They hummed along a deserted Collins Avenue, and she paid scant attention to the lavish estates slumbering behind subtropical foliage. She was trying not to disturb herself unduly by thinking of what might have happened. The best course, obviously, was to meet this situation, whatever it might be, with an open mind, with her guard up, with her senses untarnished by preconceived ideas that could not possibly serve any purpose save to throw her off balance.
She was not at all surprised when they swung into the driveway of Lew Hartley's estate. She wasn't even surprised to see a stalwart figure in plain clothes and big shoes standing sentinel at the decorative gateway. But she was surprised at what she saw near the house.
There were four automobiles. One of them was a long, sleek convertible that she recognized as one of the cars Alan had been driving about Miami. Another looked like a private car, and meant nothing. A third was definitely a police car. The fourth was an ambulance.
She tried not to show the cold fear that bit at her. She warned herself that, for Alan's sake, she must keep her chin up and her head clear. As they circled toward the other parked cars, she glanced at the garage. Four of the colored servants were huddled there, staring with wide, frightened eyes.
The big detective leaped out of the car and helped her to alight. His solicitude was pleasant, but somewhat terrifying—as though he knew she was in for a shock and wanted to make it as easy on her as possible. They walked up to the front door. Another big man was standing there, and he nodded when Gail's escort said, "This is Miss Foster, Sergeant."
The sergeant smiled. "Don't you go gittin' nervous, Miss Foster," he suggested, and she wondered why they were all so solicitous of her. He went on, "I'm takin' you into the parlor. I don't want you to say anything to anybody. Just sit steady an' answer questions when we ask "em."
She nodded and followed him into the room. Her lips were tight, her heart pounding. But as she stepped into the room she experienced a moment of infinite relief and of thanksgiving.
Alan Douglas was there, and he smiled at her. It was the face of Lew Hartley at which she looked, but she knew that it was Alan, and her worst fears vanished. Even a second glance, which showed a swollen eye and an ugly, purplish bruise on his cheek, did not frighten her. When you have steeled yourself to face calamity, nothing less than that can seem very bad.
The sun was now streaming in through the eastern windows, but all the lights were on, too, so that the effect was rather weird. The sergeant conducted her to a chair and said to a thin, nervous little man with flashing black eyes, "This is Miss Foster, Inspector," and the little man nodded and smiled, and then instantly looked very severe and formidable again.
Gail looked around the room. In addition to her giant escort and the big sergeant, there was the little man who had been addressed as Inspector and two other men who obviously were policemen.
Alan sat across the room, and now that she knew he was safe, she tried not to concentrate too hard on him, lest it destroy the balance that she knew she must retain.
Next to Alan was a handsome, iron-gray man in immaculate dinner clothes. Gail had seen him with Alan on several occasions, but she had never met him and didn't remember his name.
A few feet away, sitting up straight in a stiff-backed chair, was Sunny Ralston, clad in a lavish sapphire house coat trimmed with marabou. Sunny's hair was in disarray and she looked haggard and drawn. She made a valiant effort to smile at Gail, but wasn't very successful.
Stretched out in an easy chair just beyond Sunny was a man whom Gail had never seen and did not know, yet she had the unaccountable feeling that he was the most important man in the room.
He had a blank, expressionless face: an almost too perfect nose; thin, sensitive lips, and sharp brown eyes. On a little table beside his chair was an ice bag, and occasionally he pressed the bag against the side of his head and held it there.
There were no other people in the room. Gail thought for a moment. She missed Chuck Williams.
The beady-eyed inspector, whose terse efficiency gave the lie to his definitely charming smile, spoke quietly to Gail. He said, "Sorry to have troubled you, Miss Foster, but we are compelled to ask you a few questions."
Gail nodded and said nothing.
"Naturally, this is important. I do not suppose I need therefore suggest that you consider your answers carefully."
He pointed to Alan, but his shrewd eyes never left Gail's face.
"Do you know this man?" he asked.
Gail hesitated. Alan looked across the room at her, smiled faintly, and nodded his head affirmatively.
She said, "Yes."
"How long have you known him?"
"Several years."
"What is his name?" She gambled on the truth.
"Alan Douglas," she said.
She saw glances exchanged by the other police officials, and she fancied that there was an element of relief. The inspector was continuing with his examination.
"How well do you know Mr. Douglas?"
"Very well indeed. We are engaged."
"Has he always looked like he looks now?"
"No."
"Then how do you know it is Douglas?"
"He told me himself."
"When?"
"Two days ago."
"Why?"
"He knew that I suspected he was not Mr. Hartley, and he preferred me to learn the truth from him."
"Did he explain the masquerade?"
"Yes. It had something to do with an important deal for South American manganese. He said that he had been engaged to pose as Mr. Hartley so that adverse interests wouldn't suspect that Mr. Hartley wasn't following his usual winter program."
"Did you believe his story?”
She answered carefully. "I believed that Mr. Douglas believed it."
"But you didn't?"
"No."
"Why?"
She shrugged deprecatingly. "No sane reason," she said. "Just a woman's instinct."
The inspector nodded and said, "Thank you." He designated Wayne Hamilton. "Do you know this gentleman?"
"No."
"Have you ever seen him before?"
"I believe so, but I'm not sure. I think he is Mr. Hartley's attorney, but that's a guess."
"Why should you guess that?"
"Mr. Douglas told me about him. I've seen them together occasionally. At least, I believe I have. He was the one who is supposed to have approached Mr. Douglas originally."
The inspector's finger moved toward Sunny. "Do you know this lady?"
"Miss Ralston? Yes."
"What do you know about her?"
"Nothing definite."
"Had you heard that she was supposed to be Mr. Hartley's particular friend?"
"Yes."
"And you knew that Mr. Douglas was posing as Mr. Hartley?"
"Yes."
"Did you like that setup?"
She looked straight at him. "I wasn't worried, if that's what you're driving at."
The faintest suggestion of a smile crossed the inspector's lips. He designated Wayne Hamilton again. "Did you ever see him with Miss Ralston?"
"I told you that I couldn't be certain about anything in connection with that gentleman." She looked across at Wayne Hamilton and fancied she detected relief in his eyes.
Hamilton was holding himself in check with an effort. He knew that his career was ruined, that he faced the probability—almost the certainty—of prison. And he was now thanking his lucky stars that he had proceeded cautiously, and had not arranged for Gail Foster's death. Had he done so, he'd be in a really ticklish spot. No matter how bad a jam he was in, it wouldn't be as bad as complicity in Gail Foster's murder. She had been in danger, and she was now safe. Fortunately for her own peace of mind, she knew nothing whatever about that angle.
The inspector pointed his finger at Lew Hartley. He said, "Do you know this gentleman, Miss Foster?" She shook her head. "No. I never saw him before."
"You're sure?"
"
Positive."
The inspector said, "Would it interest you to know that his name is Lewis Hartley?"
Gail straightened in her chair, then shook her head incredulously. "That isn't possible!"
"But it is. When Mr. Douglas was altered to look like Lew Hartley, Mr. Hartley had his own face changed so that he would look like somebody else. He was about to be picked up by New York and federal authorities for a dozen major offenses, and he used this device for changing his identity." The inspector went on smoothly, "You see, Mr. Douglas was to be killed, and the body would be promptly identified as Mr. Hartley's. So you see, your instinct was right."
Gail said, "But that's incredible!"
"It happens to be true. Miss Ralston told us the whole story. She probably saved Douglas' life. I've made her no promises, but I believe she'll go free. And now," the inspector came closer, "now that you've been so cooperative, Miss Foster, I may as well tell you the rest."
He spoke simply, swiftly, and clearly. He told her the facts as he knew them, including the story of Chuck's death. At the end of his recital he said, "There seems to be no question that Chuck Williams asked for what he got. Douglas won't be in any jam over that. He won't have any trouble about the masquerade, either, since his own motives were free from any criminal intent. He fell for a smart game, but we are convinced of his honesty. You were important, Miss Foster, because we needed a final checkup on what we had been told by the others. I don't think you need have any further worry."
He shoved some papers into a brief case and addressed his men. "We're taking Hartley, Hamilton, and Miss Ralston down to headquarters. You, Douglas, and you, Miss Foster, will stick around Miami as long as we need you." He bowed elaborately. "That will be all," he said.
Sunny rose wearily. She said, "I suppose I can slip into something decent?"
"Sure. One of the boys will wait outside your door."
Save for the man detailed to guard Sunny, the hallway was deserted when the girl came back downstairs. Gail moved swiftly into the hallway and held out her hands. She said, "You know what I'm thinking, Sunny."
"Yeah. I know."
They stood looking at one another, and then suddenly their arms were about each other and they were crying. Gail pulled away and said, "Keep your chin up, Sunny. We'll see that things are made easy for you."
Sunny looked around the room. Her eyes were dull, her manner uncertain. She said, "It's one hell of a mess. But I'm not sorry."
Her head was high as she walked out of the front door with her police escort.
For a long, long time Alan and Gail stood silent, not moving, not touching one another.
Then Gail reached out her hand and Alan took it. They looked at each other, and all of Gail's courage vanished.
For the next few moments she was nothing more or less than a frightened girl who had been subjected to worry and suffering and apprehension and who was just commencing to sense the tragedy that so narrowly had been averted.
Alan held her tight. He, too, was badly shaken and inarticulate.
Finally she drew away from him. She said tremulously, "I'm happy, Alan-and someday perhaps I'll get over being frightened."
He bent to kiss her and saw that her eyes were filled with fear.
"I'm going to have this face altered," he promised trying to relieve the tension. “I’ll have it done right away.
She clung to him.
"That's important," she said softly. "Because otherwise I m afraid I'd feel as though I were Lew Hartley’s wife.”
THE END
The Corpse That Walked Page 16