Snow Shadow

by Andre Norton

  A muffled voice called, and the rapping increased in tempo. Cautiously I slid to the edge of the bed, working my way along until I could hold the foot. With that support I got to my feet, wavered on to catch at a chair back, and finally reached the door. It was largely hunger, I decided—I was simply weak from hunger.

  “Oh, shut up!” I snapped at the unseen making that racket. “I'm coming as fast as I can!”

  I unlocked the door but opened it only a crack. Anne Frimsbee stood there. She once more looked arrogant and assured.

  “Miss Jansen, Lieutenant Daniels—we are all waiting.”

  “For what?” I found it necessary to cling to the edge of the door. The floor had an annoying tendency to rise and fall, as if I were on board ship.

  “For you.”

  “I don't know what you mean, and I am not at all well. What time is it anyway?”

  She glanced at her watch. “Five-thirty.”

  “And what day?”

  She gasped. “Why—Sunday, of course.”

  “I haven't had anything to eat since our tea yesterday, Mrs. Frimsbee. First things first. Now I don't think I have the strength to crawl down stairs.”

  “Oh.” Apparently I had made some impression on her. As one who must be always fighting a grim battle between an interest in food and her figure, she could understand a plea of starvation. “I'll just slip down and get you something. A sandwich—”

  Was it the subject of food which had induced this softening of her attitude? I did not care. As I turned away, the sight of those garments on the floor shocked me into greater effort. The events of early morning now seemed unreal. Had it all been a nightmare? But the acrid scent of smoke clung to my coat, and melted snow weighted the pants.

  I was pulling on stockings, when a second tap at the door announced the arrival of Anne with a tray. “Ham.” She indicated a rather ragged-looking sandwich. “That other one is honey butter, Stuart's favorite.”

  “How is Stuart?”

  “Dr. Bains says he will be all right. But Irene finally agreed that they could take him to the hospital.” She did not mention my efforts in his behalf, and I saw no reason to remind her.

  I wolfed the sandwich, drank the lukewarm tea in the cup, before I asked:

  “Why does Lieutenant Daniels want to see me?”

  As if my words had summoned the law, a rap at the unlatched door sent it open and I saw the sergeant's somewhat embarrassed face.

  “We're—”

  “Waiting. Yes, I know, Sergeant. But if you want me you'll have to continue to wait for a few minutes. I'm now eating last night's dinner, and today's meals all in one.”

  Perversely I refused to be hurried. Where once I had had an uneasy reaction to the law, a searching of conscience, now I discovered a detachment which armored me so I might finish every crumb before I joined the gathering in the parlor.

  There were important gaps in that fidgeting assembly. No Miss Austin dominated the company, Leslie's sleek elegance was missing. I flinched from remembering Leslie as I had seen her last.

  Preston Donner sat alone on a stiff settee, his customary gray suit in contrast to the wine velvet of its upholstery. His face was drawn and had a tinge of the same grayness as his clothing. He looked up at my coming, and produced a twitch of the lips which he might intend as a polite smile. But there was an effort even in so small this acknowledgment of my presence, as if some great weariness sapped his strength.

  I was tempted to take a seat beside him, aware as ever of that courtesy, which always awoke in me a feeling of security, born as it was from the familiar manners of Aunt Otilda's world. Still there was something about him now, as if he had made an effort to disengage himself from the others, which warned me off. His eyes had not met mine for long. Rather, they had slid past me quickly, and there had been no welcome in those.

  Hanno Horvath, a black band decorously stitched about the sleeve of his brown tweed jacket, arose from a chair too small for his leonine bulk and nodded his head in my direction. His countenance was as stubbornly somber as ever.

  A little beyond him, Irene perched on a straight backed seat as if arrested in mid-flight. Her unwillingness to be there was plain. Only Anne Frimsbee had any semblance of ease, her plump feet planted on a footstool, her hands loosely folded, as if she were a spectator at a play she had been assured would be fascinating.

  I was not, after all, last to arrive. For I had no more than sat down when the Sergeant ushered in two others. Theodosia halted just within the doorway. Under her makeup she looked not only sick but aged, her lower lip caught between her teeth as if to stifle a protest pride would not permit her to utter. Though Blake and Gordon flanked her, she had a strange air of being alone.

  Sensing her isolation, I could not stand it. I went to her and drew her with me to another settee, facing Donner's. She came docilely enough, never glancing at the two who had entered with her.

  Gordon Cantrell looked as frozen as his wife. That youthful air which had supplied much of his charm had vanished. The face now so exposed was weak and the eyes glassy. He stood where he was until Blake near pushed him into a chair. Then the sergeant handed the lieutenant, who stood on the edge of the hearth, a large manuscript envelope.

  “It was there right enough, sir. Under the driver's seat in the car.”

  “How careless.” Daniel's voice held a jaunty ring, in bitter contrast to the uneasy atmosphere of the room.

  Theodosia's hand fell on the cushion between us, and I covered it with my own, in a gesture I hoped would be reassuring. But the lieutenant, to my surprise, did not continue. It was Hanno Horvath who asked:

  “Is that what you have been hunting, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it is a forgery? Made to deceive my aunt?”

  “We shall have to let the experts decide that. However, judging by the past deals this group has pulled, it will probably be bogus. What about it, Mr. Donner?” Daniels opened the envelope, took out some sheets of plastic, each of which enclosed a page of paper, yellow, worn at the edges, apparently old. He handed one to the expert in old books. “What's the chance of this being the real thing?”

  Preston Donner left the sheet lying on his knees as he brought out reading glasses and put them on. Something, his inner warmth, which had drawn me to him at our first meeting, had been snuffed out. He was tired, and looked old now, wearing his years heavily. When he held the sheet closer to the lamp, his hand shook a little. His precise voice was low-pitched—it sounded different—

  “Without further tests I cannot give any opinion, Lieutenant. If this should prove authentic it would be close to priceless for the right collector. The first draft of Pride and Prejudice as was written under the title of First Impressions. I think a great deal could be asked for it. However, I would require some very rigid tests.” He passed back the sheet, almost as if he wanted it out of his hands.

  “How much did you expect to get?” Daniels asked Gordon Cantrell in a whip-crack voice.

  Gordon's expression—or rather lack of one—did not change. “I didn't hide it, if that's what you mean. I knew nothing about it.”

  “Did you ever consider, Lieutenant—” Theodosia's hand in mine twitched as she spoke, but her voice was perfectly even—"that he may be telling the truth? We never kept the garage locked.”

  “So that anyone might have used your car for a hiding place without your knowledge? That is naturally the explanation Mr. Cantrell is going to use. But we have ways of checking. Now.” This time he swung upon Hanno Horvath. “You are the one who introduced the Lowndes woman into the house. Were you aware of her background—that she had a legitimate claim on the Austins?”

  “What!” Anne Frimsbee lost her. pose of spectator. She stiffened, her small eyes open to their widest extent. “What claim could she possibly have on us?”

  Daniels paid her no attention. He was still eyeing Hanno, as if to force the answer he wanted out of the big young man. “Did you know that she was n
ot Miss Lowndes at all?”

  “I knew she was married—and divorced, if that's what you mean.” Hanno's calm remained unruffled. “She was a valued assistant in the company—I had known her overseas. There was no reason for me to question what she told me concerning her past. But—” He suddenly shot an openly malicious glance at Gordon Cantrell. “I was by no means her only dupe—nor her latest. She used me to introduce her around here. But I was only one of her men. And of me she wanted comparatively little. You can check that, too—you probably have—and you know what I say is true.”

  “Lieutenant!” Anne Frimsbee interrupted for the second time. “I want you to explain just what you mean by saying that Leslie Lowndes had some sort of a claim on my family!”

  “Not Leslie Lowndes,” he corrected, “Leslie—Blackmur.”

  16

  The only definite reaction I could see came from Anne. Her mouth dropped a little open—she might be gasping at some effrontery.

  “Elinor Austin,” Daniels continued, “married Blackmur, your father's secretary. He was killed in a car accident three years later. Leslie was the only child of that marriage.”

  Anne bristled. “We know nothing about that,” she declared shrilly. “My father was very angry with Elinor. She deceived him shamefully. We never heard from her after she eloped with Harlon Blackmur. Father made us all promise never to have any contact with her.” She paused—then she asked: “Is Elinor still living?”

  Daniels shook his head. “Your sister died, Mrs. Frimsbee. She was near destitute. She had been unable to work for some time prior to her death.” He glanced around the room as if he were assessing it and the scale of life it represented.

  Its furnishings were, of course, well out of date. The one-time opulance was gone, well dulled by time. But it still had the atmosphere of security and solid comfort which had impressed me. This whole house was a symbol of one-time wealth, and not all of that glamour had been dissipated.

  “The circumstances under which Mrs. Blackmur died appear to have embittered her daughter. I think she instigated this particular deal in a desire to bleed from the Austins some of the money which she thought should have been used for her mother, knowing also if she were discovered it would make a scandal for the family.”

  “This was all her plan then?” demanded Anne, who appeared to consider herself spokesperson for the company.

  “We cannot be sure—there are loose ends. But as far as we can discover she met Roderick in Europe and pumped him about the family. Perhaps she had nothing definite in mind then. She may have just been looking for something to use to her advantage. She had apparently worked with Newson from time to time. He was always on the lookout for just such a situation as Dr. Edwards’ will and the trust fund.

  “Provided with what Roderick could tell her, she saw not only a chance to score off the family she hated, but to give Newson an opening over here—”

  “Who is Newson?” Hanno Horvath asked.

  “That is a good question,” Daniels nodded. “He is behind this present trouble, but it is certainly not his first deal by any means. For some years he has run rackets dealing with faked antiques. Anyway, Leslie settled in here. Then she had to deal with Mrs. Horvath, who had been made the trustee.”

  “Not so easy, that,” Hanno commented. “Miss Emma was not the type to be influenced by a woman, especially one of Leslie's sort. They were really too much alike, ready to ride over those who tried to oppose them. Was that why Roderick was brought in—to play the penitent and snare Miss Emma's interest? This Newson—I suppose he could not play the charmer's role?”

  “Newson made a point ordinarily of keeping away from any action in progress.”

  “Always Newson—” Hanno glanced around at our company. “Now I wonder—” He hesitated and then was silent for a moment before he changed the subject.

  “Was Roderick penitent? Did he come to charm Aunt Emma, then?” Hanno did not look at Gordon Cantrell, but there was something spiteful in his tone.

  “We can't tell about that now. It may be that Leslie made some slip, and Roderick arrived purely on his own to do some fishing in troubled waters. It was apparently the sort of thing which would draw him.”

  “May we guess that once here Roderick chose to play his own hand?” Hanno asked. “Then Leslie disposed of him? She was never one, I think, to tolerate a double-cross. But why the trick with the coffin?”

  Daniels now turned directly to Gordon. “Suppose you explain. You had a part in that, didn't you?”

  “Leave me alone!”

  Theodosia's hand turned in mine and gripped so tightly I almost cried out. She was rigid, watching Daniels as one might watch a growing menace.

  “You're lucky,” Daniels said, “that there is a witness to get you off the hook for Leslie's murder. Or you might have had to answer some questions about that also—”

  “Shut up!” Gordon was on his feet, his face an ugly mask of hate and weak anger. “Shut up! I'm not going to listen to this—” He turned on his heel and left the room.

  The lieutenant made a signal, and Blake was quick to follow Cantrell. Theodosia loosed her grip on me and arose.

  “Is he under arrest?” she asked in a voice so remote that she might have been inquiring about the weather.

  “He may be—”

  “I believe I have the right to call a lawyer for him.”

  “True, Mrs. Cantrell.”

  It seemed to me that she winced when he called her by that name. But she held her head high, and no shadow of any emotion was visible on her face.

  “May I do so now?” She had already half-turned to the door. Someone stood there—my hand clenched on the arm of the settee.

  It was Mark, his dark face as impassive as ever. But there was a strip of gauze taped over one cheek.

  Beyond me someone moved, a swift movement, quickly checked. Theodosia stepped aside and he came in to stand beside Daniels. From his pocket, he brought out what looked like an oversized wallet.

  “Newson is a careful man,” he announced, “but he has not been involved in any direct action for some time. He had, he thought, graduated to the place where he would be always the planner, not the doer. But he did keep a personal file.” Mark touched the wallet he had laid beside the sheets of disputed manuscript. “He could believe he had escaped us—that dodge of wearing a white ski suit and mask, of lying out in the snow until the hunt had spread beyond him and then using our tracks to get out—clever. It did win him time which was what he wanted. Unfortunately—fire sometimes plays freaky tricks. This was not destroyed.”

  The last sentence was directed to only one of us. My gasp of sudden understanding was covered by that other's voice, colorless, different in tone.

  Just as Preston Donner had also vanished before our eyes, the man in gray had dropped that personality like a worn coat. He who sat across from me was a stranger I would have sworn I did not know—nor had I. It was not that he had been disguised, in the general sense. It was rather as if by some inner change of will he could emerge another person in an instant.

  “A pity.” His voice was different and I again gasped—how could he have so learned to alter that? This was the speaker I had heard with Leslie—even though he did not whisper now. “You are right.”

  He and Mark might have been alone in the room.

  “I made the error of taking a hand in the action myself. The sign of senility, I suppose—”

  Anne Frimsbee started out of her chair.

  “Preston!” Her voice was pure protest. “Why—”

  He shrugged and smiled. No more Donner. The protective coloring of the rather fussy gentleman, perhaps in his sixties, had entirely sloughed away. Ruthlessness and sharpness broke through outward mask of gentility.

  “Money, my dear Anne. Money—and of course a certain interest, a gambler's interest, if you will. I am afraid I betrayed my cloven hoof, which is also my downfall, in my desire to show that I could still pull off a trick such as this. With
me it is not altogether the money—it is also the game, and of course the things money can buy. Certain comforts, little luxuries, grow more important as one ages. Then also—one begins to wonder if one is slipping—if one can still match one's subordinates. Pride goes before a fall—I am afraid I allowed pride to rule my judgment.

  “Donner has been a useful role over a good many years, one of my better other selves. I have been proud of Donner in the past. And this seemed just the exploit for him. Emma would have accepted my verdict on any manuscript. It was as if I were taking a sabbatical here—able to devote my time meanwhile to another idea—” He laughed. “But it is not necessary to go into all that. That piece of planning, alas, now may never come to fruition. But my cover was very good—ah, pride speaking again!” He shook his head. “I must learn to note my weaknesses. Anyway, Emma came to me at once when Roderick first approached her.

  “Up to that time I was not aware of all the ramifications of Leslie's little deal.” Now his face took on grim tightness. “I knew of the trust, of course, and I had considered to myself about dipping into it. But my final decision had been made that the return might be too small to bother with. Leslie came to me here. She had earlier suborned one of my technical assistants—an artist, a vertible artist in forgery. She told me her little tale.

  “Leslie wanted my help. I was at loose ends for a space before my own plan would develop. I agreed. She knew my word meant a quick sale. With Miss Emma growing older, there was a chance she might die and the trust be put under more discerning control. I had kept Donner as an alternate personality for a good many years—Edward Austin was not the only client who trusted him implicitly. I had made my position above suspicion. So I agreed in a moment of weakness—”

  “You did not bargain on murder,” Mark commented. “Then you were involved—”

  “True. I have ever eschewed any close touch with violence.”