasing his grip on Dany’s arm he turned her so that she faced him, but he did not lower his voice, or make any attempt to change its pitch, and anyone watching him from the shadows would have supposed him to be merely continuing the conversation he had started in the garden.
‘What happened, honey? What was on that paper? Someone write you an anonymous letter?’
Dany held it out to him without words, and saw his face set into harsh and unfamiliar lines as he read it.
After a moment or two he said quite softly: ‘Did someone put this in your pocket?’
‘No,’ said Dany in a whisper. ‘I found it last night. It was on the verandah … by … near Miss Bates. She must have been holding it when … I put it in my pocket, and I didn’t think of it again until — until just now when I felt it, and took it out, and … read it.’
Lash was silent for a long time, looking at the piece of paper in his hand, and at last Dany said: ‘It does mean — what I think it means, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Lash, still softly, and without pretending to misunderstand her: his voice strangely at variance with the ugly grimness of his face and his taut hands.
‘What are we going to do? Are you — are you going to tell the police?’
‘I don’t know. I shall have to figure it out. What did you do with that typewriter? Where is it?’
‘In my room.’
‘Then this probably wasn’t written on it; which may help.’
‘But it was,’ said Dany with a catch in her voice. ‘I thought one of the servants must have been playing with it — the lid wasn’t on properly, and there was a bit of paper in it: the other half of that.’
‘When was this?’ asked Lash sharply.
‘Last night, when I went up to bed.’
‘Did you touch it?’
‘Yes. I tried the typewriter to see if it was all right, and it was, and I took the paper out. It’s in the waste-paper basket.’
Lash let out his breath in a little sigh. ‘So your fingerprints will be on it. And they’re on this too. A nice, neat, slick little fool-proof frame-up! Dear God, what have I let you in for?’
He crushed the piece of paper savagely in one clenched hand and turned to stare blindly out at the shimmering sea, and Dany saw the muscles along his jaw twitch and tighten. He said, half under his breath and as though he were speaking to himself: ‘I ought to have taken you straight to the police — back in London. It might have been a little sticky, but no more than that. Instead of which I have to let you in for a piece of crazy, drunken lunacy that____’
He made a violent despairing gesture, and Dany said quickly: ‘Don’t, Lash! It wasn’t your fault. It was mine for not realizing that you____ Oh, what does it matter? We can go to the police now.’
Lash turned quickly to face her, his eyes blank with bitterness. ‘No, we can’t. That’s the hell of it. We shall have to let the Bates woman’s death stay on the books as an accident. There’s no other way out.’
‘But Lash____’
‘There’s no “but” about it!’ interrupted Lash savagely. ‘I may have been behaving like a certifiable moron of late, but I’m still capable of adding two and two together and coming up with the correct answer. That dame was killed because she talked too much; and but for the mercy of Providence, this bit of paper would have been found on her or near her. You’d have been asked to explain it — and a few other things as well! Such as how did the other half of it get into your room if you didn’t write it, and what the heck were you doing fully dressed at least an hour after everyone else was in bed? What were you doing, by the way? Were you waiting for her?’
‘Lash!’ Dany flinched as though he had struck her.
‘I didn’t mean “Did you kill her?”’ said Lash impatiently. ‘Or even “Did you type that note?” Of course you didn’t. But did she say anything about dropping in to see you?’
‘No.’
‘Then why hadn’t you been to bed? What had you been doing?’
‘Nothing. I just didn’t feel sleepy; that was all. I suppose I didn’t want to put the light out, and so I kept putting off going to bed. And then I heard a nightjar again, but it wasn’t a nightjar____’
Dany shivered, remembering that sound, and said with an effort: ‘It was Miss Bates. She must have cried out as she fell. And then I heard a thud…’
She told him about that, and about finding Millicent’s body and the scrap of paper, and ab
out Larry Dowling, who had been walking in the garden so short a time before.
‘Dowling,’ said Lash slowly.
He appeared to be turning something over in his mind, and then he shook his head, and abandoning Larry Dowling, said: ‘Didn’t you hear any other sound at all? No footsteps? Nothing? If someone waited for her to come down those stairs, and then pushed her off them, you’d surely have heard footsteps.’
‘No, I didn’t. I didn’t hear anything else. Just a sort of screech and a thud: I told you. There wasn’t any other … No. No, I’m wrong. There was another sound. A queer soft grating sort of noise like____’ She wrinkled her brows, trying to recall what it was like and put it into words, but gave it up. ‘I don’t know. But it wasn’t footsteps.’
Lash dismissed it with a shrug. ‘Let it go. But the fact remains that you were up and dressed, and it wouldn’t have looked too good if that note had been found, because it would have helped back up the theory that you wrote it. Which wouldn’t have been a criminal thing to have done, and would only have meant that you’d asked Miss Bates to come to see you, and that she’d slipped and fallen while she was on her way down. But the moment you denied having written it the thing would have begun to look screwy, and the chances are that you wouldn’t have been believed. They’d have wanted to know why you were denying it when all the evidence supported it; and the next thing you know they’d have found out that you are no more Miss Kitchell than I am, and that you’d skipped out of England on a false passport to avoid a murder rap. It wouldn’t have sounded so good, and though maybe you could have talked your way out of one of those situations, I doubt if you could talk yourself out of both. Which is why that accident last night is going to have to stay just the way it is — an accident! Anything else is too darned dangerous. And now the sooner we get rid of this particular piece of poison, the better.’
He took a cigarette lighter out of his pocket, snapped it open and held one corner of the crumpled type-written note to the flame, and Dany said on a gasp: ‘Lash you can’t — it’s evidence!’
‘Sure. But it won’t be in a minute. And without it that other bit of paper in your room won’t mean a thing, and there’ll be nothing to connect you with Miss Bates.’
He watched the small scrap of paper that had lured Millicent to her death blacken and curl and burst into flame, and when he could hold it no longer he dropped it and ground the burnt fragments into the sand with his heel. He was silent for a moment or two, scowling down at the small dark depression that his heel had made, and then he said slowly: ‘I wish I could take you out of here, but I can’t. If we make a break for it, it would only look worse. And yet it’s a risk either way. Listen, Dany, I want you to promise me something.’
‘What?’ inquired Dany in an uncertain voice.
‘That you won’t ever leave your room at night, for any reason at all. That you’ll lock yourself in, and if anyone taps on your door and pushes a note under it asking you to go anywhere, even if it’s signed by your mother and written in her own handwriting, you won’t even touch it. Give it to me in the morning. And don’t go off on any tête-à-tête expeditions with anyone — unless it’s me! Get it?’
He smiled at her, but it was a smile that did not reach his eyes, and Dany said with a catch in her voice: ‘But why should anyone want to harm me? Or try to pin things on me? It was different before — when I had that map or clue or whatever it was. But now it’s been stolen. Whoever wanted it has got it. Why doesn’t it all stop? Why did anyone have to murder Miss Bates?’
Lash said: ‘Because she insisted on telling us that she was in the neighbourhood of this solicitor’s house around the time that the guy who rubbed him out would have been on his way in to do the job. That same guy happens to know that you were around too; and he’s giving you a strong hint not to talk, or it will be the worse for you! Either that, or he’s laying on a useful scapegoat in case he should ever need one. A hell of a lot of guys will do a hell of a lot of lousy things for the sake of three million — take it from me! That’s why you’re going to watch your step from now on. And I mean watch it! We ought to have the cops down on us in a day or two, and after that it’s their headache.’
Dany twisted her hands together and said on a sob: ‘Lash — I’m frightened.’
‘You’re not the only one!’ retorted Lash with strong feeling. ‘I’ve never been so scared in all my life. I do not relish the idea that one of that bunch back there on the terrace makes a hobby of murder, and I wish I had a gun.’
‘But it can’t be one of us! It can’t be!’
‘Don’t be silly, Dany. It can’t be anyone else. It’s one of six people. You, me, Amalfi, Gussie Bingham, the Latin lover or Larry Dowling. Take your choice!’
Dany shivered and Lash reached out suddenly and pulled her into his arms, holding her against him and ruffling the outrageous red curls with his free hand. He said: ‘I know, honey. But it’ll all be the same in a hundred years.’
Dany made a sobbing and unintelligible remark into his shoulder, and he put his hand under her chin and lifted it. ‘What was that one? I didn’t get it.’
‘I said “be c-careful of my s-spectacles”.’
‘I never liked them anyway,’ said Lash, removing them and kissing her lightly. At least, that is what he had meant it to be, but it did not turn out like that. It began lightly enough, but ended very differently, and when at last he lifted his head he was astounded to find himself feeling breathless and shaken.
‘That your first kiss?’ he inquired, holding her away from him.
‘Yes,’ said Dany dazedly; her face bemused and beautiful in the white moonlight. ‘How did you know?’
‘I get around,’ said Lash dryly. ‘Well, it’s going to be the last for tonight, because if I do that again there’s no knowing where we’ll end up.’
He stooped and retrieved the spectacles that had fallen unheeded to the ground, and having dusted the sand off them, replaced them carefully.
‘And that’ll be all for today, Miss Kitchell. I guess we’d better get back to the house and see you safely locked in for the night. And with reference to that last item on the agenda, you might consider letting me have a copy of it tomorrow — in triplicate.’
He walked her back towards the house across the white beach and through the door into the garden, where they encountered Larry Dowling loitering in the shadows by the edge of a shallow pool set about with stone birds and spider lilies. They might have passed without knowing that he was there, except that a reflection moved slightly in the water, and there was a faint smell of cigarette smoke.
Lash had stopped and said: ‘di Chiago?’ and Larry had moved out into the moonlight and said: ‘No. But that was quick of you. It’s one of his cigarettes. Can’t say I like ’em much: give me gaspers every time. Nice on the beach?’
‘Yes, thanks,’ said Lash curtly. ‘You on your way there?’
‘No. Just strolling around,’ said Larry. ‘Just strolling around.’
Lash said: ‘Don’t let us stop you,’ and went on up the path that led to the terrace.
There were only two people on the terrace: Amalfi and Eduardo, who appeared to be quarrelling. They broke off on hearing footsteps, and Amalfi said with an edge to her voice: ‘Oh, it’s you. I hope you had a nice brisk businesslike session and got everything straightened out?’
‘We did,’ said Lash amiably. ‘Thanks for asking.’
Amalfi laughed. ‘Gussie was right: you’re nothing but an old slave-driver. I really do believe that “Business First” is your motto.’
‘The Americans!’ said Eduardo. ‘So efficient, so ruthless — so eye-on-the-ball. It is wonderful.’
Amalfi said hastily: ‘Lorrie said to say good night to you, Lash; she and Gussie both thought they could do with an early night. She wanted to know if you’d like to go along to the fish market tomorrow morning. Gussie wants to see it. She says if she mopes around here she’ll go mad, and Lorrie said that if you’d like to ta
g along you’ll have to have breakfast at eight, and there’ll be a car going in immediately afterwards. However, I told her I didn’t think it sounded at all in your line.’
‘Then you thought wrong,’ said Lash, still amiably. ‘I like fish. Where’s Tyson? Is he making an early night of it too?’
‘No. He and Nigel are as bad as you. They’re doing a bit of work for a change.’
‘It won’t hurt ’em,’ said Lash, and turned to Dany. ‘That reminds me: I’ve got one or two things to do myself. I guess I’d better borrow your typewriter, Ada. I’ll go right on up with you now and get it, if that’s all right with you?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Dany.
She moved towards the door, and Lash was following her when Amalfi spoke softly, addressing no one in particular: ‘I do hope this means that Ada’s mumps are better?’
16
‘I have always considered,’ remarked Nigel, holding a delicately scented handkerchief to his nose, ‘that a fishmonger’s emporium ranks slightly above a morgue, and only a point below a butcher’s shop and an abattoir. All those slippery white stomachs and cold coddy eyes glaring at one. Utterly emetic. But just look at these colours! Pure Roerich. Do let’s have some of those turquoise-blue fish with coral spots — or what about these heavenly shocking pink ones? You know, this might almost reconcile one to doing the weekly shopping.’
‘But can one really eat the things?’ inquired Gussie, apprehensively eyeing the fish in question. ‘Lorraine, you’re surely not going to buy those pink creatures?’
‘Changu, Gussie. They’re delicious. Wait until you taste them!’
‘Well, if you say so,’ said Gussie in a fading voice.
The fish market was a riot of noise and colour, and the variegated and vividly patterned clothing worn by the housewives of a dozen different nationalities was rivalled in both colour and design by the wares they were bargaining for.