With that he was gone.
The fortune teller sank down into a chair and said, “Good gracious me,” with some emphasis and a Middle-Western accent. The bellboy retired nonchalantly to a corner and stood there, looking very childish in his smart white uniform, but very knowing. And Idabelle Lasher looked at the man at her feet and began to sob again, and Duane tried to comfort her, while Dixon shoved his hands in his pockets and glowered at nothing.
“But I don’t see,” wailed Idabelle, “how it could have happened!” Odd, thought Susan, that she didn’t ask who did it. That would be the natural question. Or why? Why had a man who was—as she had said, like a brother to her—been murdered?
Duane patted Idabelle’s heaving bare shoulders and said something soothing, and Idabelle wrung her hands and cried again: “How could it have happened! We were all together—he was not alone a moment—”
Dixon stirred.
“Oh, yes, he was alone,” he said. “He wanted a drink, and I’d gone to hunt a waiter.”
“And you forget to mention,” said Duane icily, “that I had gone with you.”
“You left this room at the same time, but that’s all I know.”
“I went at the same time you did. I stopped to buy cigarettes, and you vanished. I don’t know where you went, but I didn’t see you again. Not till I came back with the crowd into this room. Came back to find you already here.”
“What do you mean by that?” Dixon’s eyes were blazing in his white face, and his hands were working. “If you are accusing me of murder, say so straight out like a man instead of an insolent little puppy.”
Duane was white, too, but composed.
“All right,” he said. “You know whether you murdered him or not. All I know is when I got back I found him dead and you already here.”
“You—”
“Dixon!” cried Idabelle sharply, her laces swirling as she moved hurriedly between the two men. “Stop this! I won’t have it. There’ll be time enough for questions when the police come. When the police—” She dabbed at her mouth, which was still trembling, and at her chin, and her fingers went on to her throat, groped, closed convulsively, and she screamed: “My pearls!”
“Pearls?” said Dixon staring, and Duane darted forward.
“Pearls—they’re gone!”
The fortune teller had started upward defensively, and the bellboy’s eyes were like two saucers. Susan said:
“They are certainly somewhere in the room, Mrs. Lasher. And the police will find them for you. There’s no need to search for them, now.”
Susan pushed a chair toward her, and she sank helplessly into it.
“Tom murdered—and now my pearls gone—and I don’t know which is Derek, and I—I don’t know what to do—” Her shoulders heaved, and her face was hidden in her handkerchief, and her corseted fat body collapsed into lines of utter despair.
Susan said deliberately:
“The room will be searched, Mrs. Lasher, every square inch of it—ourselves included. There is nothing,” said Susan with soft emphasis. “Nothing that they will miss.”
Then Dixon stepped forward. His face was set, and there was an ominous flare of light in his eyes.
He put his hand upon Idabelle’s shoulder to force her to look up into his face, and brushed aside Duane, who had moved quickly forward, too, as if his defeated rival had threatened Idabelle.
“Why—why, Dixon,” faltered Idabelle Lasher, “you look so strange. What is it? Don’t, my dear, you are hurting my shoulder—”
Duane cried: “Let her alone. Let her alone.” And then to Idabelle: “Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s out of his mind. He’s—” He clutched at Dixon’s arm, but Dixon turned, gave him one black look, and thrust him away so forcefully that Duane staggered backward against the walls of the tent and clutched at the curtains to save himself from falling.
“Look here,” said Dixon grimly to Idabelle, “what do you mean when you say as you did just now, that you don’t know which is Derek? What do you mean? You must tell me. It isn’t fair. What do you mean?”
His fingers sank into her bulging flesh. She stared upward as if hypnotized, choking. “I meant just that, Dixon. I don’t know yet. I only said I had decided in order to—”
“In order to what?” said Dixon inexorably.
A queer little tingle ran along Susan’s nerves, and she edged toward the door. She must get help. Duane’s eyes were strange and terribly bright. He still clutched the garishly striped curtains behind him. Susan took another silent step and another toward the door without removing her gaze from the tableau, and Idabelle Lasher looked up into Dixon’s face, and her lips moved flabbily, and she said the strangest thing:
“How like your father you are, Derek.”
Susan’s heart got up into her throat and left a very curious empty place in the pit of her stomach. She probably moved a little farther toward the door, but was never sure, for all at once, while mother and son stared revealingly and certainly at each other, Duane’s white face and queer bright eyes vanished.
Susan was going to run. She was going to fling herself out the door and shriek for help. For there was going to be another murder in that room. There was going to be another murder, and she couldn’t stop it, she couldn’t do anything, she couldn’t even scream a warning. Then Duane’s black figure was outlined against the tent again. And he held a revolver in his hand. The fortune teller said: “Oh, my God” and the white streak that had been the bellboy dissolved rapidly behind a chair.
‘Call him your son if you want to,” Duane said in an odd jerky way, addressing Mrs. Lasher and Derek confusedly. “Then your son’s a murderer. He killed Briggs. He hid in the folds of this curtain till—the room was full of people—and then he came out again. He left his revolver there. And here it is. Don’t move. One word or move out of any of you, and I’ll shoot.” He stopped to take a breath. He was smiling a little and panting. “Don’t move,” he said again sharply. “I’m going to hand you over to the police, Mr. Derek. You won’t be so anxious to say he s your son then, perhaps. It’s his revolver. He killed Briggs with it because Briggs favored me. He knew it, and he did it for revenge.”
He was crossing the room with smooth steps; holding the revolver poised threateningly, and his eyes were rapidly shifting from one to another. Susan hadn’t the slightest doubt that the smallest move would bring a revolver shot crashing through someone’s brain. He’s going to escape, she thought, he’s going to escape. I can’t do a thing. And he’s mad with rage. Mad with the terrible excitement of having already killed once.
Duane caught the flicker of Susan’s eyes. He was near her now, so near that he could have touched her. He cried:
“It’s you that’s done this! You that advised her! You were on his side! Well—” He’d reached the door now, and there was nothing they could do. He was gloating openly, the way of escape before him. In an excess of dreadful triumphant excitement, he cried: “I’ll shoot you first—it’s too bad, when you are so pretty. But I’m going to do it.” It’s the certainty, thought Susan numbly; Idabelle is so certain that Derek is the other one that Duane knows it, too. He knows there’s no use in going on with it. And he knew, when I said what I said about the pearls, that I know.
She felt oddly dizzy. Something was moving. Was she going to faint—was she—something was moving, and it was the door behind Duane. It was moving silently, very slowly.
Susan steeled her eyes not to reveal that knowledge. If only Idabelle and Derek would not move—would not see those panels move and betray what they had seen.
Duane laughed.
And Derek moved again, and Idabelle tried to thrust him away from her, and Duane’s revolver jerked and jerked again, and the door pushed Duane suddenly to one side and there was a crash of glass, and voices and flashing movement. Susan knew only that someone had pinioned Duane from behind and was holding his arms close to his side. Duane gasped, his hand writhed and dropped the revolver.
>
Then somebody at the door dragged Duane away; Susan realized confusedly that there were police there. And Jim Byrne stood at her elbow. He looked unwontedly handsome in white tie and tails, but very angry. He said:
“Go home, Sue. Get out of here.”
It was literally impossible for Susan to speak or move. Jim stared at her as if nobody else was in the room, got out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead with it.
“I’ve aged ten years in the last five minutes,” he said. He glanced around. Saw Major Briggs’s body there on the floor—saw Idabelle Lasher and Derek—saw the fortune teller and the bellboy.
“Is that Mrs. Jeremiah Lasher over there?” he said to Susan.
Mrs. Lasher opened her eyes, looked at him, and closed them again.
Jim looked meditatively at a revolver in his hand, put it in his pocket, and said briskly:
“You can stay for a while, Susan. Until I hear the whole story. Who shot Major Briggs?”
Susan’s lips moved and Derek straightened up and cried:
“Oh, it’s my revolver all right. But I didn’t kill Major Briggs—I don’t expect anyone to believe me, but I didn’t.”
“He didn’t,” said Susan wearily. “Duane killed Major Briggs. He killed him with Derek’s revolver, perhaps, but it was Duane who did the murder.”
Jim did not question her statement, but Derek said eagerly:
“How do you know? Can you prove it?”
“I think so,” said Susan. “You see, Duane had a revolver when I danced with him. It was in his pocket. That’s when I phoned for you, Jim. But I was too late.”
“But how—” said Jim.
“Oh, when Duane accused Derek, he actually described the way he himself murdered Major Briggs and concealed himself and the revolver in the folds of the tent until the room was full of people and he could quietly mingle with them as if he had come from the hall. We were all staring at Major Briggs. It was very simple. Duane had got hold of Derek’s revolver and knew it would be traced to Derek and the blame put upon him, since Derek had every reason to wish to revenge himself upon Major Briggs.”
Idabelle had opened her eyes. They looked a bit glassy but were more sensible.
“Why—” she said—“why did Duane kill Major Briggs?”
“I suppose because Major Briggs had backed him. You see,” said Susan gently, “one of the claimants had to be an impostor and a deliberate one. And the attack upon Major Briggs last night suggested either that he knew too much or was a conspirator himself. The exact coinciding of the stories (particularly clever on Major Briggs’s part) and the fact that Duane turned up after Major Briggs had had time to search for someone who would fulfill the requirements necessary to make a claim to being your son, seemed to me an indication of conspiracy; besides, the very nature of the case involved imposture. But there had to be a conspiracy; someone had to tell one of the claimants about the things upon which to base his claim, especially about the memories of the baby things—the calico dog,” said Susan with a little smile, “and the plush teddy bear. It had to be someone who had known you long ago and could have seen those things before you put them away in the safe. Someone who knew all your circumstances.”
“You mean that Major Briggs planned Duane’s claim—planned the whole thing? But why—” Idabelle’s eyes were full of tears again.
“There’s only one possible reason,” said Susan. “He must have needed money very badly, and Duane, coming into thirty millions of dollars, would have been obliged to share his spoils.”
“Then Derek—I mean Dixon—I mean,” said Idabelle confusedly, clutching at Derek, “this one. He really is my son?”
“You know he is,” said Susan. “You realized it yourself when you were under emotional stress and obliged to feel instead of reason about it. However, there’s reason for it, too. He is Derek.”
“He—is—Derek,” said Idabelle catching at Susan’s words. “You are sure?”
“Yes,” said Susan quietly. “He is Derek. You see, I’d forgotten something. Something physical that never changes all through life. That is, a sense of rhythm. Derek has no sense of rhythm and has never had. Duane was a born dancer.”
Idabelle said: “Thank God!” She looked at Susan, looked at Derek, and quite suddenly became herself again. She got up briskly, glanced at Major Briggs’s body, said calmly: “We’ll try to keep some of this quiet. I’ll see that things are done decently—after all, poor old fellow, he did love his comforts. Now, then. Oh, yes, if someone will just see the manager of the hotel about my pearls—”
Susan put a startled hand to her gardenias.
“I’d forgotten your pearls, too. Here they are.” She fumbled a moment among the flowers, detached a string of flowing beauty, and held it toward Idabelle. “I took them from Duane while we were dancing.”
“Duane,” said Idabelle. “But—” She took the pearls and said incredulously: “They are mine!”
“He had taken them while he danced with you. During the next dance you passed me, and I saw that your neck was bare.”
Jim turned to Susan.
“Are you sure about that, Susan?” he said. “I’ve managed to get the outline of the story, you know. And I don’t think the false claimant would have taken such a risk. Not with thirty millions in his pocket, so to speak.”
“Oh, they were for the Major,” said Susan. “At least, I think that was the reason. I don’t know yet, but I think we’ll find that he was pretty hard pressed for cash and had to have some right away. Immediately. Duane probably balked at demanding money of Mrs. Lasher so soon, so the Major suggested the pearls. And Duane was in no position to refuse the Major’s demands. Then, you see, he had no pearls because I took them; he and the Major must have quarreled, and Duane, who had already foreseen that he would be at Major Briggs’s mercy as long as the Major lived, was already prepared for any opportunity to kill him. After he had once got to Idabelle, he no longer needed the Major. He had armed himself with Derek’s revolver after what must have seemed to him a heaven-sent chance to stage an accident had failed. Mrs. Lasher’s decision removed any remaining small value that the Major was to him and made Major Briggs only a menace. But I think he wasn’t sure just what he would do or how—he acceded to the Major’s demand for the pearls because it was at the moment the simplest course. But he was ready and anxious to kill him, and when he knew that the pearls had gone from his pocket he must have guessed that I had taken them. And he decided to get rid of Major Briggs at once, before he could possibly tell anything, for any story the Major chose to tell would have been believed by Mrs. Lasher. Later, when I said that the police would search the room, he knew that I knew. And that I knew the revolver was still here.”
“Is that why you advised me to announce my decision that Duane was my son?” demanded Idabelle Lasher.
Susan shuddered and tried not to look at that black heap across the room.
“No,” she said steadily. “I didn’t dream of—murder. I only thought that it might bring the conspiracy that evidently existed somewhere into the open.”
Jim said: “Here are the police.”
Queer, thought Susan much later, riding along the Drive in Jim’s car, with her white chiffon flounces tucked in carefully, and her green velvet wrap pulled tightly about her throat against the chill night breeze, and the scent of gardenias mingling with the scent of Jim’s cigarette—queer how often her adventures ended like this: driving silently homeward in Jim’s car.
She glanced at the irregular profile behind the wheel and said: “I suppose you know you saved my life tonight.”
His mouth tightened in the little glow from the dashlight. Presently he said:
“How did you know he had the pearls in his pocket?”
“Felt ’em,” said Susan. “And you can’t imagine how terribly easy it was to take them. In all probability a really brilliant career in picking pockets was sacrificed when I was provided with moral scruples.”
The light wen
t to yellow and then red, and Jim stopped. He turned and gave Susan a long look through the dusk, and then slowly took her hand in his own warm fingers for a second or two before the light went to green again.
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copyright © 1939 by Mignon G. Eberhart
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The Cases of Susan Dare Page 18