Donald smiled at the boy’s defiant tone. “You have every reason to be grateful to the Blakes. You don’t need to defend yourself to me for liking the man. I like him myself.”
Charlie looked relieved. “Fourth, James Mason.” He paused dramatically.
Donald laughed outright, and his face became boyish and eager. “Give, man, give! You look like the cat that swallowed the canary. I can practically see the feathers on your mouth.”
Charlie joined in the laughter. “This one is going to set you back on your heels. Jim Mason was formerly employed by—guess who?”
“The Gypton Company.”
Charlie’s face fell. “You knew it all the time,” he accused him.
“I’ve just been putting two and two together.”
“What are the other two?”
“Mason and Felice Allen. I’d bet anything that they are brother and sister. Same basic coloring. Same bone structure.”
“Then Mason is the man who has been leaking information to Gypton?”
Donald hesitated. “Perhaps, though I’m damned if I can see how. He’s no chemist.”
“But he’s responsible for that burglary?” Charlie’s face hardened.
“I have a hunch that Mason worked on his own when he did that.”
Charlie thought it out. “You mean he didn’t intend to steal anything at all? It was a kind of trial run?”
“No,” Donald said slowly. “I think it was meant as a warning.”
“So he’s the guy who stabbed my mother!”
“Quiet, Charlie.”
“Quiet, nothing! Would you be quiet if he had clubbed and stabbed your mother?”
“If this is the kind of self-discipline you intend to offer the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Donald said in a tone of detachment, “you had better begin to plan on a different career. Frankly, they wouldn’t give house room to a man who was bent on private vengeance.”
A dull flush swept in a tide over Charlie’s face. It was the first reproof he had received from the older man.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“Can you be relied on to keep your head? Not to take matters into your own hands? If you can’t, you are of no further value to me.”
“Sorry, Mr. Shaw. I really mean it and it won’t happen again. But when I think of that guy—”
“Not think—feel. I understand how you feel. But now, let’s see a sample of how you can think.” Donald grinned and terminated the moment’s uneasiness between them.
“Okay, sir. Five, Oliver Harrison. Chemist with the Fromann Company in Cleveland. One of their top men. He’d have been head of the department in another few years but they work by the seniority system there. That’s why he was willing to shift over to a smaller outfit. Less competition and a better chance of quick advancement, though he wouldn’t make as much money in the long run.”
“Unless he became president,” Donald pointed out.
“Well, there’s that, of course. But Blake is only in his fifties. It will be a long time—”
“Not if he is eased out,” Donald told him.
“If he—” Charlie stared at him. “I think you have begun to see the pattern.”
“Not altogether. I believe the original pattern was changed somewhere in the middle of the game. Could you run down any tie-in between Harrison and the Gypton people?”
“He never worked there, that’s for sure. He went straight from college to Fromann. You think he is gunning for Blake’s job?”
“Right now,” Donald said mildly, “he is gunning for me. From the beginning he has attempted to undermine me. But today he went to Blake and tried his best to get me fired out of hand. He raised an awful stink. Their voices could be heard all over the Administration Building. At least three people have given me their versions of it. Apparently he has accused me of everything from A to Z, including general incompetence, dishonesty, staging the burglary, knocking out Nors, stabbing your mother, and trying to undercut Harrison himself.”
“Is Blake going to do it?” Charlie asked tensely.
“No. He flatly refused.”
“Good for him!”
“I wonder,” Donald said thoughtfully. “Now I wonder.”
* * *
The telephone was ringing when Donald Shaw let himself into his room at the Fox and Rabbit. As usual, he took a quick look around to see whether anything had been disturbed. Then he picked up the telephone.
A man’s heavy voice spoke. “That you? This—”
“I know. Don’t mention names, please.”
“Someone else has horned in on the plan. Only way I can figure it out. Causing a lot of heart-burning here at Gypton.”
“You’re sure?”
“No, I can’t be sure. I’m playing it blind. But that’s the way it looks. If there are two groups at work, it is going to be an unholy mess.”
“I can imagine.”
“Keep your eyes open,” the heavy voice warned.
“I hardly dare close them to go to sleep.” Donald laughed.
“Oh, by the way, did you know we’ve had some inquires here about you?”
“About me?”
“One Donald Shaw. Was he ever employed here? What is known about his background, his record, and so forth, and so forth. Very determined woman. Refused to be put off.”
“Woman!” Donald ejaculated. “Did you see her?”
“In person. My name’s on the bulletin board downstairs and she asked for me.”
“Hmm. Makes it awkward, doesn’t it?”
“Time is running out on you, my boy.”
“Don’t I know it! How much did you tell that alluring redhead?”
“Redhead?”
“Didn’t she have red hair? Name of Felice Allen?”
“No. She was a blonde. And a beauty. Name of Williams. Mrs. John Williams.” After a long pause, the heavy voice said sardonically, “I gather that I have shaken you.”
“You’ve knocked me for a loop,” Donald admitted. “You’ve got my head spinning.”
“Brace yourself. The worst is yet to come. I’ve been asked to go up to Claytonville and expose you publicly.”
“And what,” Donald asked, “did you say to that?”
“Oh,” the heavy voice said cheerfully, “I can never refuse anything to a beautiful woman. I agreed, of course.” He chuckled. “Good night!”
Donald set down the telephone. Before he could move away, it rang again.
“Donald?” drawled a husky voice.
“Felice,” he exclaimed with exaggerated pleasure. “How nice of you.” He added mendaciously, “I was just about to call you.”
“Well, well, so I’ve broken you down at last! Dinner tonight?”
“Eight o’clock?” he suggested.
“Fine. I’ll see you in the lobby.”
He shaved and changed quickly, determined that this time he would be the one to ask the questions and wondering, a trifle dismally, just how he was going to dispose of another dinner on top of the hearty one he had finished a scant half-hour ago.
Felice, in a thin black dress, sleeveless and low cut, her red hair hatless and done in an extreme style, makeup smooth and flawless, exuding a faint but expensive perfume, was evidently prepared to move in for the kill.
The narrow green eyes surveyed him with approval. “What the well-dressed man should wear. You’re a very distinguished escort.”
“Madam, your servant,” he said with an exaggerated, courtly bow.
“You’d have been stunning in Renaissance clothing. It would have suited your type.”
How much of this stuff did she expect him to swallow? Evidently, in her experience, there was no limit to a man’s vanity.
“You should see me in my suit of armor,” he said lightly. He helped her into the Volkswagen, aware of the battery of eyes from the rocking chair brigade.
“We’re giving them quite a thrill,” Felice said with a laugh.
“Poor things, if second-hand thril
ls are all they have, they’re welcome. Where would you like to go?”
She named the most expensive restaurant within practicable driving distance and he mentally checked his billfold to be sure he had money enough to cover the charges.
“Fine! That will give me time for a pleasant drive with you.”
They chatted aimlessly for a while. But Felice Allen wasn’t a woman to let an opportunity go to waste.
“Whatever happened about that burglary?” she asked. “It just seems—to an outsider, at least—as though the whole investigation had petered out.”
“That’s about the way it is,” he said.
“What do you think was behind it?”
He shrugged. “No idea.”
“I understand Mr. Corliss Blake practically admitted that it was an inside job.”
“So he did,” Donald agreed amiably.
“Oh, Donald, I could shake you! You are so exasperating.”
In the darkness he grinned to himself. “I’m not being mysterious. I just don’t know anything about it. The state police haven’t taken me into their confidence.”
“Well, I think it’s a shame, when I consider the way you took over at the time. Right on the spot. And stood guard all night. They owe you some consideration.”
“Things really get around, don’t they?”
For a moment she showed a trace of discomposure. “Oh, you know how villages are. Little things get all out of proportion.”
“I still can’t figure you in a village, Felice. You are Park Avenue and café society if I ever saw it. What on earth do you find to interest you here, week after week?”
Apparently she was accustomed to men who were delighted to talk about themselves, who let her control the direction of the conversation. She hesitated for a moment, as though feeling her way. Then she said, with the least convincing attempt at shyness he had ever encountered, “Don’t you know, darling?”
To his relief, they had reached the restaurant and a boy ran out to park the car for them. Seeing the little Volkswagen among the Cadillacs, Lincolns and Jaguars, Donald grinned.
“I was afraid for a moment that boy would be too superior to park it.”
During dinner he kept the conversation flowing lightly but agreeably, maintaining firm control over it and steering it as he chose. Exasperated as she was by his competent technique, Felice found herself entertained and surprised into frequent laughter. After all, he was a singularly handsome man, he had an amusing wit, and she was aware that they attracted a good deal of attention and admiration.
None the less, she was aware, too, of the man’s inner amusement at her frustration, and though it infuriated her she found herself more genuinely interested in him than she had been before.
It wasn’t until they were back in the little car and he pulled over to make way for a driver in a hurry, his attention on the passing car, that she took advantage of his momentary distraction to ask, “And how’s the Great Affair coming along?”
“What great affair?”
“You and the Blake girl”
“There’s no affair. I haven’t even seen her for some time. Why should you suppose—” For the first time she had got under his skin and there was an edge on his voice.
“Sorry, Donald, I’m really sorry. I was just baiting you, trying to get even.”
“I don’t know what you are driving at.”
“Why do you make me do it all?” There was a throb in her husky voice. “You must know how I feel about you. You’re the most attractive man I ever met. And yet you act—you pretend—”
“Felice! Stop ribbing me.”
“I’m not. Oh, about the Blake girl—yes. I knew you’d lost out there and I suppose I was just trying to get my own back. The news is all over town. She is going to marry Oliver Harrison. The girl and the business. He’s really got his future all laid out, hasn’t he?” There was anger in her tone.
“Has he?”
“Don’t pretend you weren’t after her, too! The Clayton money and the Winslow fortune. Nice pickings. Very nice. But Oliver Harrison will get what he wants. He always has.”
“Do you know him as well as that?” Donald sounded extremely surprised. “I had no idea that you were such old acquaintances.”
Felice took her time lighting a cigarette. She drew on it, watching the tip glow red in the darkness. One hand came up to stroke his cheek softly.
“Watch your step, Donald, darling. The inn is a rumor factory. I heard today that the Harrison man is after your scalp. He’s trying to get you fired.”
“I won’t worry about that until I know how Corliss Blake feels about it.”
“Blake will do as he is told,” Felice said flatly. “You can be sure of that.”
The car swerved across the road and Donald fought the wheel. It swerved again. “A flat!” he said in disgust.
“But it’s a brand-new car,” Felice protested.
In spite of his annoyance, Donald had to laugh outright. “Lady, a nail doesn’t know that the tire is new.”
He pulled as far off the narrow road as he could, set up flares, and jacked up the side of the little car. He took off the tire, propped it against the body and got out the spare.
Then Felice was beside him. Suddenly she was in his arms. The headlights of a big car illuminated them as though they stood in a spotlight. Instead of moving away, her arms went around him, her hands on the back of his head drew him close to her. Her lips touched his.
The big car moved slowly past on the narrow curve, then it was gone. Felice dropped her hands and stepped back. She laughed softly.
“Crisis! Scandal! This little indiscretion is going to be all over the village by morning. Did you see who they were?”
Donald stooped to put on the tire. He tightened bolts. “No, I didn’t see them.”
“Mrs. Williams was driving. And in the back seat—all eyes—was your boss’s daughter.”
“And just what,” Donald asked evenly, “was the purpose of that performance Felice?”
She laughed. “Don’t you know why?”
“Let’s stop playing games, shall we? You aren’t interested in me. Just what are you trying to do?”
“If you can’t guess, I’m not going to help you out.”
“You’d be surprised to know how much I’ve guessed,” he said without expression. He took the jack apart, held the car door for her.
She got in without a word, but when he put the key in the switch her hand covered his, checked him. “Donald, don’t be so difficult. Can’t you be nice to me?” There was laughter in her tone now. “After all, there’s no one to see. The rocking chair brigade is preparing for bed. Can’t you just imagine the chin straps, the wrinkle eradicators, the cold cream, the hair nets? We are alone, darling.”
“Not really alone, are we?”
“What do you mean?” Instinctively, she peered out of the car, her voice startled.
“I was thinking of your partners,” he said pleasantly. “You’re being rather stupid, Felice. There is always trouble brewing when thieves fall out.”
17
Leslie called a greeting to her father and Agatha, who were in the drawing room.
“I’m too tired to breathe,” she exclaimed. “I think we visited every shop, big and small, in New York City. Visited! We combed them, floor by floor, aisle by aisle. I’m off to bed.”
“How about your sculpture?” Agatha asked, coming eagerly out into the hallway as Leslie began to climb the stairs. She pulled herself up wearily as though they were as high as Jack’s beanstalk. “I’ve wondered all day what the caster had to say.”
“He liked it. He really liked it.”
“How could he help it!” Agatha exclaimed.
Leslie turned to blow her a kiss. “You’re a honey,” she said gratefully. “I was just dying to have someone ask about it so I could boast a little. Now my ego is satisfied. Good night.” She looked down the stairs. “Good night, Mother.”
She went u
p quickly, the lights blurring for her as they must be blurring in Agatha’s eyes, which had filled with tears.
Leslie turned on taps in her bathroom and took a long leisurely tub that ironed out the fatigue in her body but not the pain in her heart. The events of the day had been canceled out by the moment when, in the light of a red flare, she had seen Felice Allen in Donald Shaw’s arms.
She slid on a terry cloth robe and went to look out her bedroom window. At length, she tossed off the robe, dressed in a dark skirt and shirt and tennis shoes, and stole down the stairs. Her father and Agatha were still talking in the drawing room. They would hear the front door open. In her father’s study she softly opened the French doors and stepped out on the lawn. She walked quietly down toward the river, sank on the grass and lay flat, looking up at the sky. There was no moon but the stars shone the more brightly. The big dipper was brilliant tonight. Her eyes moved from one constellation to another. The immensity which the universe represented was beyond comprehension. She lived on a small planet circling the sun, in one of countless galaxies. As an individual, in space and time, she was infinitely small. She told herself all this, slowly and carefully. She didn’t matter against the infinity of space and time.
But she did matter. Every human being mattered. That was true, too. The flight of a bird took seconds, the life of a rose was a matter of a few days. But they mattered.
Leslie sat up. She couldn’t escape from her dilemma by a plunge into space. Short as her life was, insignificant perhaps, it was all she had. But she must make the best accounting for it that she could. She couldn’t pretend her pain did not exist. She had to come to terms with it.
She clasped her hands around her knees, looking down at the dark mass of the barge on the river. This was where Douglas Clayton had played as a small boy, where he had dreamed dreams and played pirate like Jack Williams, conquered imaginary foes and planned the life which he had, in the end, deliberately sacrificed for others.
It was curious, she thought, that what people remembered was Douglas Clayton the hero, not Douglas Clayton the gay, lighthearted boy he must have been. She stared at the barge and blinked. She wiped her eyes but the light was still there, flickering. A fairy light. Unreal. The skin on her arms turned to gooseflesh. She heard her own voice saying, “If Douglas Clayton haunts any place, it is the barge.”
A Candle in Her Heart Page 16