He shook his head. Althea said tartly, "And now you're going to be a little gentleman and tell no secrets."
Francis grinned at her. "That's right."
She settled back on the cushions. "Tell me something," she asked lazily. "Are you as much in love with Tyl as you . . . made out?"
He let his eyes look startled, and make a tiny negative sign. He felt he owed her that. He turned to the fire. He was thinking he'd have to send Jane in to New York tomorrow. That meant one night more. He was thinking he'd better remember to be dejected, not let
excitement show. For the old man was keen.
What Althea was thinking, he neither knew nor cared. Her hand was warm in his, and from time to time he pressed it. He was thinking of Mathilda. A little while and he could explain to her and beg her pardon. He could explain why he'd had to go into that song
and dance about love. Because the story made no sense without it. He'd explain. Then he was thinking of Rosaleen, of her gallant little figure that seemed to diminish with the days, as if she were traveling away from him toward a horizon beyond which she would
someday vanish entirely. He was thinking that sometimes she seemed to be looking back at him. But when it was done, when he had finished his task, then she would turn her face away forever.
Chapter Fourteen
"Grandy, can't we talk now? Alone, I mean. Please, darling. It's important." Mathilda hadn't seen them come in.
"What's important?" drawled Althea.
Oliver turned around to look at her, and his face flushed vividly with anger. Francis was a dark background, where the firelight and the lamplight barely touched him, as they stood there, just inside the room from the kitchen.
"Where have you been?" exploded Oliver. Her insolence set him off. The anger was genuine.
"Oh," said Althea, "talking."
"Talking about what?"
"Nothing worth repeating now," she said, and yawned daintily. “I do think I'll go up to bed," she said in the awkward silence. "After all, my first day out of it."
"Yes, do," said Grandy hastily. "Do, dear."
Jane got out of her chair. Mathilda thought she saw a glance pass between Jane and the white blur of Francis' face. "I think I'll say good night," said Jane primly. "Good night, Althea. Miss Frazier. Mr. Grandison, Mr. Keane." She murmured all their names politely.
All but one. She forgot to say good night to Francis. Mathilda thought it was odd. There was something in that forgetfulness that assumed he was different; either he didn't matter, or he would understand, or, thought Mathilda, he mattered most. Nobody else seemed to notice. Nobody else seemed to notice that she'd said "Miss Frazier."
"Good night," they said to Jane, raggedly.
Grandy said benignly, "Good night, child."
Jane showed them all her pretty smile and went away, withdrawing from the family, sweet, pretty and dutiful.
Althea stood where she was, looking strange, as if she'd been only half waked out of a hypnotic state or as if she were sleepwalking.
"Good night, Althea,” said Francis. His voice had no caress or even much meaning.
"Good night," she murmured.
Oliver said, "Good night, all." He hadn't even a special word for Tyl, the returned one. He didn't even look at Francis. He was furious. His fury had a female quality. Oliver was in a tizzy.
"Now, Oliver," said Grandy with remarkable clumsiness.
Oliver bared his teeth as if to say "Keep out of this." He took his wife's arm to pull her along, but his hand slipped. The gesture was pitiful and ineffective.
"Oh, Oliver, don't grab at me," said Althea crossly.
"Very well," said Oliver. He was shrill. Tyl wanted to hide her eyes.
Althea swayed a little, standing there, looking down at Tyl. She wasn't very tall, but she looked tall at that moment, and slender, and mysteriously malicious. Tyl's heart contracted with a little fear.
Althea laughed softly. "Well, Tyl, you're back, aren't you? All the way back."
She bent her silver head and Grandy kissed her. She walked down the long room, vanishing into the dark at the far end. In a moment, Oliver snapped on the light in the hall and she was outlined in brilliance briefly. Then she was gone.
The three of them, by the fire, were silent until Francis threw his cigarette into the flames decisively.
"I'll go back to the guest house now," he said, with no emphasis at all. Tyl looked at him, but his face was turned away.
Grandy said softly, quickly, "Yes, yes, of course. For tonight."
Mathilda got up. She didn't know whether she wanted to run or fight it out now and smash that lie, this heroic suffering pose of his that lied so expertly. She looked at him with her anger and her suspicion and her resentment and her defiance in her eyes. But as he moved closer, she didn't shrink away. It came to her that she was not afraid of him. She would enjoy a good fight, a good, bold, hard-hitting clash.
"Don't run," he said surprisingly. But when he stood over her very close, although he didn't touch her, she could tell that he wanted to, and not so much with love as with pity. "Good night, dear," said Francis. He sounded sad. They were not fighting words. The words were lonely.
Mathilda still stood there when he had gone. She couldn't understand. Couldn't understand. The only thing that explained him was the lie he told. If he really were in love— But he was not! He was a stranger.
"Grandy."
Grandy was all huddled in his chair. He looked shrunken up, his hand shaded his eyes.
She knelt down swiftly. "Grandy, what is it?"
"This house," he said. "Tyl, is it talking? Do you feel . . . something wrong?"
Her throat tightened. She cast a quick look behind her.
"I don't like it." Grandy rocked his shoulders. "Oh, no, I don't like it."
Tyl said, "Grandy, there's nothing. But there's something I've got to tell you."
He pulled himself up and smiled then. His hand came to cover hers warmly. "Darling, I know. I must lock the doors. Run up, sweet. I'll come. I'll tuck you in, eh?"
She nodded. She went upstairs slowly, grasping the banister too tightly. She could hear Grandy below, moving briskly, locking the doors. Whatever the mood had been, he'd thrown it off. And this was her home. Surely it was safe here. There could be nothing here to fear.
She went into the gray room and found the switch, but she didn't press it. She crossed quickly to the window in the dark. Was that a sound?
Outside, the night was not too deep for her to see a figure in the garden. Was it only this morning, she wondered, that she had first seen that figure, that man's shape? Only today?
The sounds were faint. She knelt and hid her head behind the curtain. She could see another figure, climbing down the trellis from the roof of the kitchen porch. Only she could see it, only from this room. Climbing down! Out of Rosaleen's old room to the porch roof, of course. That Jane! Her blond head caught a little light from the sky. The two figures met and shimmered in the dark and seemed to dissolve into shadows.
Tyl sat back on her heels. "My noblehearted lover!" she said. "My suffering bridegroom! Oh, brave good lonely soul!"
Chapter Fifteen
"Jane." Francis held her by the shoulders. He spoke in a low tone that wouldn't carry. His face was just a blur. "You've got to go to New York tomorrow." He shook her with his impatience. "Make it your day off. Disappear and leave a note. It doesn't matter if he
doesn't like it Get away early."
"What do you want me to do?"
"I've got it!" he croaked triumphantly. "I finally got Althea to talk about it Listen, see if you don't get the point. We know the clock stopped at twenty after ten." He let go of her shoulders.
"Fran, I've got to tell you—"
"Not now. Wait. So the fuse blew at twenty after ten that morning. Now Althea says that Grandy came out of the study and was closing the door of it behind him at the very minute when the Phantom Chef fellow was on the air—the one who gives out recipe
s,
you know, Jane. She remembers something he said. Jane, it gives us the time! Don't you see?"
"I see. I think I do."
"The fellow said 'Burn tenderly.' Remember that. Two words. Write them down. They take records of those programs. They must have taken a record of this one. Pray they have. You've got to go to the radio station and find out. Maybe they took a record there. Or if they didn't, sometimes the client does. Find out who pays for that program. See if they took a recording. Try the advertising agency. Try everywhere. Find that record, Jane. And then make them let you listen. Make up a yarn, anything. Don't you see? If you can
listen, and time the thing, and spot the very minute when he said, 'Burn tenderly' —“
"Un-huh," said Jane. "Uh-huh."
"That'll be the proof we're looking for. Proof! If the time is different from what I expect, then we're all wrong, and we'll know it. Jane, we can't be wrong. And if those words were said on the air that morning any time—even seconds—after twenty after ten, then we've got him! Got enough to go to the police. Because that would mean she was dead—" He drew away in the dark. "Oh, God, Jane, she kicked that lamp over while she was dying, and he stood there watching her!"
Jane said, in a minute, grimly, "That'll do it"
"Yes," he repeated wearily, "that'll do it."
"HI go into town. I'll find out." She might have been taking
her oath.
"Yes, you go in." He wished the night were over. He wished it
were morning.
Jane said, "Fran, Gahagen was here."
"What?"
"Yes, and I—"
"What did he want?"
"He was asking all about the clock. He looked at the fuses too."
Francis groaned. "Did he say how the police came to be wondering about that?"
"No, he didn't say. But I think he knew, all right."
Francis groaned again. "The old man is keen. Damn! Why did this have to happen tonight?"
"How do you suppose Gahagen knew that you were the man on the telephone?"
"They could have traced the call. I couldn't help it. I had to check; had to know whether the police had found a blown fuse or noticed—"
"They never would have noticed," said Jane loyally. "You found the newspaper picture with the wrong time on the clock."
"But I wish Gahagen hadn't shown up tonight"
"Fran, what's the difference? We've got it now. All we have to do is check."
"Yes," he said.
They were whispering in the lee of a great mock orange. The night was still around them. Chilly. Francis shivered. His scalp crawled. He wished it were morning and Jane on her way.
"Fran, tell me." She clutched at his arm. "What about Mathilda? What happened?"
"Mathilda doesn't matter," he said desperately.
"But what did you tell Grandy? What did he say?"
"I told him she was balmy. He—I don't know. I imagine he's wondering, right now, what I'm up to."
"You don't think he believed you?"
"No, I don't think he believed me," said Francis bitterly. "I'm good, but I'm not that good. I think he doesn't understand and he's lying low. I hope he doesn't get his mind clear until tomorrow."
"Poor Mathilda," breathed Jane.
"Tough on her," he admitted. He could tell Jane. "But, honey, what could I do? Go on trying to tell her that old precious is what he is? And have her run to him with all we've got, so far? So he could block any move we'd try to make? Don't think he couldn't. Or could I bow out and say, 'That's right, ma'am. I'm lying. Must have had a brainstorm. So long.' And leave the job unfinished? When we were so close? I couldn't do a thing, Jane, but what I did. I felt like a heel."
"She must have been staggered."
"She's got a lot of fight; she can take it. She's got to! A few confusing days. Jane, how the old mat's got those girls under his spell! Svengali business. I don't like it. He's had Mathilda thinking she's a poor little unattractive dumb bunny for years and years."
"She's not," said Jane dryly.
"She's certainly one of the most beautiful creatures—" said Francis irritably. "But no, she'll take his word for it! I don't think she knows, herself, what she is, or ever will know until she gets away from him."
"So if we get him, she'll be free."
"Yes," he said. "That's the only way I can look at it."
There was a slam of sound. Somebody had slammed the back door. They froze in the shadows and turned their faces furtively. Someone with a flashlight went around to the garage. The overhead doors rolled up. In a moment or two, they heard a car start. It was
Oliver's. It plunged down the drive and they heard the gears clash, as if the hand that shifted was in a mood for bangs and clashes.
"Oliver?"
"But what—where's he going?"
"Hell for leather. I don't know." Francis took a step as if he would follow and see.
"He was simply furious with Althea. They must have had a fight."
"Quite a fight," said Francis.
The car's noises died away, leaving the night to its old chilly quiet. Jane shivered this time. "Better get back." She turned to look at the quiet house that had just erupted and spit out an angry man, and now lay biding its time, to explode again with some evil or
other.
"Yes, you'd better," said Francis with sudden urgency. "Look here, we forgot something. Grandy may not know about the radio voice, but he does know one thing. I should have seen that. He knows the icebox light went out when the fuse blew. He knows, because
Althea told him. That's what tipped him off, in the middle of the morning, that a fuse had been blown. He trotted right down cellar and fixed it. Now, she didn't see the light go out—"
“If it was out," said Jane. "And if it was really Rosaleen's death that put it out, Fran, haven't we got proof already? Can't we use that? Use it now, tonight?"
"No, because it might have been the bulb burning out, after all," said Francis wearily. "He'd wiggle out that way. Jane, I—"
"What's the matter?"
"God knows what hell do!"
She trembled. "What?"
"I hate to ask you to lose sleep when you have so much to do tomorrow. Jane, watch Althea's door."
"Watch?"
"Because Oliver's gone," said Francis. "Oliver isn't there. She's alone. And Gahagens tipped off Grandy. Get into the house, Jane. It s not—I don't think it's safe."
"You don't think he'd— Not Althea!"
"No?" said Francis. "Rosaleen was young and pretty, wasn't she?"
Jane said, "Oh, Fran!"
“If you see anyone," he told her, "flash your lights, I'll be around."
As one, they turned and almost ran into the darkness to the kitchen porch. He boosted her up the trellis. Mathilda's window was dimly lit. The house stood whitely over Francis. The night, he thought, was getting colder.
Chapter Sixteen
"Now," said Grandy, "now were cozy." He sat in the big yellow chair, and Tyl put herself on the yellow ottoman at his feet. They were together in a little pool of light from the tall lamp over them. The room was warm. It had an expensive smell. She'd had time to get out of the green dress and into her own long warm robe of rose-colored wool. The soft fabric felt luxurious along her neck and arms.
"What's troubling you, duck? Now you shall tell me all about it."
"Just that Francis is a liar!" she burst out promptly. "A terrible liar, Grandy. I don't know the man! I never saw him before! The story about my having met him and got married to him—it's not true! Every bit of it is just made up. Because I remember exactly what I did in New York those three days. And he wasn't in it. So it's all a big elaborate he!"
Grandy's black eyes narrowed.
Mathilda felt her temper rising. "Just about the biggest mess of lies I ever heard!" she cried. "Why, he had the bellhops and the hotel people all primed to say they knew about it. Even the minister, Grandy. And that letter to you! I never wrote a
ny such letter. I
couldn't have. Because it didn't happen. And that license business in the wrong name. It's just a fake! It must be!"
"Hush," he said.
"But you believe me? You do? Don't you?"
"Of course I believe you, Tyl," he said. "Of course, darling. Hush
She sagged forward, put her arms on his knees and her head down. "But did you ever hear of such a thing? Why it's—" She wanted to cry.
"Extraordinary," said Grandy. "It's perfectly wild, Tyl."
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