by Q. Patrick
“Martin, the policeman thinks I did it.”
“I know you didn’t, Kate.”
“But—”
“Try not to worry. Toby will fix it.”
“But if I didn’t do it—”
“Francis.”
“It couldn’t be Francis. He never had a chance. And yet”—she shivered—”there’s only Francis and me.”
“No.” Martin swung down from the couch arm and sat close to her, taking her hands. “I’ve been thinking. But, first, we’ve got to get this letter straight. Kate, you must know I love you. It yells out of me. You must know that.”
His broad hands, gripping hers, seemed to warm her whole body.
“I thought so, Martin. I did think so. But—”
“And you know I couldn’t be having an affair with Angelica. Why? Why should I? What possible sense could it make?”
“But the letter,” she whispered. “Why should Angelica have written it unless it was true?”
“That’s what I mean. That’s what I’ve been thinking.
Could Angelica have been mad?”
“Mad?”
“Insane.”
Because everything was so important now, she struggled with the improbable idea of Angelica—insane.
“I don’t mean a gibbering lunatic,” said Martin, “I mean—perhaps she hated you. She was poor. You were rich. Perhaps the more you gave her, the more she hated you. That’s the sort of insanity I mean.”
Toby had said something like that. She looked at him, curious now, almost fascinated.
“And the letter?”
“That’s why she sent it to you. Out of hate.” His voice was quiet, but compelling. “People put letters i n wrong envelopes. Sure. It happens all the time. But if there had been something between Angelica and me, can you possibly imagine her being so stupid as to mix envelopes with so much at stake? The letter must have come to you because it was meant for you. She sent me her matron of honor acceptance just to be sure you’d think the mistake was legitimate.”
“But why?”
“Because it was the only way to throw a monkey wrench in our wedding. She’d got nowhere trying to make you think I was a fortune hunter. It was absurd anyway. She knew I’ve got a lot of money of my own. But she also knew how sensitive you are. I could argue for years and still the suspicion would be there back in your mind. That’s why I think Angelica sent it.”
“To hurt me?”
He stuck a cigarette between his lips and lit it, watching her over the match flame. “More than to hurt you. To kill you.”
“Kill me, Martin!”
“Just now Rose told you Angelica called. I heard her. Angelica wanted you at her apartment for some reason this evening. She thought the letter would bring you, but she wanted to double-check, so she called. And think about Francis.”
“Francis?”
“She telephoned him from the office to send him off on some errand, didn’t she? If he’d gone on time, you and Angelica would have been alone from the start.”
“Yes.”
“Then, listen, Kate. This is what I think. The plan got balled up. I don’t know how. Somehow she switched on herself and got your drink. But if it had worked, you’d have been dead.”
Kate looked at him in shocked bewilderment. “But she couldn’t have done that. Killing me in her own apartment. When the police came—”
“She’d prepared for the police with the letter. She’d have said you’d found out she and I were in love. She’d have said you were in a terrible state. She’d thought she saw you put something in her drink, so she switched glasses to be sure.”
Kate tried to think of it that way. Could Angelica have hated her so much without her ever having suspected it?
“Remember me, too,” Martin’s voice was taut. “She asked me to drop by for a drink. If it had worked, I’d have come and found you dead. That would have mixed me into it also.”
“But you’d have told the police there was nothing between you and Angelica.”
“My word against hers. Who do you think they’d believe?”
So many details fell into place now. Angelica’s telephone call after Kate had left home. The sending of Francis after the shoes. The invitation to Martin. But it was impossible to think of Angelica as that much of a monster. But someone had been a monster.
Relief swept through Kate. Martin was releasing her from the trap. Because he wanted to save her, he had forced a design from the chaos. She turned to him impulsively.
“Martin!”
He took her in his arms. His lips, warm, almost rough, were on hers.
“Kate, darling, you don’t have to be frightened any more. It happened that way. I know it. We’ll tell Toby. He’ll tell the police.”
“Martin,” she blurted: “You do love me, don’t you?”
“Kate, if you knew how lovely you are.’”
“No, Martin.”
“Lovely and precious. More precious than anything.” Beyond his shoulder, she saw Rose come into the room.
She drew away. Rose said: “There’s a gentleman wants to see you, ma’am. Lieutenant
Trant. From the police, he says.”
Kate looked at Martin. But there was no time to make a decision about Lieutenant Trant, for he strolled into the room, uninvited. As before, his manner was quiet, unaggressive, almost apologetic.
“Excuse the intrusion, Miss Laurence. Thought you might like to be kept posted.” He acknowledged Martin’s presence with a nod. “This is quite informal, so I ducked your lawyer. Told him I was going to get a bite to eat. I hope you don’t mind.”
This wasn’t the time to tell him Martin’s theory. It was still too new, and it meant admitting the fact of the letter. They should consult Toby first. She felt uncertain and rather frightened, too, because it was frightening to know that, behind this politeness, he thought of her as a murderess.
She said: “Of course I don’t mind. Sit down, Lieutenant.”
Lieutenant Trant dropped into a chair. He had long legs. He crossed them comfortably.
“Nothing very startling as yet. The preliminary autopsy report has come in. Mrs. Mills did die of prussic acid poisoning. It’s very quick acting, you know. It’s quite out of the question that it could have been administered before she got to the apartment.”
He paused, watching her under half-closed lids, as if he expected her to say something. She didn’t speak.
He went on: “I examined the things that were in her brief case. Nothing there, either. A shorthand pad with a bunch of routine office letters dated a month ago. And a lot of cleansing tissues. Mrs. Mills have a cold?”
“Hay-fever.”
He dropped into silence, then added: “Oh, yes. They’ve analyzed the drink spilled on the carpet. Enough prussic acid to kill half a dozen best friends.” He smiled straight at her. “It’s this best friend angle I’m working on right now. You’re sure you and Mrs. Mills were on good terms?”
She was thinking of him now as a spider, quietly, industriously spinning out little threads to curl around her and eventually to enmesh her.
Martin said roughly: “You don’t normally ask a girl to be your matron of honor unless she’s your best friend.”
The detective’s slow gaze moved to him. “Then Miss Laurence hadn’t found out that Mrs. Mills was having an affair with you?”
The tone of his voice had not changed. For a moment Kate did not grasp what he had said. Then confusion and doubt invaded her again. She and Martin had destroyed the letter. Therefore, Lieutenant Trant must have found other evidence. And, if there was other evidence, perhaps Martin had been lying to her all the time. This recurrence of tormenting doubt swamped out any realization of danger. Trant’s eyes, exasperatingly sympathetic, were scrutinizing her. “You’ll think I’m a cad bringing this up,
Miss Laurence. But that’s all a policeman is—a cad on salary.”
He took a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. There
were, in fact, two sheets of paper. Scraps from a torn-up letter had been pasted together on a second sheet.
Martin, darling …
She read it with a foolish surge of pleasure. This wasn’t something new. It was just a copy of the letter Angelica had sent her.
Trant was saying: “I found the pieces in the scrap basket. Presumably a rough draft of something she copied. I hope it isn’t too much of a shock for you.”
Kate looked up from the letter.
He said: “You seem remarkably high-spirited, Miss Laurence.”
She blurted: “I know about this.” Martin said warningly: “Kate!”’
“It’s all right, Martin. We’ve got to tell now.”
Her restored faith in Martin made everything seem easy. Trant had found this rough draft of the letter. He had to be given some explanation. It was better to let him know everything the way Martin had outlined it, but she must do that without telling that Martin had burned the letter.
Trant must believe she had destroyed it herself.
She plunged into a recapitulation of Martin’s theory. She hurried on, conscious of Trant’s unwavering gaze, and the story started to sound improbable. Suddenly she knew that he wasn’t believing a word of it.
She was floundering deeper and deeper into the web. She came to a halting conclusion.
Trant, looking down at his fingernails, murmured:
“So that’s how you and Mr. Downs think it happened.” Martin broke in, trying to add, repair, but Trant said: “There’s no need to do any more explaining, Mr. Downs.
Miss Laurence has made herself quite clear.” He looked up. “So you think your best friend had been hating you secretly for years?”
Kate felt crushed, exhausted. “She must have been.”
“Hated you so much that she wanted to ruin your marriage and kill you? Not just one? Both?”
Angelica’s image, generous, affectionate, rose tauntingly
in her mind.
“She must have.”
“That’s a lot of hate.” He sighed. “A lot of clumsiness too. She had two glasses. One to poison. One to drink. A fairly simple operation. But she ended up drinking the poisoned one. I wouldn’t have hired a girl like that for my secretary.” Martin glared at him. “How else could it have happened?”
“Even if we grant Mrs. Mills’ motives for writing the letter were obscure, Miss Laurence received it. Presumably she took it at its face value. She went to see Mrs. Mills, angry and hurt.” Trant’s smile at Martin was slow, friendly.
“Mrs. Mills got the poison—not Miss Laurence.”
An oppressive listlessness was spreading through Kate. Everything she said or did only damned her that much more in the Lieutenant’s eyes. She couldn’t go on struggling forever.
She said weakly: “How could I have got the poison?”
“How could Mrs. Mills have got it?”
“I didn’t kill her. I’ve told you before.”
“You also told me you were on the best of terms with Mrs. Mills.”
The door bell sounded. Kate heard Toby’s infinitely welcome voice in the hall. He hurried in.
His face, when he saw Trant, went red with indignation. “Lieutenant, you have no right to be here. You told me—”
“I know.” Lieutenant Trant smiled and, surprisingly, he rose. “Just dropped in. An impulse of the moment. There’s no need to throw me out. I’m leaving.”
Toby glanced agitatedly at Kate. “What’s he been saying?”
“Your client did most of the talking.” Trant gestured to her with his hand. “Well, thanks, Miss Laurence. I’ll be pushing on. By the way, don’t get lost. I’ll be around tomorrow and I’d hate to miss you.”
With a nod to Martin, he left.
Kate heard the front door close behind him. Then Rose came in.
“Dinner’s served, ma’am.”
The idea of eating seemed impossibly frivolous. Kate was going to tell Rose to take it away, but Toby, reading her mind, said:
“You’ve got to eat, dear. Come on, both of you. I’ve eaten. I’ll sit with you.”
* * *
Dinner, with Rose in and out serving, was no time to tell Toby what had happened. They ate as little and as quickly as possible. When they were back in the living room, Kate told the whole story. Because Toby had always fixed things, she retained a pitiful trust in his ability to work miracles, but as she spoke, she saw from the droop of his mouth and the worried look in his eyes that this had become too much even for him.
And, gradually, an even more alarming realization came. Perhaps Toby did not believe in her innocence. Martin had stood by her tenaciously, and Toby would stand by her to the end. But what were they really thinking? Martin’s attempt to put the blame on Angelica had failed. There was only herself and Francis. They didn’t think Francis did it.
Toby was talking now, quickly, encouragingly, full of plans and projects, building around her the reassuring edifice of legal protection. But in spite of the tenderness in his voice, he was treating her like a client who was already behind bars.
She looked from him to Martin’s drawn, unhappy face and she cried:
“You think I did it, don’t you? Both of you think I did it!” She had been through so much and she saw only blackness and fear ahead. Her control collapsed and she broke into tears. They hovered around her, trying to comfort her.
But the truth was inescapable.
They didn’t believe her.
Toby, desperately trying to cheer her, brought his wedding present from the pile and took off the fancy wrappings to reveal a glass-topped tray into which had been set a dazzling pattern of tropical butterflies. He displayed it proudly, telling her the tongue-twisting Latin names of the various butterflies, explaining how rare they were, pathetically eager for her to appreciate it.
In spite of the bleakness inside her, the funny, old-fashioned gift touched her heart. Dear Toby, sacrificing the most priceless butterflies in his collection to make a tray for her and Martin—for her wedding.
“Oh, Toby, thank you!”
“I designed it myself. Isn’t it pretty?”
“So pretty, Toby.”
He was beaming, a round, bald, lovable owl. “And when you’re married, you must serve me nothing but the most antique and costly brandy on it.”
When she was married. She turned to Martin. His responding smile came quick, warm. Whatever they thought, they loved her, both of them. And she hadn’t killed Angelica. Surely, somehow it would have to come out all right. She felt a little steadier, but terribly tired.
“Martin—Toby, I think I’d better go to bed. I’ll be more use in the morning.”
She went with them to the door. Toby’s voice was rattling on, brisk, encouraging. She knew his optimism was an act put on for her, but she didn’t mind so much any more. Their love was a prop. They could still love her when they thought she was a murderess.
Both kissed her good night. Toby clumsily dabbed at her cheek. Martin’s lips pressed firmly, reassuringly against hers.
“I love you, Kate,” he said. “You believe it, don’t you?
No more doubts.”
“No more doubts.” Kate ascended the stairs wearily. As she approached the top, she heard her name called. Francis was standing at the head of the stairs, wearing Toby’s blue silk pajamas. The dark hair was ruffled above his haunted face.
“I heard them leave, Kate. I was waiting for you.”
The unexpected maternal feeling she had known before came again. “Francis, you shouldn’t be walking around with no shoes on. Are you hungry? I can get Rose to bring you something.”
“No, thank you. I woke up, and I’ve been thinking.
I want to talk to you.”
She said: “All right, Francis,” and went toward her bedroom. He followed. She could hear the pad of his bare feet. She turned on the lights and dropped onto a chair in front of the shining white dressing table. In the mirror, she could see her own face, small, stra
ined, and Francis looming behind. He was watching her steadily. He said: “You got the letter, didn’t you?”
“The letter?”
“About Martin. That’s why you went to see Angelica, wasn’t it?”
“You—you know about the letter?”
“I told her she was crazy to send it. But you know Angelica. Impulsive, stubborn. She’d got it into her head it was the only way. I couldn’t stop her.”
She felt uneasiness crawling through her. “The only way to do what?”
“To keep you from marrying Martin. She tried warning you. You wouldn’t listen. She knew you were as stubborn as she was. The wedding was to be next Tuesday. There wasn’t any time. She thought the only hope was a thunderbolt like that. She thought if she pretended there was an affair between her and Martin she could at least jolt you badly enough to make you postpone the wedding. That would have given her time.”
She thought: “Keep steady. Whatever’s coming, bear it.” She said: “Time for what?”
“Time to get definite proof that Martin was a crook.” Feeling weak as paper, she said: “What sort of a crook?”
“A crook and the son of a crook.”
“No, Francis. No!”
She twisted around in the chair and looked up at him as if he had struck her. On his face she could see the same pity for her that she had been feeling for him. He reached out with his good arm and clumsily patted her shoulder.
“Angelica got on to it down at the office. She never told me details, but I gather old Mr. Downs had been monkeying around with your estate. Toby hadn’t realized, she said. But you know Toby. He’d trust Judas Iscariot. Apparently old Mr. Downs had been playing the market wrong, too. That’s what brought on the stroke that killed him.
She said weakly: “And Martin?”
“Martin came back, found there was no money, found out what his father had done. There was only one way to put himself in funds again and to cover up his father’s theft. That was to get control of the estate—to marry you.”
The old darkness had come again, swallowing her up.
She whispered: “No, it can’t be.”
“I’m sorry. But you’ve got to know so that you can see that Angelica was always your friend. She loved you; she warned you. The crazy letter seemed the only way.”