A Candle in Her Heart

by Emilie Loring

  “And lost the burglar,” Agatha said quietly. “Not, of course, that we’d have had it any other way. If Mr. Shaw had tried to stop him, your poor mother might have been worse off. We are all grateful that he made the choice he did.”

  Nors gave her a quick look and shifted his position uneasily. To Leslie, who was watching him, there was an odd expression on his face, almost a look of guilt. She must be imagining things. The Swedish guard was one of the employees with the longest record of service in the Company and his reputation was untarnished. Still, it was queer that the person who had attacked Mrs. Turgen so brutally had inflicted little damage on Nors Swensen.

  “Didn’t you see the man who attacked you at all?” she asked. “Not even a glimpse?”

  Nors shook his head and then grunted as though the movement had hurt him. “I heard the window crash when it was broken, and I started to run. I saw a woman lying in the laboratory on the floor and fired a shot. Then—I might as well have had the walls of Jericho fall on me. I don’t remember another thing.”

  “I suppose the burglar took your revolver,” Leslie said idly.

  “He got my keys. That was bad enough.”

  “But he left you armed? How incredible. Especially when he took the time to rob you of your keys.”

  Nors shifted his feet again. He got up. “Well, I guess I’ve gotta get back to bed. Nice of you to come. I sure appreciate it.” Small eyes made a quick, almost furtive survey of Leslie’s face. “Queer things happen when people get excited, you know.”

  “Very queer,” she agreed.

  A nurse came to the door of the sun room, smiled reassuringly at Charlie Turgen. “Your mother is awake now and asking for you. But don’t stay more than ten minutes, and don’t excite her.”

  Out in the sunshine, Leslie took a deep breath of air that was sweet and free of the odors of ether and medications. She got into the car. Agatha turned the key in the switch, released the hand brake. Then she spoke abruptly. “No, Leslie, you must not do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Try to transfer the guilt, to find—someone else who struck down those two people.”

  “Just the same,” Leslie said stubbornly, though she flushed a little at Agatha’s insight, “Nors Swensen isn’t telling the truth. That’s why he was so eager to get away from us.”

  * * *

  “… and so,” Charlie Turgen concluded, “she’s going to be hospitalized for at least two more weeks and she won’t be able to do any more heavy cleaning. And they told me, at the desk at the hospital, that Mrs. Corliss Blake insisted on taking over Mother’s expenses.”

  “She did?” Donald grinned at the younger man. “Good. Then that makes it possible for me to put you on my payroll for a while.”

  “But, Mr. Shaw—”

  “Private payroll,” Donald told him. “Let’s call it an apprenticeship for the FBI.”

  Charlie’s eyes gleamed. “Are you going to figure this out for yourself?”

  “No, we are, you and I. At least, we’ll make a darned good stab at it.” Donald added warningly, “But we must have one thing clear to start with. I know how you feel about the man who stabbed your mother and knocked her out. But that ‘eye for an eye’ theory has always struck me as sheer savagery, barbaric. Revenge is an ugly thing. An endless chain. The kind of thing that keeps family feuds continuing generation after generation. I get even with you, then you with me, then I—There has been enough violence. Whatever you learn or guess, discuss it with me before you take any action on your own. I don’t want you to go off half cocked.”

  “I give you my word,” Charlie said. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want some information. Find out all you can about the background of five people: Felice Allen, Oliver Harrison, Jim Mason, Corliss Blake, and Nors Swensen.”

  “How do you want me to go about it?”

  Donald smiled at him. “Probably the finest government agency, not only in this country but anywhere in the whole world, is the group known as the American Postal Inspectors. Their record is unparalleled. We talk about the Canadian Mounties getting their man. But they can’t touch the record of our own Postal Inspectors. Every single man works on his own plans and carries them out. He takes full responsibility for what he does. That’s what I want you to do.”

  “I’ll give it all I’ve got,” Charlie promised.

  “I know you will.” Donald, who had been walking in the new picnic grounds with young Turgen while the Company employees were still at lunch, paused to light a cigarette. “Charlie, has anything struck you about that business last night, anything that seemed out of line?”

  “Yes, sir,” Charlie answered promptly. “It looks to me like an inside job masquerading as an outside one.”

  “That’s just what I thought.” Donald looked at Charlie. “What’s wrong?”

  Charlie smiled sheepishly. “I guess you’ll think I am hipped on the subject because I hate Harrison for what he did to me, making me lose my job and all. But, well, dam it, he’s the one guy I’m sure can be counted out. He was at the Blake buffet supper last night, with about twenty people to witness the fact. He has a perfect alibi.”

  Donald laughed at the younger man’s chagrined expression. “You’ve got to keep yourself free of prejudice. It’s facts we need. Solid, substantial, reliable facts. And nice concrete evidence to support them. Emotion should play no part in any investigation. Remember this, Charlie-angry people don’t think.”

  “Okay,” Charlie agreed. “When do you want me to get started?”

  “Now, if you can. There’s no time to waste.” He opened his billfold. “Your first week’s salary and expenses. If you need more, let me know. And keep in close touch.” He looked at his watch. “Time I got on the job. Good luck to you.”

  When Donald entered the laboratory, he found it deserted except for a locksmith busily at work changing locks. Then Arthur Wilcox, Donald’s favorite among the young chemists, returned from lunch.

  “Hi there, Shaw. I hear you were on guard all night. You’re a glutton for punishment. I didn’t expect you to turn up today.”

  “I caught up on my sleep this morning,” Donald told him.

  “Just my luck,” Wilcox grumbled good-humoredly. “I missed all the excitement. They tell me there was a lot of wild talk at the Blakes’ buffet when they heard about the burglary, but I turned the party down—like a fool.”

  Something in Wilcox’s tone made Donald’s brows arch in a question.

  Wilcox’s pleasant face was embarrassed. “I got a telephone call at the last minute from that redhead at the inn. I’d had one date with her, took her to a Country Club dance. After all,” he added defensively, “she is darned attractive.”

  “She is, indeed.”

  “But there is something about her—too much a hothouse plant for me. I decided to let her strictly alone. I’ve found the girl I want to marry and I’ll try to talk her into it as soon as I get a raise. But last night Felice called me, asked me to have dinner with her at the inn.”

  Donald was about to say that he, too, had had a call from Felice. He decided not to. For all his deprecation, Wilcox was rather proud of his conquest.

  “She has a way with her,” Wilcox confessed. “But for all the flattery she dishes out, I got the idea she wasn’t interested in me; it was the Company. And there she was too darned interested. She asked questions about Corliss Blake and Harrison and you and the formula. She didn’t get any change out of me. When she realized that I had clammed up, she developed a sudden headache, so I left.”

  The laboratory phone rang and Wilcox scooped it up. “Yes, sir,” he said. He turned to Donald. “Mr. Blake has called a general meeting in the restaurant. Only place big enough to hold all the employees. Right away.”

  By the time the two men entered the restaurant, the tables had been hastily removed and chairs had been placed in rows. In front, facing the rows of chairs, Corliss Blake sat on a small raised platform where, as Santa Claus
at Christmas time, he distributed presents to the children of the employees. He looked strained, haggard, as though he had aged overnight.

  The employees filed into the seats as they arrived, without regard for their position. So it happened that Harrison, as a latecomer, took a seat behind the two chemists. They heard him mutter to the man beside him, “Blake can’t handle this job. He ought to be forced to resign, if he can’t see it for himself.”

  Then Harrison caught sight of Donald. He leaned forward. “I understand that you were Johnny-on-the-spot last night, Shaw.”

  “That’s right,” Donald told him cheerfully.

  “I hope you are prepared to produce a lot of convincing explanations. The police are simple souls, you know. They are apt to jump at the obvious solution every time, and that is usually the man who just happens to be on the spot.”

  Wilcox gave Donald a startled look, started to speak, changed his mind.

  The employees were all in the room now, but still Blake waited. There was a long uneasy pause and then the door opened and the lieutenant from the state police walked briskly up to the platform, trim in his uniform, and took the vacant chair beside Blake.

  Donald grinned to himself. Anything less simple than the state police lieutenant he was unlikely to find, a quiet man with shrewd eyes, a determined mouth, and a look of great intelligence.

  For a few moments the two men conferred in low tones. Then Corliss Blake rapped for order.

  “Last night,” he began heavily, “as most of you have heard by now, someone broke into the laboratory, apparently in an attempt to steal Formula GR. That attempt was unsuccessful because of the quick action of Mr. Shaw. But Nors Swensen, our night guard, was knocked out; Mrs. Turgen, a cleaning woman, was not only knocked out but ruthlessly stabbed, and while her condition is not critical it is serious.”

  He paused for a moment. “You have doubtless noticed that we have had a locksmith here this morning providing new locks, as Swensen’s keys were taken from him after he was knocked out.”

  Again he paused. “Unfortunately, last night a series of problems came up that prevented the state police from making a prompt investigation; there were several bad multiple car accidents and a bank robbery that entailed setting up roadblocks. However, they are now at work, fingerprint men, photographers, and so forth, in the laboratory. The chemists will please not return there until the men have finished. But, as Mr. Shaw kindly stood guard last night, and someone has kept an eye on the laboratory all morning, there has been no opportunity to tamper with any evidence that may have been left on the scene.”

  There was a collective gasp. For the first time the personnel saw clearly that Blake and the state police believed the attempted burglary had been an inside job. There was an excited murmur.

  Blake raised his hand for silence. “In the past, this has been a united, happy and loyal organization. Today, I appeal to you for that loyalty and for your support. If any of you has any information that would be helpful in the investigation, however slight it may seem to be, you can reach me at my house tonight. What you tell me will be held in the strictest confidence.” He paused again. “I know I need not ask you to give Lieutenant Varelli your fullest cooperation.” He looked at the lieutenant.

  The latter stood up and spoke pleasantly. “I would like each of you, as you leave the restaurant, to permit the trooper who is waiting there to take your fingerprints.” He smiled. “It is a very painless operation. Later, we will undoubtedly have to question some of you, perhaps a number of you. Please remain available.” He started down the length of the room.

  “Just a minute,” Harrison said. “Has anyone found out how Shaw happened to be so opportunely on the spot last night? It seems to me that there is not much point in searching the laboratory. He had all night to clear away any incriminating evidence.”

  Donald was on his feet. Wilcox grabbed his sleeve. “Don’t start a row,” he begged him.

  Across the room Donald could see Blake’s eyes raking his face. He turned to the lieutenant, holding himself rigidly under control. “Whenever you want to question me—” he began.

  “That’s fine, Mr. Shaw,” the lieutenant said politely. “Suppose you come along now.”

  Corliss Blake watched the two tall men walk out of the room. “The meeting is adjourned,” he said heavily.

  15

  For July the weather was almost perfect, with sparkling air and a cool breeze that rustled the leaves, making them sound like light rain. Even in the attic studio there was a fresh breeze.

  Leslie looked up as she heard Agatha’s firm tread on the stairs. Never before had Agatha come up here. With all her well-meant interference in the past, she had always respected her stepdaughter’s privacy.

  “Good heavens!” Agatha exclaimed. “I had no idea it was so big.”

  “I realized I really had material for a bas-relief,” Leslie explained. “I’m going to have it cast in bronze.”

  Agatha came slowly up to the massive sculpture. For a long time she looked at it. Then she turned to Leslie. “And I tried to discourage you! I didn’t know—I didn’t dream you had this in you. It’s superb, Leslie!”

  The girl who had looked increasingly pale and drawn as the days dragged by suddenly glowed.

  “You have great talent, my dear; a gift that you must not neglect. And I am so terribly glad you have it. Perhaps if you were to go back to New York or even to Paris or Rome for more study—”

  “I’ll keep on sculpting.” Leslie promised her. “But, somehow, I think this is the best thing I’ll ever do. It seemed to shape itself, to progress like lightning.”

  “But you’ve worked hours every day,” Agatha reminded her. “You’ve been shut up here without any relaxation or parties. Just a quick dip off the barge before dinner. You look to me as though you had lost pounds and pounds, and your tan has faded out. By this time of year you are usually as brown as a nut.”

  Leslie smiled at the anxious woman. “I had to do something or go stark crazy and I don’t know any better way than to be completely immersed in hard work. And I couldn’t go out on dates, Aunt Agatha. I just couldn’t. Everywhere I went I’d hear the same questions about the Company and the burglary, the same innuendoes about Dad and—Donald.”

  Agatha Blake smiled faintly. “Actually, you have done some needless worrying, child. I haven’t shut myself off; I’ve kept the Planning Committee working at top speed for the festival and—not one single person has dared to say a word or ask a question.”

  “You’re wonderful!”

  “Nors Swensen has gone back to work and I’ve sent Mrs. Turgen to the Edgeworth for a couple of weeks of rest. She didn’t want to do it but her son persuaded her. The most difficult part was providing her with a suitable wardrobe. I really had to be very firm about it.”

  Leslie smiled at Agatha’s tone.

  “She’s a nice person, Leslie, well educated, cultivated. I’ve been hunting around in my mind, trying to think of some pleasanter way for her to earn her living, something that is less taxing on her health and her strength than housework, something more congenial.”

  “But there are so few possibilities, so few choices in a village of this size.”

  “That’s true, of course, but you know I bought the old Wentworth place on the Green, the stone house with ivy growing over it. There wasn’t any need for it, but when I learned a garage was going up there that would ruin the character of the Green, I decided to save it. I’m going to give the village a library. Not now, of course, because there are people who might think the Blakes were trying to buy their good will. But when all the trouble at the Company is cleared up, I have an idea that Mrs. Turgen would enjoy being a librarian. In so small a place she wouldn’t need special training, at least to start with, and I could help her get some courses at the University later on.”

  Leslie hugged her. “You’re marvelous! You’ve carried on all alone and I’ve let you down terribly.”

  “Not at all.” Agat
ha looked at the bas-relief. “This is the most important thing you could have done. Anyhow,” there was an amused quirk to her lips, “I didn’t really need any help.” She looked back at the piece of sculpture. “But what happens to it now?”

  “I’m taking it into New York to have it cast. Doris is having some fittings for her trousseau and Jane has an errand of some sort. She is being very mysterious about it. So we’re going in her Cadillac. We can put this on the back seat. Just as well, because my little Renault would never have held it. But I’ll need Hermann’s help in getting it downstairs.”

  * * *

  The gardener carried the clay bas-relief, swathed in cloths and heavily packed in newspapers, and laid it carefully on the back seat of the Cadillac.

  “Good heavens!” Jane exclaimed. “It’s as big as the town clock.”

  The three girls sat on the front seat. Jane was dressed in pale gold from hat to shoes and beautiful enough, Leslie thought with a pang, to stop traffic. But the big blue eyes seemed cold as glass. The beautifully shaped mouth had a curiously hard look. There was a tension about her that was unusual in a girl whose normal quality was a relaxed languor. She seemed to withdraw from her companions, to be intent only on her own thoughts.

  Doris, in a blue sheath, spots of color burning in her cheeks, was busy making lists and muttering to herself: “Bridesmaids’ dresses. Shoes. At least two new pieces of luggage. Warm coat. We’re going to Scotland first, you know. Decorations for the church. Check the list of invitations. A dozen pairs of—heavens, how can I do it all in a month?”

  “I’ll help,” Leslie promised. “And Jane, of course.”

  “You know,” Jane suggested, “it might be smart to consult Miss Allen. She would have wonderful ideas and I’d be glad to pay her bill for consultation.”

  “Not that woman!” Doris protested. “I can’t stand her. She makes me think of that line of Bacon’s we studied in school: ‘The cat knows whose lips she licks.’ I’d dress in sackcloth and ashes before I asked her for advice.”