Joan Greg had come quietly in from the hall. She was holding Doan's revolver carefully in her right hand. She was walking straighter now, and she came directly across the floor to the front of the divan. She stopped there and pointed the revolver at Sheila Alden.
"Here!" Crowley shouted in alarm.
Doan flipped the contents of his glass into Joan Greg's face. Her head jerked back when the stinging liquid hit her. She took one uncertain step backward, and then Doan vaulted over the couch and expertly kicked her feet from under her.
She fell on her back, coming down so hard that her blond head bounced forward loosely with the impact. Doan stepped on her right wrist and twisted the revolver from her lax fingers.
Joan Greg turned over on her stomach and hid her face in her arms. She began to cry in racked, gasping sobs. The others stared at her, and at Doan with a sort of frozen, dazed horror.
"More fun," said Doan, slipping the revolver into his waistband. "Does she do things like this very often?"
"Gah!" Brill gasped. "She--she would have... Why--why, she's crazy! Crazy drunk! Where--where'd she get that gun?"
"It was in my topcoat pocket," Doan said. "Careless of me, but I didn't think there were any homicidal maniacs wandering around the house."
Sheila Alden's face was paper white. "Get her out of here! She's fired! Take her away!"
"Yes, yes," said Brill. "At once. Terrible. Terrible thing, really. And I'll be blamed--"
"Take her away!" Shield Alden screamed at him.
Doan leaned over and picked Joan Greg up. She had stopped crying and she was utterly relaxed. Her arms flopped laxly. Her eyes were closed, and the tears had made wet jagged streaks down her soft cheeks.
"She's passed out, I think," Doan said. "I'll take her up and lock her in her bedroom."
"Yes, yes," Brill said. "Only thing. This way."
Crowley was bending anxiously over Sheila Alden. "Now, now. It's all over. Gives a person a nasty feeling, I know. Saw a chap run amok in Malay once. Ghastly thing. But you're a brave girl. Just a little sip of this."
Brill led the way across the living room and down the hall to a steep stairway with a rustic natural-wood railing. Brill went on up it and stopped at the first door in the upper hallway. He was still shaky, and he edged away from the limp form of Joan Greg as a man would avoid contact with something poisonous.
"Here," he said, pushing the door open and reaching around to snap on the light. "This--this is awful. Miss Alden is sure to complain to the office. What do you suppose ailed her?"
Doan put Joan Greg down on the narrow bed under the windows. The room was stiflingly hot. He looked at the windows and then down at Joan Greg's flushed face and decided against opening one. While he was looking down at her, she opened her eyes and stared up at him. All the life had drained out of her round face and left it empty and bitter and disillusioned.
"What's the trouble?" Doan asked. "Want to tell me about it?"
She turned her head slowly away from him and closed her eyes again. Doan waited a moment and then said:
"Better get undressed and into bed and sleep it off."
He turned off the light and went out of the room, transferring the key from the inside of the lock to the outside and turning it carefully. He tried the door to make sure and then put the key in his pocket.
Brill was wringing his hands in a distracted way. "I--I can hardly bear to face Miss Alden. She will blame me. Everybody blames me! I didn't want this responsibility... . I've got to go down and out-wait that scoundrel Crowley."
"Why?" Doan asked.
Brill came closer. "He's a fortune hunter! He didn't get lost today! He came over here on purpose because he's heard that Miss Alden was here! She's an impressionable girl, and I can't let him stay alone with her down there. The office would hold me accountable if he--if she..."
"I get it," Doan said.
"I don't know what to do," said Brill. "I mean, I know Miss Alden will be sure to resent--But I can't let him--"
"That's your problem," said Doan. "But I'm not supposed to protect her from people who want to make love to her--only the ones that don't. So I'm not out-waiting our friend Crowley. I'm tired. Which is my bedroom?"
"Right there. You'll leave your door open, Mr. Doan, in case--in case..."
"In case," Doan agreed. "Just whistle, and I'll pop up like any jack-in-the-box."
"I'm so worried," said Brill. "But I must go down and see that the scoundrel doesn't..."
He went trotting down the steep stairs. Doan went along the hall back to the bedroom Brill had indicated. It was small and as neatly arranged as a model room in a display window, furnished with imitation rustic bed, chairs and bureau.
It, too, was stiflingly hot. Doan spotted the radiator bulking in the corner. He went over and touched it experimentally and jerked his fingers away with a whispered curse. It was so hot the water in it was burbling. Doan looked for the valve to turn it off, but there was none.
He stood looking at the radiator for some time, frowning in a puzzled way. There was something wrong about the whole setup at the lodge. It was like a picture slightly out of focus, and yet he couldn't put his finger on any one thing that was wrong. It bothered Doan, and he didn't like to be bothered. But it was still there. An air of intangible menace.
He discovered now that he had left his grip downstairs. He didn't feel like going and getting it at the moment. He wanted to think about the people in the house, and he had always been able to think better lying down. He shrugged and headed for the bed. Fully dressed, he lay down on top of it and went to sleep.
CHAPTER VII.
NICE NIGHT FOR MURDER
WHEN DOAN AWOKE, he awoke all at once. He was instantly alert, but he didn't make any other motion than opening his eyes. The heat int he bedroom was like a thick oppressive blanket--fantastic and unreal against the shuffling whie of the storm outside.
Doan stayed still and wondered what had awakened him. His bedroom door was still open, and there was a dim light in the hall. A timber creaked eerily somewhere in the house. The seconds ticked off slowly and leadenly, and then a shadow moved and made a rounded silhouette in the hall in front of the bedroom door.
Doan moved his hand and closed his fingers on the slick coolness of his revolver. The shadow thickened, swaying a little, and then Joan Greg came into sight. She was moving along the hall with mincing, elaborately cautious steps. She had evidently taken Doan's advice about going to bed. She was dressed in a green silk nightgown that contrasted with her blond hair. She stopped opposite Doan's doorway and looked that way.
Her soft lips were open, twisted awry, and there was a dribble of saliva on her chin. Her eyes were widened in mesmerized horror. She was holding a short broad-bladed hunting knife in her right hand.
"That's fine," said Doan quietly. "Just stand right where you are."
The knife made a ringing thud falling on the floor. Joan Greg drew a long shuddering breath that pulled the thin green silk taut across her breasts. The cords in her soft throat stood out rigidly.
Then she crumpled like a puppet that has been dropped. She was an awkwardly twisted heap of green silk and white flesh, with the gold of her hair glinting metallically in the light.
Doan swung cat-like off the bed and reached the doorway in two long steps. He didn't look down at Joan Greg, but both ways along the hall. One of the doors on the opposite side moved just a trifle.
"Come out of there," said Doan. "Quick!"
The door opened in hesitant jerks, and Crowley peered out at hi. He was wearing nothihng but a pair of blue shorts, and his wedge-shaped torso was oily with perspiration. His face was a queer yellowish green under its tan.
"So beastly hot. Couldn't get the windows open. I thought--I heard--"
"Come here."
Crowley moistened his lips with a nervous flick of his tongue. He came forward one step at a time. "What--what's the matter with her?"
"Stand right there and stand still."
Crowley's breath whistleed between his teeth. "Blood! Look! All over her hands--"
Doan knelt down beside Joan Greg. Her hands were spread out awkwardly beside her, as though she had tried to hold them away from herself even while she fell. There was blood smeared on her fingers and streaked gruesomely across both her soft palms. Doan poked at the knife she had dropped with the barrel of his revolver.
There was blood clotted ont hem, too. On the handle and on the broad blad. Doan raised his head.
"Brill!" he called sharply.
Bed springs creaked somewhere, and Brill's nervous voice said: "Eh? What? What?"
The springs creaked again protestingly. Brill, looking tall and lath-like in white pajamas, appeared in the open door of the bedroom next to Doan's. His slick hair was rumpeld now, and he held one hand up to shield his eyes from the light.
"What? What is it?" His thin face began to lengthen, then, as though it had been drawn in some enormous vise. "Oh, my God," he said in a whisper.
He came forward with the stiff, jerky steps of a sleep-walker. "Did she commit suicide?"
"I'm afraid not," said Doan. "She's fainted. Which is Miss Alden's room?"
Brill stared at him in pure frozen horror. "You don't think she--" He made a strangled noise in his throat. He turned and ran down the hall, his white pajamas flapping grotesqely. "Miss Alden! Miss Alden!"
The door at the end of the hall was hers, and Brill pounded on the panels with both fists. "Miss Alden!" His voice was raw with panic now, and he tried the knob. The door opened immediately.
"Miss--Miss Alden," Brill said uncertainly.
"The light," said Doan, behind him.
Brill reached inside the door and snapped the switch. There was no sound for a long time, and then Brill moaned a little.
Doan said: "Come here, Crowley. I want you where I can watch you."
Crowley spoke in a jerky voice. "Well, Joan--I mean, Miss Greg. You can't leave her lying--"
"Come here."
Crowley edged inside Sheila Alden's bedroom and backed against the wall in response to a guiding flick of Doan's revolver barrel. Brill was standing in the center of the room with his hands up over his face.
"This will ruin me," he said in a sick mumble. "I was going to get a partnership in the firm. They gave me full responsibility for watching out for her. Account was worth tens of thousands a year. They'll hound me out of the state--can never practice again." His voice trailed off into indistinguishable syllables.
This bedroom was as stiflingly hot as Doan's had been. Sheila Alden had only a sheet over her. She was stiffly rigid on her back in the bed. Her throat had been cut from ear to ear, and the pillows under her head were soaked and sticky with blood. Her bony face looked pinched and small and empty, with her nearsighted eyes staring glassily up at the light.
Doan pointed the gun at Crowley. "You talk."
Crowley made an effort to get back his air of British light-heartedness. "But, old chap, you can't imagine I--"
"Yes, I can," said Doan.
Crowley's mouth opened and shut soundlessly.
"It comes a little clearer," said Doan. "You were so scared you got a little rattled for a moment. Just how well do you know Joan Greg?"
Crowley's smile was an agonized grimace. "Well, my dear chap, hardly at all. I just met the young lady today."
"We can't use that one." Doan said. "You know her very well. That was what was the trouble with her. She was jealous. You've been living off her, haven't you?"
"That's not a nice thing to accuse a chap--"
"Murder's not nice, either. You've been living off Joan Greg. You haven't any more got a place on Flint Flat than I have. Have you?"
"Well..."
"No, you haven't. Joan Greg told you that she had gotten a job as secretary to Sheila Alden and was coming up here. You knew who Sheila Alden was, and you thought that was a swell chance for you to chisel in and charm the young lady with your entrancing personality.
"You must have let Joan Greg in on it--told her you'd make a killing and split with her probably. But when it came right down to seeing you make passes at Sheila Alden, Joan Greg couldn't take it."
"Fantastic," Crowley said in a stiff unnatural voice. "Utter--rot."
"You!" said Brill, and the blood made a thick red flush in his shallow cheeks. "You rat! I'll see you hung! I'll--I'll--Doan! Hold him until I get my gun!" He blundered wildly out of the room, and his feet made a wild pattering rush down the hall.
Crowley had recovered his poise now. His eyes were cold and alert and hard, watching Doan. Brill's bedroom door slammed, and then his voice shrilled out fiercely.
"Get up! Get up, damn you! I know you're faking! I saw your eyes open!"
There was a scuffling sound from the hall, and Joan Greg cried out breathlessly. Crowley moved against the wall.
"No," said Doan.
Confused footsteps came closer, and Brill pushed Joan Greg roughly into the bedroom.
"There!" Brill raged. "Look at her! Look at your handiwork, damn you, you shameless little tramp!"
Joan Greg gave a stifled cry of terror. She held her shaking, blood-smeared hands out in front of her helplessly, and then she turned and ran to Crowley and hid her face against his chest.
"There they are!" Brill shouted. He was holding a .45 Colt automatic in his hand and he waved it wildly in the air. "Look at them!
A fine pair of crooks and murderers! But they'll pay! You hear me, do you? You'll pay!"
Doan was looking at the radiator in the corner. He was frowning a little bit and whistling softly and soundlessly to himself.
"Why is it so hot?" he asked.
"Eh?" Brill said. "What?"
"Why is it so hot in the bedrooms?"
"The windows have storm shutters on them," Brill said impatiently. "They can't be opened in a wind like this."
"But why are the radiators so hot? The water in that one is boiling. You can hear it."
"What damned nonsense!" Brill yelled. "Are you going to stand there and ask silly questions about radiators when Sheila Alden has been murdered and these two stand here caught in the very act--"
"No," said Doan. "I'm going to find out about the matter of the temperature around here. You watch these two."
"Doan, you fool!" Brill shouted. "Come back here! You're in my employ and I demand--"
"Watch them," said Doan. "I'll be back in a minute or so."
CHAPTER VIII.
HI, KOKOMO
HE WENT DOWN the hall, down the steep stairs, and across the living room. The log fireplace was dull, glowing red embers now. The wind had blown some of the smoke back down the chimney, and it made a thick murky blue haze. Doan went on across the room through the archway on the other side.
Ahead of him light showed dimly around the edge of the swinging door that led into the kitchen. The hinges squeaked as Doan pushed it back.
Kokomo was sitting in the corner beside the gleaming white and chromium of an electric range. He was still wearing his big apron, and the tall chefs hat was tilted down rakishly over his left eye. He had what looked like the same toothpick in one corner of his mouth, and it moved up and down jerkily as he said:
"What can I do for you, sonny?"
"Don't you ever go to bed at night?" Doan asked.
"Naw. I'm an owl."
"It's awfully hot upstairs," said Doan.
"Too bad."
"I notice you have a central hot water heating system here. What does the furnace burn--coal or oil?"
"Coal."
"Who takes care of it?"
"Me."
"Where is it?"
Kokomo jerked a thick thumb at a door in the back wall of the kitchen. "Down cellar."
"I think I'll take a look at it."
Kokomo took the toothpick out of his mouth and snapped it into the far corner of the room. "Run along and roll your hoop, sonny, before I lose my patience and lay you out like a rug. This here end of the premises is my ba
iliwick and I don't go for any mush-faced snoopers prowlin' around in it. I told the rest that. Now I'm tellin' it to you."
"On the other hand," said Doan cheerfully, "I think I'll have a look at the furnace."
Kokomo got up out of his chair. "Sonny, you're gettin' me irritated. Put that popgun away before I shove it down you throat."
Doan dropped the gun in his coat pocket, smiling. "Aw, you wouldn't do a mean thing like that, would you?"
Kokomo came for him with quick little shuffling steps, his head lowered and tucked between the hunched bulk of his thick shoulders.
Doan was still smiling. He made a fork out of the first two fingers of his left hand and poked them at Kokomo's eyes. Kokomo knew that trick and, instead of ducking, he merely tilted his head back and let Doan's stiffened fingers slide off his low forehead. But when he put his head back, he exposed his thickly muscular throat.
Doan hit him squarely on the adam's apple with a short right jab. It was a wickedly effective blow, and Kokomo made a queer strangling noise and grasped his throat with both hands, rolling his head back and forth in agony. His mouth was wide open, and his eyes bulged horribly.
Doan hit him again, a full roundhouse swing with all his compact weight behind it. His fist smacked on the hinge of Kokomo's jaw. Kokomo went back one step and then another, shaking his head helplessly, still trying to draw a breath.
"I should break my hands on you, cement-head," Doan said casually. He took the revolver out of his coat pocket and slammed Kokomo on the top of the head with the butt of it.
The blow smashed the tall chefs hat into a weirdly lopsided pancake. Kokomo dropped to his knees, sagging loosely. With cold-blooded efficiency Doan hit him again in the same place. Kokomo flopped forward on his face and lay there on the shiny linoleum without moving.
It had happened very fast, and Doan was standing there now, looking down at Kokomo, still smiling in his casually amused way. He wasn't even breathing hard.
"These tough guys," he said, shrugging.
He dropped the revolver in his coat pocket again and stepped over Kokomo. The cellar door was fastened with a patent bolt. Doan unlatched it and peered down a flight of steep wooden stairs that were lighted dimly from the kitchen behind him. He felt around the door and found a light switch and clicked it. Nothing happened. The light down in the cellar, if there was one, didn't work.
The Doan and Carstairs Mysteries Page 4