Chiffon Scarf

by Mignon Good Eberhart

  He put her swiftly into a deep, cushioned armchair and stood there for a moment looking down at her.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “No. Noel—that scarf—how could Averill—”

  “You know Averill. She’s always that way with you. Averil?’s a—a stubborn hater. You ought to know that by this time. Eden dear, don’t look like that. You poor kid. Stumbling upon Creda—”

  “Don’t—”

  “I know. I won’t. Only, Eden, isn’t there anything you can think of that will sort of—well, distract the sheriff when he comes? I mean—good God, Eden, everything you’ve told up to now could be used (if the sheriff’s a knothead as he may be) actually to incriminate you. You couldn’t possibly have done anything like that. That’s just absurd. But you do realize, don’t you, dear, that the sheriff—”

  “Noel, you can’t mean anybody suspects me—”

  “There, now, Eden. I mean—oh God, what a mess. Listen. You’ve told them you found her; you’ve told them you were alone in the cabin with her. You’ve told them you didn’t hear a sound—and, Eden, don’t you see there must have been some sound? Murder—a murder like that—there had to be a—a struggle of some kind. Creda must have called for help.”

  “There wasn’t anything, Noel. I’ve told everything”

  “I know, Eden dear. That’s just the trouble. That’s what I’m trying to tell you not to do. I mean—just don’t say any more than you have to. But if there’s anything in the world to—to give the sheriff an idea of what happened, who murdered her, for, God’s sake tell it.”

  “But, Noel—there’s nothing. I—it’s not real, any of it. Things like this just don’t happen to—to people like us.”

  Noel smiled a little.

  “A very snobbish remark, my child,” he said. “Murder can happen anywhere. But the really charming thought about this is that you have to know anybody pretty well to want to murder them. Murder is a plant of slow growth—and I don’t think any of these cowboys—or Sloane or Chango or the cook—took such an instant and violent dislike to Creda they had to murder her.”

  “You mean—oh, Noel, none of us murdered her! That’s horrible.”

  “It’s not a nice thought, no.” His eyes traveled slowly around the room. “Not at all nice,” he repeated. “There’s the lot. Averill and Jim. Dorothy. Pace, who’s in the same category as Sloane inasmuch as he met Creda only a night or two ago. You and me—I’ll have to retract, Eden. I can’t see any of us doing murder. What do you think?”

  With a new and dreadful question in her eyes she followed his look. The others were grouped in little clusters. P. H. Sloane was at the door, giving Chango low-voiced orders probably, for the little Chinese was listening intently, his black eyes shining, and nodding briskly at every word. Averill was standing with Jim and Dorothy Woolen before the fireplace where the fire had burned down to ashes. Averill’s face was ghastly above the pale pink taffeta, her mouth as brightly and heavily crimson as if she had dipped it in blood. Jim was talking to her, swiftly and in a low murmur which Eden could barely distinguish. Dorothy was like a blank, wooden statue painted in the palest pastels—ash-blonde hair with its great braid around her bland, blank pale face. Pale blue eyes staring fixedly at Eden. Pale lips, never touched with crimson make-up and now almost gray, lent a kind of flabbiness to her whole face. As Eden met her eyes she came forward, slowly, and said:

  “Is there anything I can do, Miss Shore? It must have been a dreadful shock.”

  Her words were kindness and friendliness itself; her voice and pale eyes utterly blank and without expression. But Eden was about to take the words at their face value and thank the girl when Dorothy spoke again. She said calmly, almost monotonously:

  “It seems to bad to make such a fuss about Mrs. Blaine’s death. I mean this talk of murder. It’s so obvious that it was suicide!”

  There was an instant’s silence. Then Noel said sharply: “Suicide! What do you By God, I never thought of that!”

  Dorothy’s pale eyes went to Noel.

  “Why, yes,” she said. “Of course. Mrs. Blaine—on account of what happened yesterday. It’s so clear. After the crash, I mean, with Mr. Blaine killed.”

  “But, Creda—” began Noel and stopped. And Eden thought: “But she didn’t care—much. She didn’t love Bill. Nobody believed she really loved Bill.”

  Dorothy went on blandly: “I think the sheriff when he comes ought to be told that she had a motive for suicide.”

  “But—those knots,” began Eden and Noel caught her up: “Exactly. Those knots. She couldn’t have tied them herself. I saw Sloane untie them. She couldn’t possibly—”

  “Suicides have extraordinary determination sometimes. I would—explain the whole thing to the sheriff when he comes.”

  Again there was a little pause while Noel stared at the girl. Then his eyes lighted and he said with an air of decision: “Dorothy, my dear, you’re right. Bless you. It’s an idea.”

  Dorothy replied something but Eden didn’t listen. For she was thinking Creda, Bill, the crash and now Creda’s murder. And for the first time she thought of a connection between the two. The unexpected airplane crash which Jim was convinced was purposeful; the vanished plans, and Creda’s murder. Put together it added up irresistibly to Pace.

  And the very name itself was like a brilliant flash of lightning serving for an instant to light up a darkened scene.

  If Pace had stolen the plans, if Pace had been behind that crash and thus Bill’s death, had Pace murdered Creda?

  Creda had known him. Almost certainly she had known him in spite of her denials. Her denials indeed had only served to further convince Eden of her acquaintance with the man.

  But why? Had she been about to denounce him? If so she would have had to be able to prove an accusation she made against him.

  The instant of clear perception had gone as quickly as it flashed upon her. If it was Pace how could it be proved?

  Yet there was no one else who could conceivably have murdered Creda. For there was no motive. And none of them were homicidal maniacs, killing without motive—for the sheer pleasure of killing.

  “Well, Eden, what’s your conclusion?” said Noel suddenly.

  “Where is Major Pace?”

  Noel’s bright eyes narrowed. “He’s out there in the hall. With Strevsky. Why, Eden? Is there something you remember? What makes you think of him?”

  “There’s no one else who could have done it,” said Eden, forgetting Dorothy’s presence and her habitual air of listening and recording.

  “Have you any evidence? Try to think, Eden. Any little scrap of evidence?”

  But there was nothing. And the feeling of clarity, of comprehension, of the imminence of truth had gone again. Eden shook her head wearily. And Sloane walked toward the fireplace, stood there for a moment beside Averill, looking at them thoughtfully, and then said:

  “I’ve just had a telephone call from the sheriff. There’s been a bad accident at the other end of the county; he’s got to go—it’s a railroad affair. A couple of cars went through a bridge. He can’t get here now; he’s not sure when he can come. But he’s made me deputy. Me and a couple of my boys. Swore us in over the telephone. It’s not the first time—”

  There was a faint stress upon the last few words; a definite significance. It was because he was really a detective. Eden knew it and Jim knew it, but no one else. Was he going to tell them? Warn them? Throw down the gauntlet? Or was it to give himself official authority?

  Averill picked up the words sharply. She said: “Not the first time? You mean you often act as his deputy? And that now you—you, yourself, will conduct an inquiry—”

  “An inquiry into murder. Yes,” said P. H. Sloane. “I’m a detective, you know.”

  He said it easily, almost casually, but Eden had a quick impression that he was watching the effect of his announcement.

  It came at once.

  There was a second of utter, complete
silence. Noel’s hand paused on its way to a cigarette box, Pace (just entering the door and followed by Strevsky) stopped so abruptly to look at Sloane that Strevsky brought up short against him and stopped, too, to stare with those bright, animal eyes, narrow and watchful, at Sloane. And into the silence Averill said suddenly and thinly:

  “You—a detective. You must be joking.”

  “I was never more serious in my life.”

  “But you—you can’t be! I mean you’re a rancher. You own this ranch. You—why, you’re our landlord really.”

  “I’m a rancher and I’m at the moment your landlord. But I—” He glanced at Jim. “I think you better tell them, Jim.”

  “Jim—” repeated Averill in a kind of whisper and turned questioning eyes to Jim.

  “But, P. H.—”

  “Go ahead. We’ve got to begin at the beginning. And I very much think the beginning was as you believe it to have been.”

  “You do believe me, then,” said Jim quickly. “You didn’t at first—”

  “I do now,” said Sloane. “And I also advise full explanation to your friends, Jim—”

  Averill interrupted sharply.

  “Jim, you came here purposely. You knew him. You knew he was here. Why did you do it? Was it because of the crash—Oh, Jim, you’re out of your mind! You can’t believe him, Mr. Sloane. There was nothing about that crash—”

  “Hush, Averill,” said Jim. “I’ve told him everything about it. And now he believes with me—”

  “Believes what, in God’s name?” flashed Averill.

  “That it was a phony crash,” said P. H. Sloane almost casually.

  Noel walked toward him.

  “Why do you believe that, Mr. Sloane?” he asked. “What has Jim told you?”

  “What he knew of it,” said Sloane. “Why?”

  “Because we—none of us but Jim even thought of it being, as you say, phony. There was no motive. No one had anything against Bill Blaine; he was a man with no enemies. And as for the engine, Major Pace had openly offered to buy it; well, then, he wasn’t likely to have anything to do with wrecking the very thing he was buying. Granted Jim hated it about the engine failing, still it did fail. There’s no dodging that. If Jim brought us out here, lying about the plane, lying about you—”

  Noel was white, his eyes blazing, his head up like a war horse scenting smoke of battle. Averill was white, too, and angry.

  She whirled again toward Jim.

  “How dare you do this to me, Jim Cady! How dare you bring us here—enlist a detective—delay our arrival at the plantation—Jim—” Her voice choked. She was almost literally too angry to speak. Jim said:

  “Forgive me, Averill. I had to do it. P. H. was the only man I could think of.”

  “Jim, let’s get this straight,” said Noel. “In spite of everything you still believe that that crash was—well, as your friend says, phony?”

  “There’s nothing else for me to believe,” said Jim. “I told you that from the first. I tried to convince you. Nobody would listen to me.”

  “You think the engine was fixed?”

  Jim took a long breath.

  “I know it was,” he said.

  “You know—” Noel stopped short. Averill cried:

  “What do you mean, Jim? If you have proof—if you know who did it—Oh, but that’s impossible.” She turned swiftly to Sloane. “You can’t believe him.”

  “Yesterday,” said P. H. Sloane deliberately, “the trial plane crashed and two men were killed. Tonight—just now, not an hour ago—a woman in my house was killed. That was murder. It couldn’t have been anything else. It was not suicide so there’s no use trying to make me think it was suicide—if any of you had that intention. It was murder. Well, then, how do I know that other thing was not murder? Suppose those two men were cold-bloodedly, designedly murdered.”

  “But—but even so—”

  “Even so it would be nothing you could concern yourself with,” said Noel.

  “But I intend to do so,” said Sloane, all at once speaking in a silken tone. “Can you stop me? Do you want to stop me?”

  “Good God, yes,” shouted Noel, suddenly letting out his anger. “Do you think I can’t see the stinking mess this is going to be? Jim, you’re a fool! You’ve started all this. Can’t you see what it may mean—”

  “Then you think it’s murder, too?” said Jim.

  “I—I think it was suicide. I think that crash was accident I think Creda killed herself because of it. Because of Bill’s death. And—and even if I don’t really think it,” said Noel with sudden candor, “I think it’s better for us to think it. Look here, Sloane, you’re a good egg. Let us all go. Tell the sheriff it was suicide—you can’t prove it wasn’t. Let us go without all this horrible mess of inquiry. You’ll get nowhere. The crash yesterday really was accident—”

  “Look here, Noel,” said Jim suddenly. “You’d better know. It wasn’t accident. The fuel lins was cut.”

  “Jim—”

  Strevsky, Eden was aware, had pushed past Pace who still stood like a swarthy fat statue, unmoved, blinking only at the mention of his own name as an obvious and first suspect. There, was no way of guessing what was going on behind his swarthy face except that there was no suggestion of fright or even dismay. The pilot came quickly across the room; he was graceful and powerful as a leopard.

  “He’s right, Mr. Sloane,” he said. “I saw it myself. It had been cut and mended with something like wax. The wax wouldn’t melt and give way until the engine became heated. I can swear to that. I think it’s almost the only way it could have been done. Flames like that—all at once.”

  Averill turned around and sank into a chair as if all strength had gone out of her slender body. Dorothy Woolen said something, Eden didn’t know what.

  Noel didn’t move or speak. Only his blue eyes blazed into Strevsky’s. And Sloane said quite deliberately again:

  “Thank you, Strevsky. We’ll go into that later, Jim. Just now, the main thing is the murder of Creda Blaine. It is murder. And it happened not more than an hour ago. Here in my house. Murder is not a thing apart. It’s done by hands. It’s done for motive. It’s done usually because of the most urgent necessity. We’ll stick to this just now. Mr. Carreaux” He extended his hand toward Noel and the hand held something in its grasp.

  It was a revolver. And the detective held it carefully, gingerly, with a handkerchief between his palm and the dully glowing surface of the revolver.

  He said: “It’s your revolver, isn’t it, Mr. Carreaux?”

  “My—” Noel stopped, eyes riveted to the revolver. “Where—”

  “Then it is your revolver?”

  “Let me look at it”

  “By all means.”

  There was an instant’s pause. Then Noel tore his eyes from the revolver and flung up his head.

  “Yes, it’s mine. Where did you find it?”

  “It was beside Mrs. Blaine. In the cabin. On the floor.”

  Chapter 12

  “BUT SHE WASN’T SHOT,” said Noel after a moment. He spoke stiffly. “She—was strangled. Wasn’t she?”

  “Then it is your revolver?” repeated the detective.

  Noel shrugged helplessly.

  “Of course it’s mine. At least it looks like mine. And I had one in my bag. But I don’t know how it got there.”

  “Why did you have it with you? Is it your custom?”

  “No, it isn’t. I just happened to have it and when I was packing saw it among my things at Averill’s—I’d been staying there for a few weeks and naturally took it along rather than leave a loaded revolver there—”

  “You knew it was loaded?”

  “Certainly. If a shot’s been fired from it—well, I mean if no shot has been fired from it that proves she wasn’t shot with it, doesn’t it? And besides she—she wasn’t shot. She was strangled—”

  “You saw the blood, didn’t you?” said P. H. Sloane. “And if the revolver is fully loade
d as you see it is, that doesn’t necessarily prove, it hasn’t been fired and reloaded. However—”

  He paused thoughtfully and then continued briskly: “However, there’s only one thing I’d like to know now—about this revolver at least. And that is how it came to be there.”

  “But I don’t know,” cried Noel. “I tell you I haven’t the faintest idea. It was in my bag—I remember slipping it into a pocket when I was packing. But I—I simply don’t remember seeing it since.”

  “It’s impossible to tell just what was the cause of her death—the direct and immediate cause, I mean—until we’ve had a doctor look at her and had a post-mortem. And as you say the gun is still loaded and I’m inclined to think we would have heard a gunshot. We in this room might not have heard it because of the piano but Miss Shore couldn’t have failed to hear it—” He paused there and looked inquiringly at Eden.

  “I didn’t hear a shot,” she said. “There was nothing—except those footsteps and the sound that drew my attention to the presence in the next room—”

  “Look here,” said Noel abruptly. “I want to know just where I stand. I mean—that revolver. Am I suspect?”

  “You want it straight?” said P. H. “All right. You are. And not only you. Everybody on the place is suspect until we get at the truth. No one here at the ranch knew Mrs. Blaine, it’s true. Murder is usually a last resort of some intensely personal and desperate urgency. That would seem to exclude me and my boys, but I’ve got to make sure of it. The most reasonable answer to this thing would be a tramp, an intruder—we can’t exclude that, either, until daylight when we can make a more intensive search.”

  “But—but you cannot ever altogether exclude that possibility. Can you?” It was Dorothy, calm, dispassionate, observing.

  P. H. Sloane smiled briefly.

  “Yes, we can. It’s a large county but a scant population. I’d venture to say there’s not a soul in the county whose presence has been unobserved and whose business, is not known. This may seem incredible to you; you’ll just have to take my word for it.