“Be still! Please!”
He backed away then. He swallowed the dryness from his throat, but his nerves were still jumpy and he saw that his hands were damp and trembling in his reaction before he forced himself to look at Tenney.
He seemed to know before he touched the body that the man was dead, and as he hunkered back he saw the pipe and the automatic and the upset table and glass. Then, a few feet ahead, in almost the spot he had found Alma, something glistened on the carpet and he reached for it, stretching forward on one knee.
It was then that he heard the car pull up outside, the faint protest of brakes. Because he did not know who it might be he straightened quickly. With an absent glance at the object he had picked up he saw that it had been fashioned of some thin bright metal in the shape of an irregular U, and he slipped it unthinkingly in his jacket pocket before he started for the door.
From the cot Alma spoke. “The police, Jim. I phoned them—”
He opened the door before she could finish and then moved quickly to get out of the way of a khaki-clad officer and two Negro constables. He saw at a glance that this was not Major Gilette—the Major was to come later—but a taller, dark-haired officer, with a captain’s pips on his shoulders, who gave Ward one quick, keen-eyed glance as he entered, took two short steps, then stopped to give the room a brief but all-inclusive survey.
“Superintendent Jarvis,” he said crisply. “Who called?”
“I did,” Alma said.
Jarvis looked at her more closely. “Oh, I say. It’s Miss Simmons, isn’t it?”
He stationed one of his men by the door with a glance; to the other he said: “Have a look about, Grimes.” He spent a moment of swift inspection as he bent over Tenney’s lifeless form, then stepped to the telephone. The orders he gave when he had his connection were quiet, clipped, incisive.
“We can go over this in detail a bit later,” he said to Alma when he had finished with the telephone. “For the moment would you be good enough to tell me what happened?”
Alma started to sit up but Ward stopped her. “She’s had a knock on the head,” he said. “I think she ought to lie flat.”
“Oh? Yes, quite. A good idea. Not bad, I hope. We’ll have a doctor here presently to have a look at you.… May I have your name, please?”
Ward opened his mouth, caught himself in time. “MacQuade,” he said. “Jim MacQuade.” And even as he spoke the preposterousness of the continued impersonation rose up to torment him anew. He watched Jarvis take time to give him a studied look before he glanced back at Alma.
“Now, Miss Simmons. Suppose you tell me what you know.”…
Major Gilette arrived about ten minutes later along with a doctor and a Negro plainclothesman who carried a camera and a fingerprinting kit. Jarvis had taken a sheet from the bedroom to cover the body, and he told Gilette that Alma had been hurt.
“I thought you might take a look at her,” he said to the doctor. “Since there’s no great hurry about this other,” he added with a gesture towards the floor.
He nodded then to Gilette and the two withdrew to the bedroom while the photographer got busy and the doctor examined Alma’s head in spite of her protests that she was all right.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you were,” he said with a smile when he had finished. “Your hair helped soften the blow and I doubt if it was a vicious one. Does your head ache?”
“Some.”
“It will,” he said. “But a good night’s sleep should make you fit enough in the morning.”
He turned to more official duties and Ward sat down on the edge of the cot. Alma had propped herself in a sitting position with her shoulders against the wall and her head back. She kept her eyes closed; there was nothing they could say here so presently Ward took her hand and she seemed content to let him hold it.
The doctor and the photographer did not take long, everything considered. When, a few minutes later, the room was cleared of everyone except the fingerprint man and the two officers, Gilette pulled up a chair while Jarvis sat down at the desk and opened a small notebook.
“Superintendent Jarvis has briefed me on the main points,” Gilette began, “and now I’d like to get the details as you remember them. As I understand it, Miss Simmons, you came here some time after ten o’clock—we’ll go into a more exact schedule in a moment—and when no one answered your knock you came in and found Mr. Tenney on the floor as I found him.”
Alma nodded. “Except he was more on his side,” she said. “I took him by the shoulder because I had no idea then that he was dead, and he—well, sort of slumped over on his back.”
“You then called the Central Police Station and as you hung up someone threw the robe over your face. You struggled and were struck on the head.” He bunched his lips and frowned absently. “Now, what is the next thing you remember?”
“Opening my eyes and seeing Jim on his knee beside me.”
“You saw nothing of the man who struck you?”
“Nothing.”
“Is there anything at all that might suggest his identity?”
“No.”
“Have you any idea why anyone should want to kill Tenney?”
She had remained where she was, her back to the wall and her eyes closed. Ward had released her hand and now she moistened her lips and shook her head again.
“None.”
“What about you, Mr. MacQuade?”
The sudden disgression caught Ward with his mind a long way off. He gave Gilette a twisted grin.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“You don’t know who is responsible for this? … You have no idea why?” he asked, as though he foresaw the answer. “Would you care to hazard a guess?”
“Yes, if you don’t quote me.”
“Agreed.”
“I think he was killed because he knew something about the murder of John MacQuade last night.”
“I dare say you’re right.” Gilette rose slowly and gave a thoughtful rub to the hinge of his jaw. “Yes,” he said to no one in particular. “And it would seem that we now have one less suspect to contend with.”
He walked over to the fingerprint man, who had finished with the glass, automatic, and pipe, and was now dusting the desk. He stopped while Gilette spoke to him, nodded, and continued his work. The major came back, refusing the cigarette Ward offered with a polite “Thanks, no.” He sat down again, his ruddy face grave.
“Suppose we have a go at the time element,” he said. “Could you fix it a little more accurately? Your arrival here, I mean?”
Alma opened her eyes and answered the question with one of her own.
“Do you know when you left Highpoint?”
“Why—let me see.” Gilette eyed her aslant, and with some respect. “I’d say seven or eight minutes after ten, as near as I can put it.”
“Well, I left about three or four minutes after you did.”
“Ahh.” Gilette nodded. “Let’s call it ten after ten for you. Now, there wasn’t much traffic then.… I assume you came along at a fair clip. Then that should put you here at about twenty minutes after ten, possibly a minute or so more. You were here how long before you telephoned?”
“I’m sorry,” Alma said.
“As a guess.”
“Not more than five minutes, if that.”
“Very good indeed.” He gave her a small smile of approval. “Your call was entered at the Central Station at ten twenty-six … Now what about you, Mr. MacQuade? Can you tell me—”
“What has Jim to do with this?” Alma cut in unexpectedly.
“Why”—Gilette appraised her curiously—“I don’t know that he has anything to do with it. But until we have all our facts we must consider as a hypothesis that he may have been the one you barged in on. Your knock gave our man time to reach the darkness of the bedroom. If Mr. MacQuade is our man, he could easily have struck you down and then either fled and come back, or simply waited until you revived and then pretended that he had just come in and fo
und you there.”
“Rot,” said the girl spiritedly.
Gilette ignored her and when Ward saw the other was still waiting for an answer he said: “I think I left Highpoint before ten thirty. You might ask Miss Royce. I phoned for a taxi from her place.”
“Miss Royce?” Gilette’s brows climbed.
“It shouldn’t be too difficult to find the driver that brought me here,” Ward said flatly. “Maybe he can tell you what you want to know.”
Gilette chewed on the information. It was obvious that it was all new to him, and he did not seem too happy about it. He was still thinking things over when the telephone rang.
Jarvis answered it, identifying himself in the customary way. “Yes, Miss Royce,” he said, and glanced over at Gilette. “Well, yes, there has been some trouble.… Yes, he’s here. Miss Simmons too.… I’m sure I don’t know. Perhaps you’d better speak to Major Gilette. Hold on, please.”
Gilette took over from there, and from his answers Ward could sense the line of her questioning. The length of time it took him to satisfy her testified to her persistence, but the substance of Gilette’s information was no more than that Tenney had been shot and that Ward and Alma were being questioned.
“By the way,” he said finally. “Is Mr. Osborne there? Put him on, please.”
He held the transmitter to his chest and blew his breath out. He shook his head at Jarvis, found a handkerchief, and mopped his face until it was time to talk.
“Yes,” he said, grabbing at the transmitter. “That’s right … We’re not sure.” He listened awhile. “I wanted to check with you about your movements this evening. Say, from ten o’clock on.” He listened, nodding absently. “Miss Connant’s? And what time was that? Ten twenty.… No, that will do for now. I’ll be out some time in the forenoon.”
He hung up. He put the instrument aside and what happened then was done in pantomime. For Jarvis was waiting with a small, leather-covered book in his hand which he had apparently found in or on the desk. He held it open, pointing to a certain page while Gilette read what was written there. The two exchanged glances, and now Gilette took the book and ran his finger along the inside binding, pursing his lips and still nodding. When he closed it he brought it over to his chair, and Ward was suddenly perturbed by what he saw in the other’s expression.
For a change had come over the Major. It was apparent as he sat down, and in the next three seconds he said nothing at all but was content to study Ward with half-closed eyes that seemed almost sleepy, and in their sleepiness became ominous, suspicious, and triumphant. He looked as if he were getting ready to pounce and Ward braced himself for whatever was to come. Then the moment passed and Gilette turned to Alma.
“One thing more,” he said easily, “and I think we’ll be through here. I’m wondering how you happened to come here this evening … I mean,” he said when he saw her look of surprise, “this was not the usual thing, was it, your coming here?”
“Why—” She stammered, her lashes high and a flush tinging her cheeks. “No! Certainly not! I came tonight because—well, because I wanted to see him, to talk to him.”
“About what?”
She said: “Why—” again. Then, with some defiance: “About us, I suppose.”
“It wasn’t something that could wait until morning?”
She stuck her chin out at him. “I don’t know that I thought of it that way. I simply decided I wanted to see him. I wanted to get out of the house and— Is it so important?” she asked coldly.
Gilette gave up. He was not satisfied. He did not believe what she said and his manner indicated as much. What he did seem to realize was that continued questioning along that line would get him nowhere, so he turned to Ward.
“Apparently you had the same idea. You wanted to talk to him. Tonight. You ordered a car, which indicates what you had in mind must have been important. What would you call that, coincidence?”
Ward was tired. The last twenty-four hours had knocked him about emotionally and there was no resilience left in his nerves. His cord coat was rumpled and untidy, his shirt collar was damp and twisted; so was his face as the strain worked on it. He looked back at Gilette, not giving a damn at the moment what the other thought and knowing that whatever he said would be received with some suspicion. And so, his mouth twisting sardonically, he said:
“That’s as good as anything. It happens, you know. Without coincidence life would have a different pattern.” He stood up, continued directly: “Yes, I wanted to talk to him, and yes, I wanted to do it tonight. I knew he was around Highpoint last night when MacQuade was killed and for all I knew he might still have been around when the attack was made on Alma. I thought maybe I could get him to open up.”
“You were going to threaten him?”
“I don’t know what I was going to do,” Ward said irritably. “I had an idea he knew more than he had told and”—he grunted softly—“what happened tonight sort of proves I was right. I only wish I’d got here sooner.”
18
IT WAS after twelve thirty when Duncan Ward parked the Vauxhall and helped Alma from the car. The lights were on in the drawing-room, and as he started across the paved court with his hand under the girl’s arm he saw Len Osborne step to the door and peer out.
Osborne had a glass in his hand, and there were bottles and glasses on a tray on the coffee-table, and Ward went there first. Kate Royce was slumped back on the divan. She had a cigarette between her fingers and she was clad in a thin, dark hostess coat with a high neckline. She watched him fix a brandy and soda for Alma and she sat up now and held out one hand to the girl, drawing her down beside her.
“You’re going to have to tell us about it, you know,” she said. “All of it.”
“As soon as I get a drink,” Ward said, and handed the glass to Alma. “You have to,” he ordered as she started to shake her head. “You need a couple.”
“He’s right,” Kate said.
Ward mixed himself a stiff Scotch and soda and drank thirstily. He intended to have another, and perhaps a third; for he could not remember a time when he felt more in need of a drink and it was his firm intention to drug himself until he was sure he would fall asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.
Once started on the story of what had happened at Tenney’s, he did most of the talking except for questions that were asked directly of Alma. It took perhaps twenty minutes to relate the necessary details and during that time Kate sat close to Alma on the divan, moving hardly at all except when she lighted another cigarette.
Osborne, however, had trouble standing still. He did not sit down, but hovered near the coffee-table, making another drink, pacing to one side now and then but always coming back. He had discarded his jacket. His shirt was open at the throat, his tie was loose. There was a dark intensity about his hard-jawed face that was grim and brooding, and when he spoke there was a controlled savagery in the cadence of his voice.
“But look,” he said finally. “This business is getting more impossible all the time. On the face of it, it would seem that the one who killed Johnny also killed Tenney and yet—”
“Yet what?” Kate prompted when he paused.
“Well, I mean, who have we got left?” He put his glass down hard. “It’s pretty obvious Tenney saw something when he came back to borrow a car last night. Possibly he did not know the significance of what he saw but the killer thought he did and decided to put him out of the way. More probably he knew what he had and made a foolish, clumsy attempt to practice a bit of extortion.
“You,” he said to Alma, “just happened to walk in at the wrong time—and I still don’t know why you should have gone there in the first place—and after you’d phoned the police the killer was trapped in the bedroom and he had to slug you to get out. It’s a wonder he didn’t kill you too.… What gets me,” he said, “is that, until tonight, I rather suspected Tenney. He knew Johnny was determined to break up this affair between you—”
“It wasn’
t any affair,” Alma said wearily.
“Well, whatever it was, Johnny didn’t like it. He apparently found out something that clinched his suspicions and I thought he might have threatened Tenney. We don’t know what Johnny found out, what motive Tenney may have had, but you have to admit the opportunity was there. At least that’s how I figured it.”
He hesitated while he watched Ward make his third drink, then said: “Of course that doesn’t explain the attack on you.” He glanced at Alma, hesitated again. “The only way I could explain that was that it had something to do with Johnny’s notebook.” He tipped his head, half closing one eye as he studied her, and when he continued his tone was harshly speculative. “You know, darling, I’m not so sure you told Gilette the truth about that notebook.”
Alma sighed. “Really?” she said listlessly. “Well, in any event I imagine I’ll be telling the truth tomorrow when Freddie makes me go over it.”
Kate pushed herself erect with a grunt. “Let’s go to bed,” she said. “This sort of thing is futile at best.”
“All right,” Osborne said, “let’s go to bed. Just let me go back to my question. Who does it leave? I’ll tell you,” he said flatly. “Throw out a prowler—something we haven’t really considered—and it leaves me, and Jim, here, and Gordon, and Mike Fabyan.” He studied Ward with his narrowed gaze. “It’s damned funny all of this happened after you got here.”
“Yeah.” Ward took some more of his drink and was pleased that it was doing him so much good. He felt relaxed and mellow. He did not care a damn about Osborne and he decided he did not like him much anyway. The bubble would probably burst in the morning because the conviction was growing that his impersonation was about to end. After that the roof might fall in but right now he couldn’t seem to give a damn.
“Yeah,” he said again, “and I’ll tell you a little secret, chum. I had this all planned before I left New York. What do you think of that?”
“Come, come now,” Kate said. “We all need sleep. Freddie’ll be round in the morning and Freddie’s smart,” she said, as if in explanation to Ward. “Freddie’s a native. Born and brought up here until he went away to school. Went into Colonial Service and after the war he served in Fiji and the Gold Coast. He’s back here for a tour of duty and perhaps in the morning he’ll tell us what he thinks.
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