And to her questions he replied briefly that they had not found Roy Wilson.
“You are certain it was Roy Wilson?” he asked her. She wasn’t certain, of course. “I didn’t see him. I only saw the—the handle of the hatchet. Nothing else.”
There was a little silence while the rancher-detective’s far-seeing, blue-gray eyes searched quietly into her own eyes.
He looked tired that morning and the easygoing manner which had so neatly suited his rancher role had gone. For the first time she saw him as Jim must have known him, taut, hard-working city detective, a little weary, altogether disillusioned, very tired of people and their tragic frailties. There was something almost inhuman in his look that morning.
But he wasn’t quite inhuman. He was still enamored of his chosen pose for he took from his desk a little fiat package of cigarette papers and a small bag of tobacco and proceeded to make himself a cigarette. It was not made expertly but the making seemed to accord him some inner satisfaction. He licked the paper, rolled it and lighted it.
“Oh,” he said then. “Will you have a cigarette, too, Miss ‘ Shore?” But he passed her a box that stood on his desk and was lavishly supplied with machine-made, expensive cigarettes.
“Miss Shore—can you think of any reason why Roy Wilson—or anyone—would consider you a danger to him? Think.”
“No. No—there’s nothing.”
He paused, watching her, smoking his somewhat wobbly cigarette, thinking.
“Look here, Miss Shore. It seems to me that, without knowing it perhaps, you may have a key to this business. For that reason I’m going to tell you something—rather arrange some things you already know in perhaps a different order. I’ll do it briefly. And I—frankly, I want your confidence.” (Frankly? There was nothing frank, nothing appealing in his look.) He went on:
“It goes without saying (and I’m sure you’ve come to the same conclusion yourself) that some one of your party is responsible for Creda Blaine’s death. Invisible, malevolent beings do not exist, no matter how convenient such a being would be at this point. I had nothing to do with her murder; my boys are out of it. I am absolutely sure of that. Besides, it stands to reason that whoever killed her had a motive, and a motive for murder has to be a deeply personal and urgent motive. No, whoever murdered her has to be one of eight people. Wilson or Strevsky; Pace, Jim Cady, Noel Carreaux, Miss Woolen, Miss Blaine. You, yourself. You do understand that, don’t you?”
He paused briefly and as she didn’t reply continued:
“Now, then. We have considered each one in turn. We’ve tried, deliberately and carefully, to build a case against each one.” He smiled briefly, there, and said: “Playing no favorites. Pace, of course, is the first and prime suspect; he has an alibi, yet from what you tell me and because I believe that Creda Blaine’s murder is somehow bound up in the circumstances of the plane crash, I can’t quite rule him out. Yet I can’t build a definite case against him; I have nothing exact to go on. And I’m stopped at every turn by that alibi.”
He paused again, smoked thoughtfully for a moment and said: “Wilson, I suppose, is next. But there quite definitely there is no case. Wilson’s disappearance, his return, and the—thing he attempted last night—all point to him. But if Wilson killed Creda Blaine, his motives are outside the realm of reason. It’s possible, of course, that that is the explanation. A homicidal maniac. Yet coming so directly after the plane crash and the—shall I say, provocative circumstances of that crash, Wilson as the murderer in no way offers a—a cipherable figure in the sum of it. Also Wilson as the murderer, following the plane crash but introducing an entirely different element (a motiveless and accidental element, really) is outside probability, too. I suppose it could happen just like that. But I can’t help feeling that there is actually a chain of purpose, each link building upon the other or at least related to the other.
“If Wilson is the murderer his running amuck just like this is definitely a thing apart, an extraneous incident. Not a link at all. And it seems reasonable to me that Creda Blaine’s death must have a relation to—well, to the plane crash.”
“How?” ventured Eden.
“I don’t know. Unless there was actually, unknown to most of you, a net of espionage in which, as I’ve said before, she became entangled. Perhaps before her marriage; perhaps, indeed, she met Bill Blaine while pursuing her somewhat equivocal vocation (which does certainly provide ready and generous money for anyone who’s sufficiently barren of scruples to engage upon it; espionage is after all one of the two oldest professions). Well, suppose when she needed money she knew where and how to get it; Cady says Bill Blaine talked—whom would he talk to any more fully than his wife? It’s altogether possible that she reported to Pace and Pace paid her—perhaps under another name which would account for her surprise when he was introduced to her as Major Pace. It’s possible, too, that she secured the key to the plant in order to let Pace into the plant; perhaps he ordered her to give him the key and did not tell her what he intended to do—namely to so disable the engine that a crash would be inevitable. Then if he had the plans it would be so simple for him to withdraw his offer to buy, since the engine had failed, and to leave with the plans and with the money. Two hundred thousand dollars is no small sum of money; murder has been done for far less than that. Furthermore, Pace could still sell the plans, if he wished to, to another government than the one he claims to represent, whatever that is. Thus adding to his gains. Nothing could be simpler; this is not a time when there is very scrupulous inquiry into the hows and wherefores of information—especially exact in formation about anything so universally needed as a good, light, cheap airplane engine. Armament demands being what they are—well, I’ll stick to Pace. Suppose then Creda Blaine was horrified when he returned the key to her and in a few hours’ time, early the next morning—you did say the flight was early—”
“Very early. Earlier than they had planned because the weather reports said showers.”
“In a few hours’ time the crash occurred and instantly Creda blamed Pace. Possibly she told him she would have no more to do with his schemes; perhaps she accused him, perhaps she threatened exposure. This would give him a strong—oh, a very strong motive for murder. It would be a sound hypothesis—except for one thing.”
“There isn’t anyone else,” said Eden. “He must have done it.”
“You agree. Well, of course, the flaw is that he did not escape. He came with you, presumably to a wedding. He promised to wait until the plane was rebuilt and gave every evidence of doing it. If he had the plans, if he had worked out this scheme as I’ve outlined it, he’d have gone at once. He’d have been on the high seas by this time—his money and the plans in his pocket. Instead he’s here.”
“Perhaps he came with the intention of killing Creda. Perhaps he was afraid to let her live with the evidence she must have had against him.”
“That wouldn’t have mattered once he’d made his escape. He could have lived as he chose, where he chose. He needn’t have returned to America ever. Besides—there’s the alibi.”
He sighed, rolled another cigarette and went on: “Pace, Wilson, Strevsky. Ludovic Strevsky, brother to Michael Strevsky who was killed in the plane crash. He may be out for revenge; I don’t like his look myself; he may have suspected or even known that Creda Blaine was involved in that plane crash. But—if that’s true, what about the plane crash? Who planned and executed that neat little maneuver? I’ve tried to build up a case against Strevsky, too. But again I have no evidence. That leaves Cady and Noel Carreaux; you and Averill Blaine and Dorothy Woolen. It seems to me it would be difficult for a woman to secure the key to the plant, avoid the night watchman, reach the plane, manage to get at the engine and cut the fuel line and mend it so expertly with wax (and cut it expertly, too, near the engine). And for what motive? Averill Blaine would be injuring her own property, her own interests. She was insistent about selling the engine; she was determined, even when it failed, that Pac
e was still to buy it. Dorothy Woolen has no interests in particular involved; she has an alibi for the time of Creda’s murder; she sat in a chair opposite me and never moved the whole time I was at the piano; again I can’t build up a case against her. And Carreaux is in the same position as Averill Blaine; he wanted to sell the engine; he would be injuring his own property if he connived at destroying the engine and preventing the sale; and he has an alibi as Pace has. At the same time his revolver was found beside the dead woman and he has a very lame story to tell about that.”
“My scarf,” said Eden and told him. She told only about the scarf; she did not mention the further suggestion Dorothy had made.
Even so, it seemed to her there was a skeptical look in Sloane’s face as he listened. And he said only:
“If Miss Woolen is right, the discovery of the scarf was a matter of luck for whoever murdered her.” He paused briefly and then went on: “So far as I can see there are three ways to account for the presence of Carreaux’s revolver,” he said. “Someone removed it from his bag with the intention of killing Creda with it when opportunity offered itself. Or Creda herself removed it, knowing she was in danger and hoping to protect herself. Or—it was not removed.”
“But then Noel—”
“If that theory is the true one, Carreaux had it himself, intended to murder Creda with it, but changed his mind when he saw the chiffon scarf. The revolver would make a noise, would bring everyone at once. Whoever murdered her was strongly aware of the need for silence. Thus the knife, in what I think was an abortive first attempt to kill her. Thus the scarf—fortuitously discovered—to complete the job. If Carreaux did it, he simply forgot the revolver—murderers do forget; it’s why we catch them. Besides a fold of Miss Blaine’s coat had fallen over it. If someone else had that revolver it was left there purposely; it had not been fired but it would detract attention from the murderer. If Creda Blaine herself had the revolver, the chances are the murderer never knew it was there. Certainly if Creda tried to fire it she was unsuccessful. And the only fingerprints on the gun that are not blurred beyond recognition are your own, Miss Shore.”
“But I didn’t,” began Eden with a gasp.
The telephone on his shabby, laden desk rang five times, interrupting her shrilly. He said: “That’s long distance,” and took down the instrument. “All right,” he said into the telephone. “Oh, it’s my call to St. Louis. All right, put them on.”
Eden rose. “I’ll go,” she said but he stopped her.
“Wait—it’ll take them a few moments.” He reached into a pigeonhole of the desk and brought out two things. A small kitchen knife and a square piece of pasteboard with printed figures on it. “Did you ever see either of these before?”
The pasteboard looked like a baggage check. The little knife was just a small, wooden-handled paring knife. Sharp. She stared at it and shrank a little away.
“It’s the knife that was used in the first attempt to kill her,” said Sloane quietly. “It took place, if I’m right, outside the cabin. In the shadow of the pines near where we found the knife. Those small rusty stains on it, if you’ll look closely, are blood; there are no fingerprints on the handle. It is impossible to discover who took the knife from the kitchen; it is never closed—anybody could have done so, at any time (hours perhaps previous to the murder) without being seen. If I reconstruct the crime correctly, and I think I do, she escaped, ran to the nearest cabin and tried to barricade the door. And fainted. And her murderer followed her, entered the cabin, finished the business with the gray chiffon scarf. And tiptoed away again. That is, if you have made no mistakes in your own telling of what you heard, Miss Shore; all this is on the basis of your story being accurate.”
“It is as accurate as I can make it. I’ve told you everything I remember.”
There was a flicker in the detective’s eyes. “No,” he said, “you haven’t. You omitted one of the most important events of that night—oh, hello. Yes. Yes, this is Sloane; you’ve got the report about the baggage check? All right, let’s have it.”
She watched him, fascinated, while he listened to the distant voice which, five feet away from the telephone, was only a metallic rattle. He made a few notes swiftly; a few equally brief replies. And after a while said, “Thank you” and hung up and turned on the swivel chair to look at her.
“That,” he said, “was about the baggage check. One of my boys found it near the plane; I don’t know whether it was lost or thrown away. In any case it seems that the night you left St. Louis Jim Cady deposited a large package, wrapped in paper and tied with string, in the checkroom of the airport from which you left. At my urgent request the police opened the package and found plans and blueprints for an airplane engine which has been identified by one of the plant employees as the engine that crashed.”
“Not—Jim—” whispered Eden. And realized suddenly and rather dreadfully that of all those names Jim’s had been the only one not explored. It was a too significant omission. Sloane said: “You care very much what happens to him, don’t you, Miss Shore? The night Creda Blaine was murdered (wearing Averill Blaine’s yellow coat, in Averill Blaine’s cabin) Cady said to you, ‘I’ll settle with Averill.’ Didn’t he?”
Eden’s throat closed so she could not speak. Sloane said:
“Your face admits it. And on the heels of that you had an interview with Averill Blaine during which she told you that she intended to hold Cady to his word and that furthermore his whole career was tied up with her; she could, in other words, make him or break him because his whole past and future was in the Blaine plant and she, now, largely owns the Blaine plant.”
“She said—part of that. Not about the plant.”
“I’m afraid it’s her word against yours. She told me last night (just before you found Wilson upstairs) that she felt she had to stop what was merely an infatuation on Cady’s part. And that your interview was not at all friendly. That it was, in fact, quite violent. That you, in fact, struck her. Across the face.”
“That’s not true!” cried Eden almost frantically. “It was Averill. She struck me! And besides that was later—after Creda was murdered. It’s not true as she told it. You must believe me—”
“Your word against hers,” said Sloane. “I can’t tell truth by the sound of it. The point is, did you or did you not enter into a conspiracy to kill Averill Blaine and murder Creda accidentally instead?”
Eden was on her feet.
“No, no! It’s impossible—it’s cruel—without a shadow of evidence—I couldn’t have done it! Jim couldn’t! You—you know him. He’s your friend. And Averill can’t accuse him.”
Sloane interrupted. He rose and went to the door.
“He was my friend,” he said. “And Averill does not accuse him. You admit then that you yourself had a motive for wanting Averill Blaine out of the way?”
“No, no!”
“You were overheard. By Creda Blaine who, when she borrowed Averill’s coat, told her of your somewhat romantic scene with Cady. That is not, of course, evidence that is admissible to court; but inadmissible evidence often points the way to truth.”
She remembered the rustle back of the pines; she remembered Jim saying “What was that?” But she hadn’t wanted to kill Averill—or Creda. It was as if a nightmare were closing tighter about her.
“But I didn’t murder her,” she cried desperately. “I—I never thought of it—I couldn’t murder anybody!”
“I didn’t ask you if you had set out cold-bloodedly to murder anybody,” said Sloane, his hand on the doorknob. “I asked if, in the heat and anger of the moment, you lent the—assistance of your silence to anyone. To Cady—to be exact.”
“No, no,” cried Eden again in horror, twisting her hands together. “You must believe me. You must listen. You must—”
“Did you know Creda Blaine had borrowed that yellow coat? Answer me.”
“No—”
“Did Jim know it?”
“No—I don’t kn
ow.”
“That’s all now, Miss Shore.” He opened the door.
“But Jim didn’t—Jim couldn’t—”
“That’s all,” he said. “Thank you.” And she was in the hall and the door was closed behind her.
And Jim himself came from the lounge.
“Jim—” She said it breathlessly, almost frantically; he must defend himself. He must explain to Sloane his reason for checking those plans, his reason for keeping silent about it. He must instantly, promptly demolish the case Sloane had built against him—so strong a case that Sloane did not even tell her fully of it, but was content instead to build and demolish the case against each of them, leaving only that stacked-up evidence against Jim to stand. Creda’s letter; the little pasteboard check. The dust of suspicion that Averill, in trying to implicate Eden, had cast upon Jim. Unintentionally perhaps; she had accused only Eden, not Jim; but nevertheless she had supplied Sloane with an alternate motive.
Jim spoke first. He looked very white and, somehow, angry. But he said smoothly enough: “I’ve been thinking, Eden, that I ought to apologize. About last night. I’m afraid I interrupted—May I be the first to offer you and Noel good wishes?”
Chapter 21
THE CURIOUS THING WAS that it seemed so unimportant. So trivial really that she brushed it away with a feeling of impatience; it was as if Jim himself couldn’t possibly credit his own words.
Instead of replying, she said quickly: “I’ve been talking to Sloane. Jim, has he told you about the baggage check? Surely he must have done—”
“You didn’t,” said Jim, “let much time go by.”
“Time?”
“Between affairs of the heart,” said Jim promptly. “Or perhaps it wasn’t of the heart. The stage lost a good actress in you, Eden.”
She caught her breath sharply as if a dash of cold water had been flung against her face.
“That’s unfair, Jim!”
“I suppose it is. Somehow I wouldn’t have expected you to forget so promptly and so easily. So you and Noel are to be married?”
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