by Jack Iams
Then she saw something on the desk that hadn’t been there at the time of her previous visit. It was a leather folder, richly embossed, designed to hold three photographs, triptych fashion. The center photograph was of a young woman with bare shoulders rising from cloudy white drapery. Dark hair piled on top of her head gave her an ethereal Burne-Jones sort of beauty. But she was fully as beautiful in the picture at the left which showed her in ankle-length skirt and white blouse, wearing a straw hat and holding a tennis racket. Beside her stood a broad-shouldered young man, also in a straw hat and carrying a racket, and wearing a striped blazer over white flannels. There was no mistaking his youthfully rugged face as the one which now lay upturned across the room in fire-lit chiaroscuro.
The third photograph was of a baby, perhaps a year old, sitting on a cushion. It was a glum and rather puny child, and such charms as it had were not enhanced by the picture’s being a blurred enlargement of a snapshot. It didn’t look much better, though, in the original snapshot which, yellow and faded, was stuck into one corner of the frame.
Sybil remembered, then, that Squareless had gone into the room ahead of her after reluctantly admitting her to the house the day before.
She stared at the three photographs for a bit, then realized that they were swimming together before her tired eyes. She shook her head, blinking hard, and took a sip of brandy. That was better but only for a minute or so. Again her eyelids began to droop. She switched off the lamp and walked to the window, which she opened after pulling the curtain aside. For a while she leaned on her elbows on the sill, breathing in the cold, wet freshness. When her brain had cleared a little, she closed the window and went back to her seat at the desk.
The last thing she remembered before she finally fell asleep was thick, gray light pushing against the red curtains, sifting around and under them into the room. When she woke up, with a guilty start, everything was suffused in a gloomy clarity, the lion’s head over the fireplace, the guns and the swords, the patterned carpet, and Squareless himself.
He had got himself back into his easy chair and he was sitting there, a blanket over his knees, beefy hands on the arms of the chair, his purple smoking-jacket open, showing bloodstains on his white shirt. His eyes were looking at Sybil from under the grotesque cap.
“About time you were waking up,” he said.
His voice was firm and, even in the opaque light, she could see that he was looking better. Better than she, probably.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“Half-past eight.”
“A.M.?”
“Yes.”
“How do you feel?”
“Groggy. Any more questions?”
“No,” said Sybil, taken aback at his brusqueness. “Not for the moment.”
“Then I’ll ask you one. What the devil are you doing here?”
“Looking after you.”
“My housekeeper looks after me.”
“Even when you’ve been shot?”
“Damn it, you speak as if I were shot as a regular thing.”
Sybil chuckled. “You seem to be a great deal better, Mr. Squareless,” she said. “Quite normal, in fact. In which case, there’s no further reason for me to poach on your housekeeper’s preserve.”
“Poach,” repeated Squareless. “What does that remind me of? Ah, yes. Eggs. I suppose I must offer you some breakfast.”
“I could do with some coffee.”
“I dare say Julia will be bringing some in a few minutes. Meanwhile, there’s an item or two I’d like to get straightened out.”
“All right.”
“Come a bit closer, will you? I’m too damned weak to shout across the room.”
Sybil smiled at his petulance and walked across to the fireplace where the remains of the lire were a cold pink-gray. She lit a cigarette and leaned against the mantelpiece. “Well?” she said.
Squareless looked up at her, drawing together his thick eyebrows. His words came evenly. “Why didn’t you finish me off while you had the chance?”
Sybil stared. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. You had one crack at me and missed. Why didn’t you have another go?”
“If this is a joke, I’m not in the mood.”
“It’s not intended as a joke.”
Sybil watched the smoke curling out of her nostrils. “You may be quite sure, Mr. Squareless,” she said lightly, “that I would never shoot a fourth at bridge in time of scarcity.”
Squareless grinned twistedly. “You might,” he said, “given sufficient reason.”
“And what sufficient reason could I possibly have?”
“I can think of at least three reasons, if you want to know them.”
“I certainly do.”
“Hand me my pipe, will you? On that little table. Some damned busybody must have moved it last night.” Sybil brought him the pipe and tobacco pouch and waited while he filled, tamped, and finally lit it with a deliberation intended, she suspected, to be maddening. She watched him with a cool smile.
“In the first place,” said Squareless, “you know that I know you’re a fake.”
“A fake? In what way?”
He jerked his head toward the red volume on the desk. “You noticed Burke’s Peerage when you were here yesterday. And you know damned well you’re not in it.”
“I know nothing of the sort. Why should I look myself up in anybody’s stud book? I know who I am.”“Burke doesn’t.”
“Neither did my husband until long after we were married. And then through inadvertence. Let me make it quite clear, Mr. Squareless, that I have never exploited my station. I despise titles. Since you have seen fit to bring the subject up, may I suggest that if our family is not listed in your Burke, it is because the earldom died with my father.”
“Lady Sybil,” said Squareless, lingering with irony on the words, “you may be telling the truth. Or you may be wriggling out of a tight corner. May I suggest—since we are suggesting—that you have another, and considerably stronger, reason for wishing me out of the way?”
“Because you rented us a house with defective plumbing?”
“Please,” said Squareless. “Like you, I am in no mood for joking. I am referring to the fact that I, and I alone, saw you go through the pockets of the body on the pier.”
“You must have very sharp eyes.”
“I have.”
“And you think that because you have such sharp eyes, I wish you out of the way?”
“Don’t you?”
Sybil managed an incredulous little laugh. “Simply because you happened to see me looking for something that might identify an unfortunate suicide?”
“You didn’t need anything to identify him.”
Sybil’s cigarette paused halfway to her lips. She looked at it, wondering if its shaking was as visible to Squareless as to her. Then she got it to her mouth and pulled at it deeply. She felt Squareless watching.
“You knew from the first,” he said, “that it was the body of Sam Magruder.”
She had herself under control again. “Amazing,” she said. “Because I haven’t the faintest notion who Sam Magruder is.”
“Sam Magruder,” said Squareless, “is, or was, a gray-haired gentleman fond of cards. Too fond, perhaps. He was a friend of your father and you spent an interesting hour with him the night you arrived in this country.” Sybil threw the cigarette away and turned her face, white and yet relieved, on Squareless. “How did you know?” she asked, letting her voice tremble all it wanted to.
“Sam Magruder was also a friend of mine. It’s no great coincidence. He was a friend of many people who were fond of cards and travel. Such people were his living. And it’s to his everlasting credit that he could still be a friend.”
“So my father thought,” said Sybil. She sat down qu
ickly on the hassock because her legs had suddenly gone watery. Her mouth was dry and for a moment she couldn’t speak. Then she asked, “Did he tell you he had seen me?”
Squareless nodded. “He wired me.”
“Why?”
“Don’t try to fit me into your scheme of things,” said Squareless, smiling faintly. “Sam wanted my house for you, that was all. He knew I had an empty one.”
“God bless him,” said Sybil. “But then, where do Mrs. Barrelforth and her war brides come in?”
“Sounds like St. Ursula and her Virgins,” said Squareless. “I’m not quite clear on that part myself. Apparently, though, Sam knew about this bridal association and knew that it acted as a middleman, or middlewoman, in matters of this sort. All he told me was that if I was willing to make the house available, this Barrelforth woman would handle the details.”
“You fibbed to us about the house, then, didn’t you?”
“Very slightly. Sam didn’t want his connection mentioned.”
Sybil was silent. For a moment she thought she was going to cry, then she got herself in hand again. “Why have you told me all these things?” she asked.
“It’s a form of blackmail,” said Squareless.
She glanced up at him uncertainly. Squareless grinned.
“I’m trying to blackmail you,” he said, “into playing ball with me. I asked you yesterday to confide in me. I’m asking you again now.”
Sybil’s eyes looked past him. “Why should I,” she asked, “when you haven’t confided in me?”
“I have to a damned large extent.” After the tenseness of the conversation, the note of irritation sounded familiar and comfortable.
“There are three photographs on your desk,” said Sybil, “that you hid from me the last time I was here.” Squareless scowled at her, chewing his lip. “I’d have hid them again,” he said, “if I hadn’t been flat on my back.”
“Why?” She waited a moment, then said, “Mrs. Barrelforth told Tim and me that you had—had lost your wife in the other house.”
“Confound that nosy woman!” exploded Squareless. What the devil business is it of hers? Or of yours either, for that matter.”
Sybil laid a hand on the blanket where it covered his knee. “Wouldn’t it help if you told me about it?” she asked softly.
“No,” said Squareless. “It’s an extremely painful subject.” He glared down at her. “And don’t look at me like a damnable psychiatrist either. My wife died in childbirth and that’s that.” He clamped his teeth on his pipe.
“And the child?” asked Sybil.
Squareless looked at the bowl of his pipe for a while, as if it might have tea leaves in the bottom. Then he said shortly, “I lost the child, too, a couple of years later. And at the time, God help me, I was glad. I hated that child. It was only when it was too late that I realized—that I’d been wrong.”
Sybil patted his knee.
“Stop patting me, you half-baked Florence Nightingale,” roared Squareless, as if ashamed of his momentary weakness. “Why don’t you do something useful? Find out why the coffee hasn’t come.”
Sybil rose, but just then there was a tap on the door and Julia entered with a laden brass tray. The housekeeper’s stern face was haggard with dark circles under red-rimmed eyes.
“You’re late,” said Squareless.
Julia put down the tray without replying. “Will there be something else?” she asked.
“No.”
Julia inclined her head slightly and went out, closing the door with careful quiet.
Sybil poured coffee into the two big cups. “Tell me about Julia,” she said.
“My God,” said Squareless, “she keeps house for me. What more is there to tell?”
“A good deal, I imagine.”
“Well, there isn’t.”
“Has she always been with you?”
“Yes.”
“Was she here when your wife—”
“Yes. She was in the room.”
“Did she hate the child, too?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Why does she stay with you?”
“Why the devil shouldn’t she?”
“It must be a pretty grim sort of life,” said Sybil.
“I don’t see why.”
Sybil smiled wryly into her coffee cup. “Is she fond of you?” she asked.
“It’s never occurred to me to ask her.”
“Has it ever occurred to you that she might hate you?”
“No.” Squareless stared at her. “What are you driving at, anyway?”
“You know, don’t you?”
“Are you suggesting that Julia might have shot me?”
“Not exactly. I’m wondering if you think she might have.”
Squareless looked past her at the lion’s glassy eyes. Me sucked noisily on his pipe. “I thought it was one of you,” he said finally. “And I don’t want to think about it any more. Is that brandy still around?”
Sybil brought him the almost empty decanter. Squareless glanced at it and gave a little yelp. “Great God!” he shouted. “What did you people do with my best brandy? Fill water pistols?”
Chapter Twenty-One
The Bare Facts
Julia returned to say that the lady from the other house was waiting outside.
“That must be Mrs. Barrelforth,” said Sybil. “Shall I ask her in?”
“Judas, no!” said Squareless. “Take her away.”
Sybil stood up. “Good-by, then,” she said. “Sure you’re all right?”
“Hell, yes.”
“Still don’t want a doctor?”
“Hell, no.”
Sybil turned toward the door, then paused. “You know,” she said, “you’re rude and ungrateful and pigheaded. Why do I like you so much?”
“Because I play bridge,” growled Squareless. “Trot along.”
She followed Julia into the hall, realizing, in the mundane daylight, that she was still in pajamas, her feet in muddy pink mules.
Mrs. Barrelforth, on the other hand, sat at the wheel of Tim’s car looking as fresh and robust as ever in her sensible tweeds. “Had any breakfast?” she boomed as Sybil climbed in beside her. “If not, I’ll fix you some flapjacks. D’you like flapjacks?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s one of the first things we teach our brides,” said Mrs. Barrelforth, “how to make flapjacks.”
“I see,” said Sybil. “Why didn’t Tim come?”
“He wanted to, but I put him to bed. With a hot-water bottle.”
“Why, for goodness’ sake?”
Mrs. Barrelforth, steering erectly through the dunes, glanced sideways at her. “He didn’t go home, you know. He hung about.”
“Oh?” said Sybil. “Rather silly of him, wasn’t it?”
“He had quite a time. Somebody conked him. He’ll tell you about it.”
In a tired way, Sybil realized that she should be agog with curiosity. And yet her own emotions of the past half-hour, coming on top of a nerve-racking night, were more than enough for her muzzy brain to cope with. Perhaps Mrs. Barrelforth saw this because she didn’t speak again during the short ride.
When they got back to the house, Mrs. Barrelforth once more raised the subject of flapjacks.
“I think I’ll climb straight into bed,” said Sybil. “I’m pretty well done in.”
“Right-o,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. “I’ll wake you in time for the inquest.”
“Damn,” said Sybil. “I’d forgotten about the inquest.”
She dropped her tweed coat on the stand and trailed wearily upstairs. The blinds were drawn in the bedroom and it felt stuffy. There was a strong smell of wintergreen and camphor. Unreasonably she felt irritated that Tim, whatever he had done, sho
uld be the object of all this solicitude. Particularly as she herself felt the need of fresh air.
“Hullo,” said Tim from the bed.
“Hullo,” said Sybil listlessly. She sat down on the edge of the bed and kicked off her mules.
“I couldn’t sleep till you got here.”
“Why not?”
“Because I was worried about you.” He sat up and put his arms around her. For a brief moment she yielded, then she pushed him away.
“Let’s go to sleep,” she said. “Even if I felt romantic, this sickroom atmosphere wouldn’t do.”
“Mrs. Barrelforth insisted,” said Tim sheepishly. “Did she tell you what happened to me?”
“Uh huh.” Sybil yawned. “More or less.”
Tim felt deflated. He waited for her to say something more, but she only slid under the covers and stretched out luxuriously with her back to him.
“You ought to feel the lump on my head,” said Tim.
“Ought I?” Her voice was drowsy.
“Yes. It’s the wifely thing to do.” He reached for her hand and guided its indifferent limpness to his head. “Feel it? A real goose egg.”
But Sybil was already asleep. Tim looked at her for a moment, then he sighed and rolled over, his back to hers. Soon he slept, too, but uneasily.
* * * *
He was awakened, almost immediately it seemed, by a knocking on the door and Mrs. Barrelforth’s cheerful voice announcing that it was after twelve o’clock. “Everybody up for the inquest,” she added.
“Oh,” groaned Sybil, sitting up beside him, “what a horrid way to start a day.”
“There’s a silver lining,” called Mrs. Barrelforth through the door. “Or a copper one, anyway. The plumber’s come and gone. Everything works.”
“Thank God for that,” said Sybil. She got up and started for the bathroom.