Lady Afraid

by Lester Dent

  She said bitterly, “There, you see! I’m losing my mind.”

  He was not bothered. “Good. I was beginning to think I was the only one of us whose sails were slatting.” He returned to watching Alice Mildred. The thin figure of Ivan’s wife still crouched on the bench. When Most spoke again, he did so reflectively. He summarized: “Ivan Lineyack did not know your son had been taken from you. When he learned it, he was shocked—as if something had gone wrong. Maybe something had gone wrong. Maybe Brill was killed because he was the cause of what had gone wrong. Why was Brill’s body dumped in my car? Because I was helping you, the killer wanted me in jail, out of his way. You too. You were picked for goat from the beginning. How does that sound to you?”

  Sarah, who had been picking at the same thoughts, shook her head dubiously. “You say the killer wants us in jail so we won’t interfere. But how do you reconcile that theory with the telephone call?”

  “What telephone call?”

  “The one I got in Mr. Arbogast’s apartment, by the voice that imitated Mr. Arbogast’s.”

  “What about it?”

  “I was told to remain away from the police…. Meet Brill at Fourth and Flagler at seven o’clock, the voice said. Does that sound as if I was supposed to get myself arrested?”

  Most watched Alice Mildred with the dour absorption of a disbeliever gazing into a crystal ball. “Who do you think made that phone call?” he asked suddenly.

  “Why,” said Sarah, “the same person who imitated Mr. Arbogast’s voice at his office yesterday.”

  “And do you think the Fourth and Flagler seven o’clock appointment was on the level?”

  “I don’t know,” said Sarah miserably, “any more than I know what is the cause of all this. But of this I’m sure: I’m going to be there at seven o’clock. I’m going to do anything that might conceivably find my child.”

  Of the houseboat a sailor would say: That hooker should never have been built. Sixty-eight or seventy feet on the water line, the houseboat had nearly thirty feet beam and lifted up from the water two skyscraper decks. It was quite unlikely that the owner would ever dare take her outside a harbor, canal, or river. These were Sarah’s opinions of the vessel; Most’s too, she could tell from his face when he glanced at the houseboat. And presently he muttered, calling the vessel a misfit, remarking that it was criminal to waste all that fine mahogany, teak, cabinetwork, luxurious appointments on a bloater that wouldn’t go outside and take a breeze that was even three barbs on the Beaufort scale. But the owner would no doubt brag about her comfort. They always did. He wondered, Most added, what manner of oaf owned such a tub.

  And at this point Alice Mildred boarded the houseboat. She arose from her bench, crossed quickly to the craft, and went on board.

  “This is it,” Most said with the crisp way of a man who had been wishing for action. “Come on. We’ll slide aboard quietly. We may overhear something. We’ll try, anyway.”

  The gangplank was beautiful with varnish, rubber mats, chromium, white cotton hand lines. Its very weight made silence easy; the gangplank did not so much as creak. The deck was wide, like a promenade on a liner almost; also it was carpeted. Carpet on a weather deck, Sarah thought. How fantastic!

  Now she heard voices. She touched Most’s arm. He nodded; he had heard them too. Alice Mildred and a man were speaking, the man with a solid, resonant voice that seemed to contain astonishment of a drowsy, recently awakened sort. But the voices were inside, the words not understandable. Most moved toward a door. It was not a respectable ship’s door, but one that belonged on a house. Most had laid a hand on the knob when a man who had come silently on deck turned on a flashlight beam.

  “Did you wish something?” asked the man, plastering them with the flashlight.

  Chapter Fifteen

  SARAH PLACED THE MAN as a servant. A steward. She would bet he was called a steward on board here, because the term was nautical, and the sort of mariners who inhabited houseboats of this type were usually as nautical as anything. He was about fifty, round with good living, had hastily put on dark trousers, white servitor’s jacket, and nautical cap, but not shoes. He wore also a butlerish look of alarm.

  “Take that light out of our faces!” Most ordered, in a tone that surprise had made a bit violent.

  “Yes, sir.” The steward dropped the flash beam to their feet, where it lay pooled whitely. “I’m sorry. But whom did you wish to see?”

  Most pointed at the cabin. “The owner in there?”

  “Mr. Driscoll, you mean?”

  Most threw the man an astonished look and said, “Louis Driscoll?”

  “Yes, sir.” The steward, uneasy, glanced at the cabin. “I think I heard Mr. Driscoll’s voice a moment ago, sir.”

  “We’d like to talk to him.”

  “I’ll see about that, sir,” the steward replied, and approached the door.

  Most, drifting words quietly from the corner of his mouth, told Sarah, “You remember Arbogast mentioning Louis Driscoll, don’t you?”

  Sarah nodded. “The truck-line tycoon.” Louis Driscoll had been the other dinner guest present in the Lineyack home when she had taken her son. Of Driscoll, Mr. Arbogast had said: A friend of Ivan’s; owned a large truck line; lived on a yacht tied up near the Lineyack home. If by yacht Mr. Arbogast had meant this harbor-bound floating apartment, he had impugned the word yacht. The steward, presenting himself to the door that he had caught Most about to open, tapped politely on the panel.

  “Yes?” demanded the male voice they had heard.

  “A gentleman and lady to see you, sir,” the steward said.

  The door was promptly yanked open by a thick-bodied, rather nice-looking man who wore a red pajama coat stuffed into tan herringbone slacks. “Hello!” he said, peering at them. “You want to see me?”

  “Driscoll?”

  “That’s me.”

  Most said, “We want to talk. We came here because Alice Mildred Lineyack did.”

  With an open mouth, and what seemed surprise, Driscoll ran his eyes over Most, then gave Sarah an inspection.

  “I don’t get it,” Driscoll said abruptly. “But come on in.” And he stepped back with the door.

  Entering the cabin, Sarah again had the feeling that the boat should never have been built. Her love for the sea and seagoing craft was outraged; this was nothing but a richly done modernistic apartment with a waterproof bottom. Not that it was cheap. It wasn’t. Possibly it had cost as much as Vameric. But where Vameric was a functional dream that embodied the lore that going to sea in sail had taught men during centuries, this ark belonged on a concrete foundation on some zoned residential avenue. Sarah wondered, dubiously, as had Most, how much the owner was going to be like his boat.

  Alice Mildred was sitting tight-armed and tight-faced on a straight chair. If Alice Mildred was surprised to see them, the emotion lacked the fire to get past the strain on her pale face. Alice Mildred looked like a person apart from this place, and she did not speak, did not, after a first glance, again look at either Sarah or Most.

  Most said to Driscoll, “You don’t get what, friend?” Driscoll eyed him sharply, then crossed the room and dropped into a chair, also a straight-backed chair but one that had armrests. “I don’t get nothing about nothing.”

  “What did Alice Mildred come to see you about?” Most asked.

  This was blunt stuff, and Sarah’s attention whipped to Driscoll, who dropped one eyebrow.

  Driscoll said, “That might be private business, brother. And again it might be no business at all, including no business of yours.”

  Sarah didn’t like Most’s beginning. She had a woman’s dislike for hard ways. But what she didn’t realize until later was that she also had a woman’s lack of understanding of the rough ways that men, particularly men who feel they have quickly understood each other, use to feel out and test.

  Most told Driscoll, “You were a guest at the Lineyack house last night.”

  “Was I?”
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br />   “You were there when the Lineyack grandson was taken.”

  Driscoll watched him a full minute, settled a little in the chair, and turned his head a trifle to the side.

  “Policeman?”

  “No,” said Most shortly.

  “You’ve got the ways of one. Then who are you, brother?” Driscoll’s hands planted themselves on his chair armrests. They were wide hands that hard work had made capable when the owner was younger. The forefinger of the right one suddenly pointed at Sarah. “And who is the lady?”

  Alice Mildred, hardly stirring, hardly breaking the trancelike manner of showing no awareness, now made a perfectly flat-voiced introduction. “This is Sarah, my daughter-in-law,” Alice Mildred said. “I do not know the young man’s name.”

  Driscoll stared at Alice Mildred, his jaw slightly down. He is, Sarah reflected, uneasy about Alice Mildred’s dullness, disturbed by it. As who wouldn’t be, for Alice Mildred was again looking at nothing with listless concentration.

  Driscoll swallowed. He turned to Sarah, said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Lineyack. I didn’t know who—” And he did not finish. His eyebrows shot upward. Now, Sarah knew, it had dawned on him that she was that woman. The one who had taken her son from Ivan’s home.

  When Driscoll finally said, “I see,” he was not too happy a man.

  Most had watched Driscoll, and now he said, “That should make it plain we’re not the police.”

  “It does that,” Driscoll agreed vehemently.

  “You were at the Lineyack house last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you know what happened.”

  “I should!” said Driscoll bitterly. “The police practically looked down my throat and into my ears.” He threw Sarah a glance. “I don’t know why I didn’t recognize you, Mrs. Lineyack. The cops described you to me. They even showed me a photograph of you that Ivan had around. They seemed quite interested in whether I knew you. Of course I didn’t.”

  Sarah gazed at Driscoll in sudden disbelief. She said, “Ivan would hardly have a photograph of me. He would have destroyed anything of that nature.”

  Driscoll was not, it appeared, a man accustomed to having his word doubted. Surprise slid into his eyes, followed by sardonic disapproval of practically being called a liar.

  Alice Mildred stirred a little in the chair where she sat, folding her hands, entwining the long fingers. “You hate us very much, don’t you, Sarah?” she asked gravely.

  Sarah hesitated and then said, “Wouldn’t you say that I have reasons?”

  Alice Mildred dropped her eyes to her hands. “You see, Sarah, it was I who kept your photograph.”

  Sarah held her breath with care until she trusted words, then said, “I did not know that. I am beginning to think there are many things that we have not understood about each other, Mother Lineyack.”

  Driscoll was uncomfortable. He looked over their heads at the door where the steward still stood and told the man sharply, “I won’t need you.” The steward flushed, wheeled and clutched nervously for the doorknob, and twisted his head around when Driscoll demanded, “Did you listen to the radio last night, Jim?” The steward said, “Yes, sir!” Driscoll told him, “Then you probably know who the young lady is. But don’t call the police unless I tell you to. Get out.” And the steward left.

  Now Driscoll threw himself back in the chair, a thick-bodied and competent man, but puzzled and upset. He said, “Maybe you’d better give me a good reason why I shouldn’t call the police, though.”

  “Why,” said Most gravely, “you have no good reason that I can see.” And then he asked, “Why don’t you?”

  Driscoll scowled. “Cut it out! And, brother, it’s not because I’m afraid to.” This was so clearly true that Sarah was surprised that he had bothered to say so. Driscoll’s forefinger indicated Alice Mildred. “I wouldn’t want to cause a whoop and holler that would upset Ivan’s wife. She hasn’t been feeling well, I understand.”

  “You know Ivan that well?” Most asked.

  “How well? To know when one of the family has poor health—sure. I don’t know why I should tell you. I know a few people old Ivan knows, but I know them better than I know him.”

  He fell silent, studying Most narrowly. He demanded, “Have you got some notion that asking me questions might make you happier?”

  Most shrugged. “I’d like to ask some.”

  Driscoll swung a leg over the chair arm, braced it there with hands and arms. He wore no socks and the exposed areas of his leg were firm-fleshed as oak and hairy and tanned the color of burley tobacco.

  “Okay,” he said abruptly. “But let me talk first. Let me tell you just how little I know Ivan Lineyack. I’m in the trucking line, and Ivan Lineyack has a nice truck subsidiary to his fruit business, so naturally I’d heard of Ivan for years. A couple of weeks ago I got wind of a juicy contract—I won’t tell you what it is, except this: It’s a deal to haul the whole output of a national product from factory to distributor. A plenty good thing. Trouble is, I don’t have trucks and men to spare to handle it, and where the hell can you get them, times like these? Ivan Lineyack’s truck subsidiary would fill my bill. I had heard that the truck end was the only end of his business that wasn’t coining him money. I’d heard he was thinking about going back to using railroads and steamships. So I made him an offer for his truck setup. About half again as much as it was worth. I could afford to, in view of the juicy contract I had lined up. Well, the deal looked hot for a while, and then it got snagged up. My price seemed to suit Lineyack, but there was some delay about rearranging his financing setup. I take it the bankers hold a blanket mortgage on his whole company—that’s the way those RFC guys do: you borrow a buck and they demand a mortgage on everything. Well, you can’t sell mortgaged property and stay out of trouble, so Lineyack would need to have the truck subsidiary released, first satisfying the bankers a mortgage on the fruit business would make them safe. I don’t know whether he has satisfied them yet or how cool the deal has become. But not too cool, I suspect.”

  Most had listened intently. “Much money involved?”

  “Naturally.”

  “How much?”

  “Brother, it seems to me that might be some of your damned business if I really knew who you are, but probably not,” Driscoll said bluntly. “I’m telling you this to show you just how little I know Ivan Lineyack.”

  Most looked at the man. “That’s reasonable enough. But how much money?”

  Driscoll whacked his hands on the chair. He jumped to his feet. A dynamic man, accustomed to having his own way, he was irked by Most’s unyielding persistence. He jerked the lid from a humidor, picked out a pale cigar, and said, “Millions. And I don’t mean the digit one in front of them, either.” He lifted the cigar; his firm white teeth sheared off the nub end neatly. “What are you after, brother?”

  “Did you go to dinner at the Lineyacks’ last night to discuss the deal?” Most asked.

  “It wasn’t mentioned.”

  “Had you thought it would be?”

  “Naturally it occurred to me.” Driscoll’s jaw came forward a fraction of an inch under grim lips. His voice was emphatic. “I’m not a patient man. Maybe I’d better tell you so.”

  “We’re alike in that.” Most’s composure held unshaken. “I’m not looking for trouble, friend. We’ve got some of that already.”

  Driscoll said savagely, “Well, don’t bring trouble to me!”

  “Don’t be a fool, Driscoll. Any trouble we bring you would have already been tailored by someone else.” Most smiled then and added with deceitful amiability, “You see, a man named Brill was killed, and Alice Mildred rushed to you at once. So we’re curious.”

  He had planned to shock Driscoll, Sarah knew, and he did. Driscoll was speechless. But it was Alice Mildred who tore Sarah’s composure apart. From Alice Mildred came a thin, high sound, unnerving. Sarah whirled uneasily; she watched Alice Mildred’s composure break by degrees, like a fragile china p
iece being crushed in a fist. Alice Mildred’s thin, tired body lost its erectness, seemed oddly disjointed, and she covered her wan face with both hands. Sarah, suddenly on her feet and moving toward Alice Mildred, was flooded with pity.

  Driscoll, now gaping of mouth and gaping of eye, digested the news that a man named Brill had been killed. Alice Mildred’s collapse was not sidetracking Driscoll; he was a single-minded man. He was, as anyone could see, a self-made man and wary; here might be danger to him. He was not concerned with an old woman’s glassy-eyed emotions.

  “Killed!” Loudly, jarringly, Driscoll blurted his reaction. “Killed! A man named Brill? Who’s he? Killed, you say?”

  “Shut up!” Most said, looking anxiously at Alice Mildred.

  Now kneeling at Alice Mildred’s side, Sarah grasped the old lady’s hands and drew them from her face. The hands resisted a moment and then they came away quite loosely.

  “Sarah! Oh, Sarah, where is our little boy?” Alice Mildred gasped. “Where is our baby?” Her voice was something afraid to come full-toned from her lips. “Why was he taken from you? Why did they do that?”

  Sarah pressed Alice Mildred’s hands, murmuring, “There… There now, you should be quiet.”

  “Why?” Alice Mildred cried shrilly. “Why did they? I must know.”

  “Please! If you will relax—”

  “Oh, dear God, Sarah, if I only knew what to do! If I only could be sure they wouldn’t hurt the little boy—I think I could tell you why he was taken.”

  Stunned, Sarah searched the old lady’s agitated face for signs of a clouded mind. But the eyes were clear; there was bitter emotion in their ancient depths. But they seemed fully sane. Indecision, harrowing uncertainty, terror—these emotions were there. But they seemed to swim in lucidity.

  “Mother Lineyack!” Sarah gasped. “You know who—”

  “No…. Why… I believe I know why,” the old lady said clearly. “Yes…. And if Brill has been slain, I may know the why of that also.”

  Driscoll, popeyed, outraged by the cold fact of murder being bandied before him, made sputterings. Murder on his doorstep! Certainly too near his doorstep! He shouted, “Get out! All of you! I want no part of this!”