The Frightened Fianc?e

by George Harmon Coxe

  “Yes.”

  “Soon?”

  “Well—my divorce becomes final next month.” She examined the end of her cigarette. “We thought sometime soon after that.”

  Holland watched her hands, well-shaped, nicely kept hands. A two-carat diamond winked at him from the left one and on the right was an outsized aquamarine in a plain platinum setting. There was a matching bracelet on her arm. They looked expensive, but they did not look like the sort of thing Arthur Baldwin would buy.

  “What does your husband do?”

  “He’s a song writer. Charlie Winsor,” she said and mentioned some titles that Holland recognized at once.

  “But not up here,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I won’t get married up here. There won’t be any wedding, eithing. We’ll just get married. I suppose the country is all right for a week-end, or if you’re used to it, but me—I dont know. you can have it. I went to the city from a small town when I was seventeen and I’ve been there ever sice. Yes,” she said as someone spoke behind her.

  Art Ritchie stood waiting, thumbs hooked in his cartridge belt. “They’re ready for you now, Miss Winsor.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said, and sighed. She rose, Holland moving with her. “I don’t know what I can tell them,” she said with some petulance. “I went to bed at twelve and slept like a log.”

  Holland watched her go, but what he saw in his mind’s eye was a bedroom upstairs and a woman who undressed hurriedly in the half-light of the adjacent bathroom.

  nine

  FANNY ALLENBY was doing her crossword puzzle. At least she had the paper in her lap and was bent over it when Holland entered the sunroom. She had been working on it quite a while but not until he stepped close did he see that not more than six or seven words had been completed.

  “Did Tracy tell you why she hired Drake?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, not looking up.

  “Do you understand any of it?”

  She gave him an impatient glance, her brown eyes intent behind the glasses.

  “Certainly I understand it. A fool could understand it.”

  Holland blinked at the ferocity of her reply and backed into a chair.

  “I told you what happened to her after your friend George Vanning was shot,” she continued. “She made up her mind she was a jinx; she made up her mind she could never get married. Maybe that sounds silly to you and to me, but it was horribly real to her. Just remember we don’t all think alike or react the same way. For a while I’m sure she was determined never to fall in love at all.”

  She twitched her shoulders and made noises in her throat. “Well, you changed that part of it. She fell in love with you. You made her reconsider, but for all the fact that she’s been a forthright and sincere girl she’s been sensitive, too, and she was simply afraid to say she’d marry you until she conquered this feeling that she was a jinx. She wanted to be sure and she thought up this idea that seems so wild to us. But it was important enough to her to spend her own money on it and—”

  “But, just because she happened to be engaged to two men who were accidentally killed doesn’t mean that—”

  “Doesn’t it? She was in love with you, you idiot. And she was afraid.”

  “But what could happen to me? Why couldn’t—”

  She cut in on him again, acidly. “Something happened to Roger Drake, didn’t it? He’s dead, isn’t he?” She fixed him with her level gaze and said, “You maintain she had a foolish idea but the fact remains that for the third time a fiancé was killed in less than thirty days. Well,” she said when he did not reply, “why don’t you argue about that? Tracy had an idea and it seems to me she’s the only one who was right. I don’t know how you feel or what the poor child must be thinking now, but I can tell you right now it scares me.”

  Holland was on his feet, vaguely conscious of the odor of tobacco smoke though neither he nor the woman was smoking. He started toward one of the open windows, then wheeled, hazel eyes narrowed and his rugged face grimly set.

  “Tracy’s no jinx,” he said. “There’s another answer somewhere, there must be. I know for sure now that she loved me and I’m going to marry her if it’s the last thing I do.” He paused, glaring at Fanny Allenby while she glared back at him, not angrily but intently, with something akin to fear deep down in her gaze.

  “I’m going to find out who killed Drake, and why. I’m going to prove his death had nothing to do with Tracy; I’ll make her see that it would have happened anyway.”

  Arthur Baldwin, coming in from the drawing-room, heard most of this and now he said, “I wish you would marry her. I wish you’d hurry up, too.”

  “Be quiet, Arthur,” the woman said.

  “I’ve got the papers all drawn,” he said, ignoring her. “Her share of the estate is all ready, and a quick wedding would simplify everything.”

  Holland found the man’s attempt at sardonic humor—if that is what it was—distasteful. He scowled and turned to look out of the window. There was a stone bench on the lawn below him and near it a wisp of smoke curled upward from a discarded cigarette butt that was now mostly gray ash but still holding its original shape. This gave him the answer as to why he thought he had smelled smoke and he wondered if someone had been seated there listening to his conversation with Mrs. Allenby. Even as he considered the idea he knew he didn’t care and, elevating his glance, saw someone moving through the trees beyond and heading for the beach, someone who, once he gained the clearing, became the stocky figure of Eric Carver. He watched Carver wave to someone out of sight and heard him call out, though he could not understand the words; then he turned back to Fanny Allenby.

  “Would it be all right if I stayed over another night?”

  “Indeed yes,” she said quickly. “If you are as good at Martinis as you are at helping with crossword puzzles you are a distinct asset to the place.”

  “What’s the matter with my Martinis?” Baldwin asked.

  “You know very well that they are practically straight gin. And when Keith makes them he uses too much Vermouth and not enough ice. I detest warm Martinis.”

  “Who doesn’t?” Holland said, and then, as a new thought came to him: “I wonder when Keith will be back from the city. This murder business will be quite a surprise to him.”

  Holland, who had started to stroll from the room, stopped when Mrs. Allenby said, “Where are you going, Johnnie?”

  “To see if I can find Tracy.”

  “I wouldn’t if I were you. I mean”—she hesitated when Holland caught her eye—“she may not be in the mood for the things you have to say.”

  “Let him go,” Baldwin said. “How do you know what he has to say? Personally I think it might be a good idea to drag her into a car and keep on driving until she stopped her nonsense and married him.”

  Holland got out of there as fast as he could, hearing Fanny Allenby’s unladylike comment to Baldwin. Somewhere out front a motor exploded suddenly into a full-throated roar, idled briefly, and rose again to a power-packed and rhythmic throbbing. By the time he reached the front door the speedboat was a quarter of a mile away and curving stern-down toward the river, the bow wave obscuring all but the forward part of the hull.

  Holland watched it a moment as he crossed the lawn to the pier, and then he saw the two figures on the bench at the far end and continued toward them. They did not notice his approach but stared seaward, two dark-haired girls in sun dresses, Tracy and Ginny Marshall.

  The landing-float was vertical now, its canvas deck freshly painted and held in place against the pier by an oversize book-and-eye device, and the workman was giving the edges a coat of gray. Holland stopped to watch. He wished that Ginny Marshall would go away so he could talk to Tracy, and when he realized that they were not yet aware of him he spoke to the painter, who explained that he was going to let the underside of the float dry thoroughly, then scrape off the barnacles and give it a coat of copper paint.

  “Mrs
. Allenby likes to have it done twice a season,” he said.

  Ginny stood up, saying something Holland did not catch. Tracy started to reply, the look in her face suggesting she was about to protest the girl’s leaving; then she glanced at Holland.

  “All right, Ginny,” she said. “Yes, I know.”

  Ginny gave Holland a shy smile as she passed, a spot of color in each smooth cheek. To cover her embarrassment she spoke to the painter, calling him by name, and then went on toward the house, the heels of her loafers tapping lightly on the wooden flooring.

  Holland sat down beside Tracy. He did not say anything or even look directly at her for the first few seconds. He had the feeling that to do so would startle her into headlong flight, and so, wanting more than anything else to take her quickly into his arms, he was warned by some intuitive alchemy that any such demonstration would be a mistake, that if he was to talk at all he must do so impersonally and with not so much as a touch of the hand.

  “I guess they didn’t believe me, Tracy,” he said finally. “I told them what you said but—” He let the sentence dangle. When she did not speak he said, “Did you think I killed him?”

  “I don’t know.” Her voice was wooden. “I didn’t then, not really. It was just that—”

  “You were afraid?” he prompted.

  “I didn’t know what to think. Somehow it seemed I ought to warn you that I had no intention of marrying Roger, that—Oh, what difference does it make now?”

  She was sitting erect against the back of the seat, and he leaned forward, elbows on knees so that he could not see her face. Out in the Sound the speedboat had circled back and now the sound of it died and the hull flattened in the water. The engine hatch was open and someone—it looked like Carver—was working there while Frances Erskine stood by, blond hair shining in the sun.

  After a moment Holland said, “Maybe it’s my fault.”

  “No.”

  “I shouldn’t have come here. We made an agreement when I left, but I didn’t think I’d be breaking it by coming up here. It was just that I got back earlier than I expected and I thought I’d surprise you. I—I—only wanted to see you for a few minutes.”

  There was no answer to this and now, hearing the odd sound of her breathing behind him, he knew she was trying desperately not to cry.

  “I talked to your grandmother,” he said, “and she made me understand why you pretended to be engaged to Drake instead of to me.” Even as he spoke he knew that this was not entirely true. Part of his mind accepted certain elements of the plan as logical; another part rejected the whole business. But he had to make her think he understood, to reassure her some way.

  “You’re not to worry any more about it,” he said. “We’ll find out why Drake was killed and who did it. Then you’ll know for sure that you had nothing to do with it, because when we have the answer you’ll see that he would have been killed anyway and that being engaged to you had no bearing—”

  “No, Johnnie,” she said gently. “If you understood as you say you do, you must see that he was engaged to me and that he was killed. That’s all that matters. It’s the third time it’s happened and regardless of motives or reasons it will be the last.”

  He straightened, looking right at her. “But you can’t just stop loving someone like that. It’s not something you can turn on and off like water in a faucet.”

  “I know,” she said and now her face was perfectly composed, her dark-blue eyes dry, determined, and remote. She brushed a stray wisp of hair from her forehead. She put a small tanned hand on his arm, withdrew it. “It may take a little time and I imagine one has to put his mind on it.”

  He peered at her, amazed that she could talk like this and make her voice sound as if she meant it. It angered him a little and he felt like shaking her. Then, not caring if it was right or wrong, he pulled her to him, one arm circling her waist. Holding her tightly he kissed her. There was a long moment when her warm lips felt hungry and responsive beneath his own; then, even as he held her, he felt her mouth grow firm as the stiffness spread swiftly through her body.

  He released her and leaned back, seeing the wide-open lashes, the high color in her cheeks. For another instant she looked back at him, her mouth quivering; then she turned away, rebuilding her features muscle by muscle while the color faded. When she finished there was nothing left but the face of a stranger, lovely, reserved, and expressionless.

  “You can’t just stop seeing me,” he said, trying not to shout.

  “All right, Johnnie. I don’t see any reason why we can’t be good friends.”

  “Friends,” he snorted, wanting to add: “Why don’t you stop talking like a child,” but knowing that would really tear things.

  “Yes,” she said, “because, you see, there’ll be another girl. There always is for someone like you who has so much to offer. I’d like to be her friend, too.”

  She rose and stepped away from him. She managed a tight smile to keep things pleasant and polite. When she spoke she was not the girl he loved, she was a stranger. She was a successful young businesswoman; she was the secretary to the president.

  “Will you be staying for lunch?”

  “I’ll be staying for lunch,” Holland said. “I’ll be staying for dinner, and overnight.”

  “Really? I’m glad.”

  “Furthermore,” he said, tough now, “I’m going to find out why Drake was killed whether you like it or not.”

  She caught her lip and took a quick breath. “All right. I’m sure the police will be delighted.”

  She moved off as she spoke, now turning, now walking toward the shore with her chin up proudly, her shoulders square. She kept it up for fifty feet and then the shoulders began to sag. The chin came down, head bowing as she began to hurry. Then she was running, across the lawn and up the steps into the house.

  Holland had trouble swallowing and there was a trembling at the back of his legs. He felt weak and all used up inside. He felt hot and sweaty and ashamed. The sound of the speedboat was close now, and as he became aware of it he turned to see it cut in toward the slip. Frances was at the wheel and she was going quite fast, too fast, Holland thought, until, picking the exact instant, she slammed the engine into reverse and spun the wheel. Water boiled under the stern as the gears whined and then, in neutral now, the hull rocked and settled back, easing gently against the slip’s fenders as Carver stepped out, the stern line in hand.

  Holland hunkered down and watched them make the boat fast. “Engine trouble?” he asked.

  “Points.” Carver pulled some waste from his pocket and scrubbed the oil and grease from his hands.

  “It runs fine,” Frances said.

  “For now,” said Carver, tossing the waste into a small locker, “but it needs new ones.”

  Holland watched as they snapped on the canvas cockpit cover and then Frances came along the bow. He gave her a hand to the pier. She wore sneakers and denim slacks and a tight navy-blue jersey that made her lithe body look firm and fit. She clung to Holland’s hand while Carver jumped up to join them, smiling up at him and then locking arms with both men as they started along the pier. Even in her present costume she had somehow a look of sleek sophistication and her voice was bright and matter-of-fact, with no hint whatsoever that the recent tragedy had disturbed her.

  “Is the constabulary still with us?” she asked, and when Holland said he thought so she added, “Eric has an idea. We’re all going to his place for a drink at four. You’re staying for lunch, aren’t you?”

  “I’m staying over another night.”

  “Oh, good. Well, if we’re not all arrested we’re going over to Eric’s and hash this thing out among ourselves.”

  “It isn’t my idea,” Carver said in his soft voice. “It’s just an excuse to get a couple of drinks which we may damn well need by then.”

  ten

  KEITH ERSKINE drove up in his green convertible about a half hour after lunch was over. Holland was just walking down the
broad rear steps and at the moment there was no state policeman in sight, though two official cars stood in the drive. Erskine, looking every bit as elegant as he had the evening before—in sand-colored gabardine this time—kept his eyes on the cars as he walked over to the steps.

  “Hello, Holland,” he said in his oddly accented tones. “State police? What goes on, anyway?”

  “Didn’t they get in touch with you?”

  “No. I was in the city.”

  Holland thought it odd that someone hadn’t telephoned Erskine at his apartment, but he did not say so. He said, “Roger Drake was shot and killed last night.”

  “Really, well that’s—”

  The word stuck in his throat and he stiffened, peering at Holland as if he were a block away. For another second he stood that way, the permanently arched brow higher than ever, his mouth agape.

  “What?”

  He got his mouth shut, his mustache flattening. He swallowed and his glance slid away.

  “Roger Drake what?”

  Holland had no chance to reply, for just then someone spoke behind them. When he glanced over his shoulder he saw Lieutenant Pilgrim standing in the doorway with Art Ritchie.

  “Oh, Mr. Erskine. Could you come in, please?”

  Erskine walked past Holland without a word. He went up the steps and the three of them turned away, talking in low tones. Holland watched them move toward the library and then he walked around the house to the beach, still wondering why the police had not been able to get in touch with Erskine, either direct or through the New York City police.

  Because he wanted to be alone and free to do some thinking without interruption he did not walk out on the pier but continued past it along the curving, rock-strewn beach. For perhaps fifty yards there was no change in the character or contour of the land, except that it began to cut sharply to the right as the point was formed. Once out of sight of the house, however, he found that marshland stretched ahead of him toward the river mouth, that farther on a tidal creek cut into this marsh from the Sound, making the point unapproachable from that direction.