The Frightened Fianc?e

by George Harmon Coxe

  “Did you have it?”

  “Just about. And I knew then I was going to pay, but I didn’t want to pay that much. How did I know he wasn’t going to marry Tracy?” she asked miserably. “I thought he was. And I hated him. I hated myself for letting him get away with it, for not telling her. But I was scared because of Arthur. I thought if I could pay Drake something, then after he married Tracy, why I could—”

  She broke off and lowered her face into wide-open palms. Holland sat quietly until she brought her head up and now there was a firmness to her mouth and chin, and he could see that she regained at least part of her self-control.

  “What I did and how I felt doesn’t matter,” she said. “The point is I went there Friday night. We talked, and I said I’d give him two thousand dollars. I tried to bluff, to get over the idea that I’d go through another divorce before I’d pay any more. Then, just about that time, someone knocked on the living-room door. I could tell he wasn’t expecting anyone, and when he told me to go through the bath into the other bedroom and wait, I did.”

  She went on hurriedly then, the words tumbling out, her clasped hands tight.

  “I sat on the bed and smoked a cigarette and I didn’t know who it was then, but I guess it was Eric Carver. I knew it was a man from the sound of their voices and finally I heard sort of a crash. After that there was something else that sounded like scuffling. I was up by the door then, trying to hear but there wasn’t anything more until I thought I heard a door close.”

  She gulped air and said, “I waited. I don’t know how long. Then I went into the bathroom. I stood there leaning against the washstand and getting more frightened each second. I thought I heard Drake say something and then there was this shot. I almost screamed. I think I tried to but couldn’t. I was petrified.”

  “How long after you thought you heard the door close did you hear the shot?”

  Her glance met his, focused, passed on. “I don’t know.”

  “Guess.”

  “I can’t. Minutes. How many I don’t know.”

  “All right. Go on.”

  “That’s all.” She had her head down again, staring at some spot in the Oriental scatter rug. “When I could I opened the door and he was sprawled in the chair.”

  Holland tried to read the expression in her half-averted face. “What else did you see? Who was outside?”

  “No one.” She shook her head and for the first time her voice seemed weak and uncertain. “That’s all I saw.”

  Holland sat on the edge of a chair. At one point ready to believe everything she told him, he was now uncertain about a lot of things.

  “If that’s all you know,” he said, “what’s so tough about telling it to the police?”

  She looked up, the stiffness back in her face and her expression defiant. “It’s all right for you to say that, but you don’t have to do it. If I have time to think things out and get ready, why then I guess I can do it if I have to.”

  Holland watched her a moment. He let his breath out slowly and stood up, convinced that he would get nothing more from her now. Well, it could wait a few hours. If she was holding anything back, and some inexplicable whisper of instinct told him that she was, the police would be able to uncover it better than he could.

  He walked over to the door and opened it. Surreptitiously he slid his finger along the lock unit and pressed the button to secure the safety latch. When he turned, his back to the door, she looked across at him.

  “You promised you’d not tell them yet,” she said.

  “I’ll be back.” Holland stepped into the little hall. “Between seven-thirty and eight.”

  He closed the door solidly and then stood right where he was, hand on the knob to keep it from turning back. He waited for perhaps ten seconds and then, making no sound, eased the door open a half-inch crack. From somewhere in the room he heard Nadine speak in quick, hushed tones.

  “Long-distance, please.”

  Holland leaned close and the smile that warped his rugged face was grim.

  “Long-distance?” Nadine said. “I want to talk to Lyme, Connecticut,” she said and gave a number.

  Holland closed the door at once lest she turn and notice the crack. He used both hands to be sure he made no sound. He let the knob return to its proper place. Then he tiptoed down the stairs. When he stepped out on the sidewalk he did not try to analyze his discovery but set out in search of the nearest public telephone.

  The bright hot weather of the past day or two, which some said might be a weather breeder, began to justify the prediction toward evening. A small hurricane which had been threatening the southern coastal areas was off Hatteras, and the radio reported that, barring a sudden shift in direction, the trouble center should pass east of Nantucket sometime the following night.

  Here in New York the sky had clouded over and though there was as yet no rain, the smell of it was strong in the gusty air as John Holland walked through the Lexington Avenue entrance of Grand Central Station at twenty minutes of seven. The arcade on that side was moderately crowded with hurrying subway riders and late-going commuters, and Holland kept pace with these until he came to the vaulted reaches of the station proper. Here he cut diagonally to the right, past the information booth to a second arcade which led at various angles to the shuttle, train gates, and underground shops. Beyond this was a smaller waiting-room on the westermost side, and on the far wall was a blackboard on which incoming arrival times were listed. The train he was interested in was listed as on time and while he watched, the uniformed attendant chalked up a 38 to indicate the track assigned to it.

  Holland lit a cigarette while he reviewed the motives that had brought him here. Nadine’s call to Lyme suggested but one thing to him: that she had made up her mind to discuss the things she knew with someone from Hawk’s Point before he, Holland, returned with his threat to inform the police. It was, he knew, about a three-hour drive from there to New York, though at times the trip could be made somewhat faster. Train time from Saybrook took considerably less than this, and was certainly much simpler if one could get a train at the proper time. The fact that Nadine had begged him to wait until eight o’clock coupled with the fact that there was a train from Saybrook which arrived at 6:52, seemed basis enough for assuming that the train, rather than a car, might be used.

  In any case he thought it worth a gamble, and although he had no idea as to whom he was looking for, he felt that he would recognize the person if and when he arrived. Now, as the clock approached the time of arrival, he moved out of this room to an adjacent one located farther back from the doorway and ramp that led to the train platform on the lower level.

  A minute or so later he saw the first of the passengers start to funnel through the opening, singly and in pairs in the beginning, and then en masse, moving more slowly in a long, congested line.

  Holland stayed where he was, trying to scan each face, sometimes taking a second glance, at other times following someone whose face was temporarily obscured. They came on, endlessly it seemed in his nervous un-certainty, fanning out once the doorway was passed and going their separate ways except for those few who had arranged to be met. Finally Holland moved slightly ahead, partly shielding himself behind one of the thick, square pillars; then he saw Arthur Baldwin detach himself from the line and stride purposefully forward, a tanned, vigorous-looking figure in a gray flannel suit and a gray felt.

  Without knowing just what he expected, Holland felt a quick thrust of anticipation and he moved slightly aside while he waited for Baldwin to swerve one way or the other. When the man came straight on a momentary panic took hold of him and he turned away, stepped quickly to the bench behind him, and put one shoe up on the edge of it, bending quickly now to busy himself with his shoelace and trying to look backward under his outstretched arm.

  To his great relief Baldwin stopped suddenly about twenty feet behind him, wheeled in a quarter-circle, and then started for the telephone booths on the left side. He did not con
sult the directory but stepped into the one vacant booth and closed the door.

  Holland straightened slowly. When a pimply youth with enameled black hair rose from the bench and tossed aside a folded tabloid, Holland picked it up and sat down. He kept his head lowered while he opened it and then, raising both head and paper, he glanced over the top of it just in time to see Baldwin step from the booth.

  This time the older man headed directly toward the room where the train arrivals were posted, continuing past this board to the doors giving on the taxi loading-platform. Holland, keeping his distance, chose another door, not stepping clear out on the platform but sidling through and using the edge of the recessed doorway as a shield.

  Until now he had been lucky and he knew it. As if to emphasize the fact, luck began at that point to desert him and the reason he suspected it when he did was the rain-sleek appearance of the taxis that rolled down the ramp. When he saw the windshield wipers working he knew that the shower which had threatened before he entered the station had become a reality, and because he was used to the ways of the city he knew that the business of finding a vacant cab had become a major problem.

  There were at least twenty people on the platform, some singly, some together. Redcaps waited at strategic points with their baggage trucks, and as the cabs rolled down they were instantly filled and off again. There was a starter near the head of the line and Baldwin stood beside him talking earnestly. Then the starter stepped into the narrow roadway to flag the next taxi down the ramp, taking something from Baldwin’s hand as he closed the door.

  Holland headed for the starter, but already someone was ahead of him. He waited, fuming. He put his hand into his pocket looking for change or a loose bill. All he could find was a dollar and when the man ahead of him got his cab he spoke to the starter. He said he had to have a cab. In a hurry. An emergency.

  The starter eyed the dollar with about as much interest as he would a lead quarter. “Sorry, Mac,” he said. “You’ll have to wait your turn.”

  Holland started to protest as anger churned inside him. He looked back at the platform and found that newcomers had taken the places of those lucky enough to depart. He knew now that it was impossible to follow Baldwin, but in that same instant it came to him that perhaps it was not important since he knew—or thought he knew—where Baldwin was going.

  “Sure,” he said, half-aloud, and with that he turned back through the doors and headed for the wide steps leading to the Biltmore.

  He had hoped to do better here, but cabs were lined up for the doorman under the marquee, and already potential passengers were moving along the line even as it formed. It was not raining too hard now and Holland went on to the end of the line, which put him practically on the corner. Here he waited while other taxis swung wide around him with their passengers. Finally after three or four minutes of this he spotted one with the roof light on and beat out a wheezing fat man in a dash for the door.

  The driver was amused. He said it would stop raining in another five minutes and then the people would start walking again, and where did Holland want to go. Holland told him, fretting a bit because of the jam of traffic ahead of him on Forty-Third Street and then leaning back once they had rounded the corner into Madison.

  The driver was right about the rain. It had stopped by the time they came to Nadine’s apartment, and now that he was here Holland wasn’t sure just what he should do. Suppose, he asked himself, Baldwin had made a date for somewhere else when he made that telephone call from the station? What should he, Holland, do? Go up? Wait here for a while and see if Baldwin came out? What if it was not Baldwin at all that Nadine had telephoned that afternoon?

  “Oh, the hell with it,” he said under his breath.

  He paid the driver and walked along the sidewalk in the fading light. The front door at the bottom of the three steps still stood open so he went down and, not bothering to ring Nadine’s bell, began his climb to the third floor.

  Here he knocked, knocked again. He leaned an ear close to the door as he wondered if he heard anything inside and then, remembering how he had secured the safety catch on the lock, decided to try it. He knocked once more and turned the knob. It went all the way and the latch clicked easily.

  He said, “Hello,” tentatively as he entered.

  He let the door swing shut behind him as he glanced about. Then he saw Nadine in the slip-covered chair. He thought she was asleep as he moved up one more step.

  Then he froze there, scalp crawling and his stomach a vacuum. He did not say anything. He started to call her name and his throat closed. For he saw now the ugly stain across the front of the wrinkled white blouse, the irregular-shaped dark spots on the cord skirt, the twisted, unnatural way her head had slumped, the coppery hair, fanning out to hide one side of her face.

  When he could he forced himself to move, fighting hard against the sickness rising inside him. He knelt and took one hand which had slipped down between her thigh and the inside of the chair. It was a limp hand, strangely soft and warm. He turned it over a little frantically, pressing his fingers against the slender wrist.

  For an instant then he thought he detected a flutter of a pulse beat, but when he realized it was only the trembling of his fingers he cursed them and tried again.

  After what seemed a long time he gave up and came uncertainly to his feet, knowing beyond all doubt that she was dead. He took a backward step and, with the first ghastly shock behind him, the thing that lingered uppermost in his mind was the horrible similarity between the way Nadine had died and the way Roger Drake had looked on Friday night.

  eighteen

  THE SICKNESS was still with Holland as he turned away and he swallowed against it. For some reason he glanced at his watch. The hands pointed to 7:18. Because it had seemed so long ago that he had walked into Grand Central he wondered if the watch could be right.

  He looked dully about to give himself time to think. He noticed the telephone on the little stand next to the divan, apparently the one Nadine had used that afternoon when he listened in. He saw the dinette in the little L which jutted from one corner of the room, the swinging-door beyond. Some distance to the left was a hall. At the end of this a door stood partway open, disclosing a dimly lighted room beyond.

  Holland knew what he had to do when he first saw the telephone, but he had some half-formed thought about fingerprints when he remembered his experience in the guesthouse. Now, wondering if there was an extension to this telephone, he took out his handkerchief and started for the hall.

  Halfway along this an open door gave on a bathroom and he glanced in. Opposite was another door, and with the handkerchief covering his hand, he opened this to find a large closet. He went on, pushing on the door at the end and then swinging it behind him as he glanced about the bedroom, a peach-and-blue creation with silk lamp shades, a counterpane to match, a chaise well bolstered with pillows. A telephone stood on the bedside stand and he sat down, the handkerchief still in his hand.

  Sam Crombie had promised to wait at his office for Holland’s call and when the familiar voice answered, Holland told the detective where he was and what had happened. Crombie did not waste time with foolish questions, but the cadence of his voice was brusque and businesslike as he asked if Holland had notified the police.

  “Not yet,” Holland said. “Will you call them or should I?”

  “You, pal. The cops won’t like it if you don’t.”

  “All right, but wait a second. Can I borrow your car tonight—later? I mean if they don’t hold me.”

  Crombie took a second to digest the request. “Well, yes—but—”

  “Then do this for me. Telephone old Mrs. Allenby. Tell her what happened. Tell her that I’m coming out there tonight no matter how late it is. Tell her it’s important, that I have to see her.”

  “All right,” Crombie said, sounding skeptical. “But remember it’s your idea, not mine.”

  Holland hung up and dialed the operator. He was not sure just wh
at the procedure was but he asked for police headquarters and when, a voice answered he spoke his piece.

  He did not know how long he sat there on the bed. It did not seem more than twenty seconds, and he was just putting the telephone on the stand when he thought he heard something and glanced up to see the door, open about a foot as he had left it, start to move.

  It scared him.

  He recoiled where he sat as his nerves snapped taut. His glance angling downward, focused on a man’s shoes and trousers. He brought it up, still not moving.

  A man filled the opening, a suspicious-eyed, grim-faced man in a brown suit and hat. He came on, not hurrying, and Holland saw the short-barreled revolver in his hand and finally the other man behind him. Only then did he begin to think, to have an idea as to who they were and why they were here.

  The first man gave an upward jerk of his thumb. “Up,” he said. He let the hand holding the gun swing down and moved off to one side when Holland came to his feet. “Brand and Pierroni,” he said. “From the precinct house. Okay, Ed,” he said to his companion.

  Holland understood that he was to be searched as a precautionary measure and he did not object to this. What he did not understand was how they could have arrived so quickly.

  “It didn’t take you long to get here.”

  “Just average.” The man with the gun put it away.

  “Weren’t sure what we were walking into so we took it easy. You use this phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the matter with the one in the living-room?”

  Holland felt a bit foolish when he explained he had some idea the other telephone might have fingerprints on it. Brand nodded.

  “It’s an idea,” he said. “Let’s go out.”

  They walked back to the other room and now Holland saw the uniformed officer standing by the door to the hall. Brand did the talking, what there was of it; Pierroni kept looking about the room, spending most of his time on the pathetically still figure in the chair.