There was triumph and there was complacence and there was warning in her gaze. Because Averill knew.
Eden was suddenly as sure of that as she was ever to be sure of anything in her life.
Perhaps there bad been something too revealing in the scene Averill had interrupted. Perhaps it was an alert sixth sense. Nothing tangible, nothing definable, but she knew. And she was warning Eden and reminding her.
The trouble was Averill was right. And Eden was quite definitely and unquestionably in the wrong.
The butler opened the door and came in. “Excuse me, miss. If I might see the drawer where the blueprints were placed—”
Eden murmured something and went out of the room and rather blindly walked down the hall and stopped at the big bay window. Sunshine poured down upon garden and shrubs. The hall itself was cool and shadowy and empty.
A house of mourning really; but the thing Eden mourned was still alive.
So that was love. The kind that comes once and never comes again. She’d have to stand by, she thought suddenly, painfully, and see the man she loved marry someone else. Averill.
Well, if Averill had ever wanted revenge upon Eden she had it now.
And Jim—why, Jim must have loved Averill. He wouldn’t have asked her to marry him, if he hadn’t. Then did he still love her? But he’d said—she closed her eyes, the better to hear it again—“Why didn’t you come sooner?” That could mean only one thing.
Noel came quickly along the hall, saw her and stopped.
“Well, it’s all set. The plane leaves tonight at nine. Has Averill found the plans?”
“No.”
He looked at her sharply.
“Steady, my girl. What’s wrong? Don’t let this get you down, Eden. It’s tough. Poor old Bill. But it’s nothing that could have been helped.”
The butler came out of the library and advanced sedately.
“Mr. Carreaux—”
“Yes, Glass.”
“None of the maids have seen the blueprints that are missing. I’m quite sure none of them inadvertently removed the blueprints.”
“Oh. All right, Glass. They’ll turn up somewhere, I’m sure.”
“I hope so, sir. And by the way—it’s a small matter but—when Miss Blaine showed me the drawer just now where the blueprints were placed last night I happened to notice that—well, three new sticks of red sealing wax were missing, too.”
“Wax? But, really, Glass—”
The butler drew himself up.
“I realize it is a trivial matter, sir. I mention it because I replenished it only last night.”
“Thank you, Glass.”
The butler, wearing a disapproving expression, went away.
And Eden thought, wax, a package of blueprints, mailing. But there’d been no time, or at least no opportunity.
The door opposite, which led to the small morning room, opened and Dorothy Woolen looked out, failed to see Eden who stood a little in the shadow of the stairway and said to Noel:
“Noel, they’ve gone.” Her usually blank face wore an animated expression; she was for an instant almost pretty. Noel said:
“That’s a good girl.” He glanced at Eden. “I knew Dorothy could get rid of reporters if anybody could.”
“Is there anything else?” said Dorothy. When Eden glanced at her again the prettiness had gone as if wiped off by a sponge; her face was simply a blank, plump expanse showing no expression whatever.
“Yes,” said Noel. He murmured something to Eden and went into the morning room and Eden climbed the stairs rather wearily to her own room.
Just here at the top of the stairs Bill Blaine had taken her hands the night before and kissed her.
Bluff, big Bill Blaine.
If what Jim said was true, if he could prove it, it was murder.
She shivered a little and went quickly to her own room.
Jim must have gone almost at once to the plant where he remained. He did not return to the house to dinner and Eden did not see him again until the plane left that night.
And there were things to do.
She packed her own things first, which was simple and did not take long. She did not pack her heavy white sports coat; she would wear it in the plane for the night was likely to be chilly. As she put the coat over a chair she remembered the key that she had discovered at her feet in that horrible moment when the plane fell, a blazing, smoking mass, with human souls going up in that smoke.
Deliberate murder. Cold-blooded. Planned. Was Jim right?
She didn’t know what she had done with the key; she felt in the pockets of the coat she had worn and found it. Again she turned it in her fingers but this time looked at it with attention. A Yale key, she’d noticed that. A large substantial key; it might be the key to the house, the key to anything.
There was no way of knowing who had lost it. Creda, Averill or the chauffeur might have dropped it—or it might have been dropped sometime (any time, indeed) previous to that morning. It was bright and clean as if in constant use, but then it was a brass key and not likely to show signs of weathering.
It would give her, however, a chance to talk to Creda. If Creda could be seen.
She took the key; she was walking through the hall toward Creda’s suite of rooms at the back of the house when she met Noel again.
“Coast is all clear,” he said. “I just sent Dorothy home to pack. I don’t know why on earth Averill wants her to go along but expect she can make herself useful. Dorothy’s an—an efficient young woman. What’s that you’ve got in your hand?”
“A key,” said Eden and showed it to him.
“Why that” He began and stopped. He shot her a quick look. “Where did you get that?”
“Found it. I think it’s Creda’s. Do you know what key it is?”
“Creda’s? Oh, I see.” His face cleared. “For a moment, I thought it looked like a key to the plant. Perhaps I was mistaken—I can soon tell.” He drew out his own key ring, selected a Yale key and compared them. “By Jove, it is a key to the plant! What was Creda doing with it, do you suppose?”
“I don’t know. I’m going to return it to her.”
“Wait a minute.” He was frowning, thinking. “Oh, all right,” he said. “It’s probably Bill’s key. It doesn’t matter anyway. Are you all packed to go?”
“Yes.”
“It’s too bad, things turning out like this. Averill planned everything so well. She’s a great girl; good executive; she’ll be better at running things at the plant, as a matter of fact, than Bill was. Did you see how quickly she took hold of things?”
“Yes, I saw that.”
“She’ll be a good wife for Jim,” said Noel. “She’ll pull him out of this thing in fine shape. And, by golly, if we let her alone she’ll still sell the engine to Pace. Here’s my door; I’ve got to pack—”
“But, Noel, the thing this morning wasn’t Jim’s fault. You said yourself—”
“I know.” He glanced quickly up and down the hall and lowered his voice a little. “And it’s true that the engine passed the tests all right. But—Bill was a good flyer, Eden. Accidents don’t happen, just like that.”
“You mean you think the engine failed?”
He didn’t answer for a moment; his blue eyes were dark and thoughtful. Then he turned away with a shrug and a quick smile.
“I don’t mean anything, Eden. Forget it. Run along and see how Creda’s getting on.”
He waved, still with a smile, and went inside his room. Eden, pondering the things he hadn’t said rather than what he had said, went on to Creda’s door. She knocked and Creda said at once:
“Who is it?”
“Eden.”
“Oh.” There was a slight pause, then the soft tread of Creda’s feet across the rug and the rasp of a key in the door, unlocking it.
“It’s you,” said Creda. “Come in.”
Her face was very pale and without tearstains; she glanced rather uneasily down the hall over Ed
en’s shoulder and closed the door quickly as she entered. Her fat little hand already on the key, she just restrained herself, Eden felt, from relocking it.
The bed was tossed, clothes were everywhere; two large bags stood open and half packed on the floor and the desk looked as if it had been hurriedly and rather frenziedly ransacked, for letters and papers were in utter confusion.
“Sit down,” said Creda. She pushed her hands through her soft curls, wrapped the trailing pink negligee she wore tighter around her and sat down tucking her plump, bare little feet under her. Her eyes were shadowy pools of brown that, just then, looked haunted.
“I’m glad you’ve come,” she said. “I’m trying to pack.”
“I’ll help you. Tell me what to pack.”
“Thanks, Eden. Cigarette?”
As Eden, kneeling at the half-packed bags, shook her head, Creda lighted one herself and smoked it in feverish little puffs.
“What clothes do you want to take?”
“All those things. It’ll be hot as hell at the plantation. I may stay quite a long time. I don’t know what I’ll do. I haven’t made plans. Wait, Eden—look in that pocket, will you? Is there anything in it?”
“Cigarettes,” said Eden, searching the pockets of the jacket she was folding. “A handkerchief. That’s all. Do you want them?” She gave the cigarettes and the wisp of linen to Creda who took them listlessly. “Oh, by the way, Creda, I found a key—”
Instantly Creda shot up out of her chair. Her little face hardened.
“What key?”
“This.” She held out the key. “Does it belong to you?”
Creda gave one quick look at the key. Then she snatched it with greedy fingers, took a long, tremulous breath and sat down again as if her knees refused to hold her upright.
“Yes,” she said, “it’s mine. Thank God—” She caught herself, shot a watchful glance at Eden and said: “That is—I thought I’d lost it.”
“It’s a key to the plant, isn’t it?” said Eden, folding the jacket. .
“Yes. That is—” Creda’s little face was hard and intent.
“How did you know?”
“Noel thought so—”
“Noel!”
“Yes. I didn’t know who lost it. I asked him about it. Shall I pack this bathing suit?”
“Yes. No. That is, Eden—where did you find this key?”
“This morning, at the field. Beside the car. You must have dropped it.”
“Dropped it. Yes. Yes, I suppose I did. Did you tell Noel where you found the key?”
Eden considered.
“No. I just told him I thought you’d lost it. He said it was probably Bill’s key. That’s all.”
“Oh. Oh, I see. Yes, that’s right. It was Bill’s key.”
It was difficult for her to say “Bill”; she brought it out with a kind of thrust. Yet whatever emotion it was that she repressed, it was unlike grief. She went on quickly:
“I happened to have it. He—gave it to me.”
It was unconvincing.
Eden folded a dress and said nothing. After a curiously uneasy moment Creda said:
“Listen, Eden; don’t tell anyone I had this key. Will you?”
“Why on earth should I tell anybody! It doesn’t matter.”
“I know, but—promise me. Will you, Eden?”
“I’ll promise anything you want me to; don’t be silly, Creda. Nobody cares about a key. Oh, by the way”—she folded an organdy dinner dress, much ruffled, in tissue paper—”by the way,” she said casually above the soft little rattle of tissue paper, “what do you know about Major Pace? Just who is he?”
There was another little silence and it was again uneasy. She glanced at Creda over the masses of organdy and tissue paper, and Creda said at last, rather stiffly:
“I don’t know anything about him. What a queer question!”
Eden accepted it and put the dress carefully in the bag and reached for the next one.
“I wonder what country he really does represent?”
This time Creda replied quickly.
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t really represent any country,” ventured Eden. “Perhaps he’s just an ordinary, commercial—well, adventurer.”
“Adventurer? What do you mean?”
“Well,” said Eden, “I suppose there are spies; other airplane manufacturing plants have trouble now and then with spies. I don’t know why the Blaine plant should be immune.”
“Spies!” said Creda on a quick breath. “Really “ She laughed sharply and nervously. “He’s not a spy. He offered to buy the engine. Besides, there’s never been any trouble about spies at the Blaine plant.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Eden closed the bag and sat back on her heels to look full at Creda and risked another question which she tried to make sound idle and casual. “Did you ever see Major Pace anywhere before?”
Creda blinked slowly; Eden was sure that she held her breath for an instant or two because the thin line of smoke coming from her pretty little nostrils stopped for a second or two and then went on. And then Creda opened her brown eyes wide and looked straight back at Eden.
“Never,” she said flatly.
Yet there was no proof, thought Eden, returning to her room an hour or so later, that it was a lie.
She’d finished Creda’s packing; when she left, Creda closed the door promptly again behind her. And as promptly relocked it. It was queer to stand there in that broad, well-lighted hall and hear the swift smooth click of the bolt.
She wondered why Creda was afraid. And more specifically, what there was to be afraid of.
It was already late in the afternoon when she finished Creda’s packing. The sun went down, still clear; at eight o’clock, after a quick dinner, they departed (bags following in another car) for the big commercial airport where the chartered plane waited for them.
They did not, however, leave at nine o’clock, for Jim was late. He did not arrive, indeed, until nearer ten and their embarking at the last was hurried. Dorothy Woolen had arrived early by taxi and was already waiting for them in the cabin. A boy steward stored their baggage. Eden had no chance for a word with Jim who went forward almost at once to the pilot’s compartment. Perhaps he intended to take the controls during a part of the flight.
And all at once they were settled, choosing, as if instinctively, separate seats. The motors grew louder, roared and there was motion around them. They taxied across the lighted field and began to lift, a little sluggishly, as if the plane carried a heavy load.
Then almost suddenly lights dropped away below them. The motors settled into a deep drone. Pace, just behind Eden, pulled out a traveling rug and hunched it around his shoulders. Dorothy Woolen, across the aisle, turned her face away and appeared to go to sleep as instantly and efficiently as she did everything else.
Averill was in the seat just ahead of Eden; she rose to adjust her yellow cloak around her, gave Eden a long, wordless look, her small, slender face sallow and enigmatic in the half-light, turned and sat down again.
Outside the night was black and dotted with stars.
Inside there was nothing but the sound of the motors, confusing, drugging thought, eventually lulling one to sleep in spite of the things there were to think. The last thing Eden remembered was taking her gray chiffon scarf from her pocket and wrapping it lightly about her throat.
The plane droned on through the limitless night sky.
Far below and behind them now was the sleeping city, majestic and powerfully entrenched above the broad, winding river which was powerful, too, and older.
Somewhere below and behind them was the wreck of what had been that morning a shining silver-colored thing of skill and loveliness. Around it still men with great lights worked; Jim had spent most of the day there, working with them. Until he found what he had found.
The trouble was he didn’t know exactly what to do with it. Or rather, he knew what wa
s to be done but not how. It made him horribly uneasy. Suppose things slipped up. Suppose the thing he counted on failed him.
He was uneasy, too, somehow about the plane and the people inside it. What was going on in there? What were they thinking? And what would they say when they knew?
The night went on; he watched the instrument panel. Once, carefully, he disconnected the radio; the pilot saw it and grinned, a brief lifting of his lip which was more like a snarl than a smile.
Jim saw the smile; that, too, quite suddenly gave him a queer pang of uneasiness. Had he unleashed something it might be difficult to check?
Nonsense! That was nerves. Presently he rechecked figures and gestured to the pilot who smiled briefly again. The plane swung a little further west. Due west now and traveling well over a hundred miles an hour. After a while Jim motioned again to the pilot and took the controls himself while the pilot hunched himself inside his leather coat and slept like a strong, young animal—wary and feral even in his sleep.
When Eden awoke it was dawn; gray light struggled dimly into the cabin and the sky outside was a great, gray bowl streaked with lemon yellow.
She sat up straighter; her muscles were tired and cramped. She put her hand automatically to her hair and yawned.
No one else seemed to be stirring.
It was cold in the plane and the air was like wine, stinging and clear.
Eden glanced out the window again and, this time, downward. And instantly sat up to stare incredulously.
For they were flying over the sea. No, it couldn’t be the sea. It was gray, dun-colored, formless—stretching out to meet the lighter gray of the sky. It wasn’t a sea; it was land. But it was like a desert, flat, rolling, with distant, horizons. It was like a great plate spread out below.
There ought to be the shapes of trees. There ought to be towns and lights and blotches of shadow that marked vegetation. New Orleans ought to be somewhere near, or the bayou stretching silver fingers inland.
She caught her breath abruptly. The sun had tipped over the horizon, and it was behind them. And there were jagged peaks lifting up into the sky ahead of them.
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