The Frightened Fianc?e

by George Harmon Coxe

  When he had gone as far as he could he looked inland, unable now to see the road but marking a line of trees on higher ground which seemed to indicate its presence. On impulse he started through the high grass, stepping gingerly until the watermarks of some recent high tide were behind him and the ground began to rise. A little farther on he saw a stone fence thickly hedged in on this side by vines and briars and sumac. He got through these without damage, scaled the fence, and found himself in the road close by the turn-around he had noticed the night before, a mere widening of the grassy borders really, so that cars could back and turn, with room on each side for parallel parking.

  For some reason he found himself thinking again of the car he had heard the night before—or thought he had heard. At the time it seemed that the sound of the motor was too distant to come from the house and he wondered now if such a car had been parked here while the owner proceeded on foot.

  On the opposite side of the road the vines and bushes grew thickly and he did not explore beyond the wall but started walking toward the house, coming presently to something he had not noticed in the taxi the night before—a Y in the road with the main branch curving toward the house and the narrower gravel offshoot slicing to the left and ending, he knew now, at the Carver cottage.

  There was no one in sight as he headed through the oaks and soft maples that studded this part of the point, and he kept on, detouring past the guesthouse and cutting wide around the Carver cottage until he reached the beach beyond. Here the shore line curved outward toward the Allenby house, only the rooftop of which was now visible. He could see the end of the pier and the Saybrook shore and lighthouses beyond, but he turned the other way until he came to a ledgelike formation which, reaching from well back in a shrub-covered area to the low-water mark and beyond, made an effective barrier between the point and the beach to the left. Only by standing on tiptoe could he look over the ledge and see the scattered houses farther along where tiny figures played along the water’s edge.

  A lone boulder stood off from the ledge, offering the only shade in sight and Holland sat down behind it. He got a cigarette going. He stared seaward where a tug labored eastward with its tow, three high-riding barges, stretching far astern. On the opposite shore Orient Point looked like a mirage, its trees apparently having neither roots nor foundation so that they seemed to hang suspended in the clear bright air. There were other mirages off to the left, islands that he could not name, and presently he leaned back to contemplate the sky and think his thoughts.

  Holland awoke with the sun hot on his eyelids. He sat up groggily, his mind empty but beginning to function as he grew conscious of the burning sensation on his face and forehead. His whole body seemed wet with perspiration and he stood up, muttering while he opened his shirt and flapped it fanlike about his torso. The strap of his watch was wet and he removed it to dry the gold back. The hands pointed to twenty minutes after four and, remembering the invitation from Carver, he trudged slowly up the beach, a red-faced, thirsty man, impatient not only with himself but with the world in general.

  He heard the voices before he reached the cottage. They came from open windows and through the doors of the connecting living-room and screen porch, empty now because the sun was slanting in from that side. When he knocked at the front door someone yelled to come in, and then Carver moved across the living-room to ask him what he’d like to drink.

  “Would there be beer?”

  “There would be,” Carver said. “Sit down if you can find a place.”

  Holland stood awkwardly a moment or two while Carver disappeared across the hall. He saw a footstool and kicked it closer to the leather chair in which Ginny Marshall had curled herself. Someone said they were wondering what happened to him and he said he’d been up the beach.

  “You got yourself a burn,” Frances said.

  “I fell asleep.”

  “I don’t wonder,” Nadine said, “after being up half the night.”

  Holland wanted to ask where Tracy was, but he didn’t. He took the bottle and glass that Carver offered him and eased down on the footstool to pour his beer and count noses.

  Nadine and Arthur Baldwin sat on the divan, shoulder to shoulder and, along with Keith Erskine who still wore his expensive-looking gabardine, the only ones properly dressed for the occasion, the woman in a white suit and Baldwin in slacks, cord coat, and bow tie. Carver, in army trousers, T-shirt, and old loafers, looked like a running guard, beefy but fast on his feet; Frances, in the rocker, still wore the soiled denim slacks and the tight-fitting jersey. She wore rope-soled sneakers and she had jackknifed one leg so the heel was on the chair seat and her arm was curved around the knee.

  “Well,” Baldwin said, “let’s have some more of that theory, Fanny. Tell Holland,” he said.

  “All right I will,” Frances said. “And don’t call me Fanny.”

  “Frances maintains”—Baldwin glanced at Holland—“that if we have a murderer among us he should confess.”

  “I said nothing of the kind.” Frances sipped her drink. She did not sound annoyed. Her manner was assured as always, her tone calm and superior. “What I said, Johnnie—it’s time we dropped the ‘mister,’ don’t you think?—what I said was that unless some outsider sneaked in here last night and did away with Mr. Drake, then one of us must be guilty.”

  “Not me,” her husband said. “I was in New York.”

  “All right, you were in New York,” Frances said, not looking at him. “And surely it wasn’t Tracy, at least I can’t think of any good reason for her killing him. Nana might have wanted to—I’m sure she detested the man—but it would be a little difficult for her with that cane and all.”

  She rocked once and said, “So if one of us did kill him why not say so now, right here and in the privacy of this group? That way the others may be able to help. Just how I’m not sure, but we could lie if we had to, and confuse the police, and do what we could to protect him. Certainly none of us will miss Roger Drake. No one liked him—we thought Tracy did, but we know better now—and personally I found him a most obnoxious character.”

  “Hah!” said Keith. “You were fascinated by him, darling.”

  “Only at first.” Frances remained unperturbed. “And only because he was so unlike anyone I’d ever known. I’ll admit he was good-looking in a poker-faced sort of way, and he dressed well enough—”

  “If your taste runs to flashiness,” her husband added.

  “—but when you got to know him, ugh!” she said. “Which is really the basis of my suggestion. I’m not prepared to argue the moral points of murder, nor have I any brief for or against capital punishment. All I mean is that I’d hate very much for anyone here to have to hang because he went up to the guesthouse and, in a moment of temper or insanity, took a shot at Roger Drake.”

  Carver grunted softly and put aside his glass. “The trouble with you, Frances,” he said amiably, “is that you’re a little nuts.”

  The woman smiled at him. “Am I really?” she said without rancor.

  Holland leaned close to the leather chair and tapped Ginny Marshall’s arm. When she tipped her head he spoke to her, asking if she knew where Tracy was.

  “Taking a nap,” was the whispered reply.

  Holland moved back, considering the thing he had heard and marveling that these people could talk this way. It was all very offhand, and because he did not know them well he could not tell how much of it was serious and how much was just talk. What he did sense was the feeling of strain that seemed to permeate the room and find its way into little things like the inflection of their voices, the gestures, the nervous, never quite relaxed attitudes. He watched one and then another. There was nothing very definite that he could put his finger on, and yet the feeling persisted that the tension was not only there, it was building. Now, as Keith delivered himself of an opinion, he listened again.

  “The idea presents interesting possibilities. I grant you it has some merit. Unfortunately, it won’t do
. It won’t do at all.”

  Frances held her empty glass up until she caught Carver’s eye. “A refill, please. With not quite so much water this time. And why not?” she said to her husband.

  “Because its success is predicated on the supposition that the rest of us are all sterling characters—loyal, trustworthy, unselfish, and determined. To illustrate,” he said, tipping one hand, “let’s say the guilty one confesses and we agree to help. It’s quite likely that we might hash things up so the police could never make an arrest. But suppose later one of us gets hard up and can’t resist a fling at blackmailing. It doesn’t have to be blackmail; it could be jealousy, spite, or what have you. But once there’s a break in our silence we’re scuppered.”

  “Hah!” said Baldwin, with what sounded like a chuckle. “Well spoken.” He glanced about, hands tugging at the lapels of his cord jacket. “A thing like that could lead to a few years in jail for all of us.”

  “You may have something there,” Frances said, stretching out her legs and contemplating her crossed ankles. “Yes. Now that I think of it you may be right.”

  Carver twisted in his chair and leaned on the desk. “Why,” he asked, “are you all so ready to agree to the idea that someone from the Point shot Drake?” He paused to look at Holland, his dark eyes steady beneath the heavy brows. “Did you hear a car last night?”

  Holland nodded and said he thought he did.

  “When?”

  “Why—just after I found Drake.”

  “So did I,” Carver said. “Hear a car, I mean.”

  “A car?” Baldwin said.

  “At the house?” Keith added.

  “Not at the house,” Carver said. “It was farther away than that.” He glanced at Holland for confirmation and said, “It could have come from that wide place in the road just beyond the neck. A car could have come there at any time, turned around, and parked. I like to think that’s what happened. Someone who knew Drake was in the guesthouse walked in from outside. Anyway, that’s my theory until the cops prove I’m wrong. Oh, oh,” he said, sitting up as something caught his eye outside. “I think we’re having more company.”

  He was on his feet and moving as he spoke. He reached the front door before there was any knack, opened it, and said, “Come in.”

  “Thank you kindly,” a hoarse voice replied, and then Sam Crombie lumbered into view, sweeping off his Panama as he nodded to the room at large.

  “Will you have a drink?”

  “Thank you, no. Unless—is that water in the pitcher? I could use a glass of that.”

  He waited while Carver poured the water, a bulky figure, his seersucker a mass of wrinkles except where the fabric was stretched taut at thighs and shoulders. He drank thirstily, replaced the glass. His ruddy face was moist and fringes of hair clung wetly to his scalp as he fanned himself with his hat.

  “I won’t stay long,” he promised, “because this is sort of a business call. I guess you all know now why Drake was here and maybe you know he worked for me. I was hired by Miss Lawrence and now I’m out of a job.” He offered a small smile as his keen eyes swept the room. “I was wondering if any of you would like to hire a reputable detective for a week or so at a modest fee.”

  “Why?” Baldwin asked.

  “You mean why should you? Or why do I want to work?”

  “Either,” Baldwin said.

  “Or both,” added Frances.

  “It’s like this,” Crombie said. “It’s bad for business when a man like me has an agent killed and does nothing about it. Word gets around. A cop gets killed, the other cops gang up to find out who did it. Same with a reporter; all the papers scream. In a small way it’s like that with me.”

  He fingered the brim of his hat and said, “I don’t expect to solve this case singlehanded but I’d like to be in on it when and if it’s cracked. Now, I’m licensed to do business in this state but I don’t have any real authority. If I get any information the police are always ready to listen; the thing is they don’t care much about having private investigators snooping around in what they think is their business. On the other hand if a man has a bona fide client he has a right to be around, a right to carry on a legitimate investigation. The cops don’t have to tell him anything, but they can’t exactly chase him away. So I was thinking that maybe—”

  He broke off, waiting, then watching Holland come to his feet and put his glass aside.

  “How much does that sort of service cost?”

  “It varies,” Crombie said. “This time it’ll be reasonable. On account if I turn up anything and we nail the lad that killed Drake word gets around about that, too. It’s good publicity. It helps get good men to work for you and it impresses prospective clients, not that we very often have anything to do with murder.”

  Holland made up his mind then. Remembering the things he had said to Tracy and to Mrs. Allenby, his almost childish promises to find out who killed Drake, he saw in Crombie an answer to at least some of his problems.

  “Okay,” he said, “you’re hired.”

  “Got a dollar?” Crombie asked, giving his smile a chance.

  Holland found one, handed it over.

  “Fine,” Crombie said. “The dollar makes it legal and you won’t need any receipt because we’ve got witnesses. For one dollar and other valuable considerations you’ve got yourself a boy. If these good people will excuse you,” he said, “we might go somewhere and talk a little business now so I can get back to the city.”

  eleven

  FOR HIS FIRST CONFERENCE Sam Crombie chose the end of the pier, adding that if a park bench was good enough for Mr. Baruch the bench here should be good enough for them. He settled himself solidly, his coat open and hat in hand.

  “I’ve got a couple of things to tell you,” he said, “and I’m hoping you may have something of your own to toss into the pot. But first I have to know if you killed him, which is a silly question because if you did you wouldn’t admit it.”

  “I wouldn’t,” Holland said, “and I didn’t.”

  “The police think you might have. The motive is there, and the opportunity, and considering how often a person is killed under the same sort of circumstances, you can hardly blame them. All right,” he said. “I heard what you told Lieutenant Pilgrim this morning, but tell it again, and this time don’t leave anything out.”

  Holland gave the man a quick glance, but it told him nothing so he went ahead with his story. The only variation was the ending. For this time he spoke of the person he had seen climbing to the second-floor porch, going on from there to tell how he had seen Nadine Winsor undressing.

  Crombie said, “Ahh,” softly. He tapped finger tips against the brim of his hat. After a while he said, “That means that in addition to you and Carver at least one, and maybe two, people were up and around when Drake got his. You’re sure you don’t know where that porch climber went? But you’re sure you saw him?”

  “Positive,” Holland said. “Someone was on those vines; someone went over the second-floor rail. After that I lost sight of him. I couldn’t see a thing until the light went on in Nadine’s room—in the adjoining bathroom really.”

  “If you saw her undress you know damn well it was a woman but could you swear it was Miss Winsor?”

  “Yes. Because of her hair.”

  Crombie thought it over a moment and then turned ponderously to look back at the front of the house.

  “Let’s count rooms,” he said. “Five of them overlook the porch—Mrs. Allenby’s living-room on the right, then yours, and Miss Winsor’s; then Miss Lawrence’s, and finally Mr. Erskine’s.”

  “It certainly wasn’t Mrs. Allenby,” Holland said. “It wasn’t me. It couldn’t have been Tracy, or Keith Erskine—because he wasn’t even here—and that leaves Nadine.”

  “That’s okay as far as you’ve gone.” Crombie continued to study the house. “Now let’s take the other rooms on that floor. Behind Mrs. Allenby’s front room on the right wing you’ve got her bedr
oom which gives on an alcove. Off that alcove is a door which leads to Mrs. Erskine’s room. Okay. But the other wing is different. Instead of having a suite and a bedroom it has three bedrooms.”

  “Oh.”

  “Sure. I took a look around while they were looking for the gun—and incidentally they haven’t found it yet. Well, there’s an alcove at the end of the hall just like the one on the right, but in this one there are three doors; one to Mr. Erskine’s room, one to Miss Marshall’s, the rear one to Mr. Baldwin’s.”

  He turned to Holland, his eyes intent. “What I’m getting at is this. The porch climber you saw was probably Miss Winsor but it doesn’t have to be. Let’s consider the alternative just for the hell of it. Obviously the climber used that way of getting out because he was afraid he’d be seen in the upper or lower halls or on the stairs. Now maybe a person would take the chance of ducking into the hall long enough to get from one room to another, but no one would risk going through Mrs. Allenby’s room because she was in it at the time. No one would go through your room unless he—or she—knew you were out of it, which seems unlikely since you say no one saw you. I say unlikely because no matter what you think, you can’t be sure. Same way with Miss Lawrence’s room. But Mr. Erskine’s room is different.”

  “How?” Holland asked, though he was beginning to get the answer himself.

  “Because everyone knew Mr. Erskine’s room would be empty. All Miss Marshall had to do for instance—”

  “That kid? You don’t think—”

  “Wait a minute. I’ll come back to her, but let me finish. I say all she had to do was open her door, take one step to the next door, and come out to the porch through an empty room.”

  “Baldwin could do the same thing.”

  “Sure he could. Open his door, skip Miss Lawrence’s, and open Erskine’s—without ever going out into the hall. Once on the roof you take one of those vine-and-lattice ladders and down you go.”