Compartment K

by Helen Reilly

  “Didn’t Harry Belding—”

  “Yes, Belding told me about Elizabeth’s having subsidized him and getting tired of it. But I still don’t get it. Why should Langley follow Loretta way out here? She may or may not like him, I don’t know, she never said anything about him—but if it’s cash he’s after Loretta hasn’t a cent ... I believe there’s some cock-and-bull story about her owdng him something for a venture they went into together when he was married to Candy, but you might as well try to get blood out of a turnip as out of Loretta. Langley was on that train. Do you suppose he was after those jewels of Davidson’s, Rose? That perhaps he has them? I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  Rose shrugged helplessly. The darkness was all around her again. One of eight people—that was what Todhunter had said. Take them in order, turn them over, stand them on their feet and look at them from every angle. The mark of Cain was an invisible brand. Almost anybody could kill, pushed far enough, driven by fury or greed or hatred or fear. George Langley was as likely as anyone else, and no likelier. She moved restlessly in her chair. Wherever you looked there was richness and luxury, the comfort of wealth, deep chairs, hand-hewn beams, exquisite rugs, outside was the beauty of the lake and the mountains; she was filled suddenly with an overpowering desire to be away from there, from all of them, from Daniel and his problems, from Nils . . . and yes, from Elizabeth. Being with her had always been a pleasure before, but not this time, not now.

  Voices again, Loretta’s light laugh floated in through a window. “Wonderful, wonderful, George.” Nils said something and Candy answered. Daniel stood. He looked down at Rose. His mouth was grim.

  “I’ve given you trouble enough. I’d better go, before someone makes something of it. And don’t go for any more long rambles alone . . . Yes, I followed you around the lake this afternoon . . Her hand was lying on the chair arm. He reached out, touched it with the tips of his fingers, and turned and walked of! abruptly, not through the front door but out onto a stone terrace at the side.

  Rose looked after his tall erect figure, his fair head. So there had been someone in the woods . . . Daniel had been afraid something would happen to her. It was sweet of him ... he had changed, he was different. Unhappiness had matured him. It had given him depth and a new force. . . . How could Candy be such a fool, how could she? She was amusing herself with Nils, as she had with Davidson, ancl no doubt with countless other men. Surely Daniel would get sick of it . . .

  She put her head back and closed her eyes. She was very tired. She felt the drowsiness coming, welcomed it, sank into the cushions and let it overtake her.

  Rose woke suddenly. A crash woke her. It was a glass falling over. She blinked sleep out of her eyes preparatory to getting up. She remained where she was. Her chair, in shadow in the left hand corner of the big square room, faced towards a bank of windows and the fireplace. Between the windows and the fireplace there was an early Colonial mirror. The glass was cloudy and the images reflected in it were faintly green with slightly crooked outlines. It was Augustus, Candy’s poodle who had knocked over the glass.

  The little dog was up on the table. He had gotten into the glass as far as he could with his tongue, then used a paw. Eggnog flooded the silver tray and the poodle was licking it up, hastily, against time and Gertrude Belding’s rush. He gave a last lick, leapt down and ran out of sight.

  Gertrude's face in the mirror was oddly terrified. She snatched up the tray with the overturned glass on it. Splashes of eggnog were on the polished -wood of the table top. She pulled off a scarf she was wearing tucked into her sweater, wiped the bottom of the tray and then the table. Harry Belding came in and she turned with a sharp movement.

  Harry stared at his wife. He was frowning. He said, “What—?” and Gertrude said breatiilessly, “That dog, that poodle of Candy Font’s. He drank some of this. Elizabeth didn’t drink it. Find the dog and get him out of here . . . Harr}', quick. Do as I say.”

  Instead of obeying, Harry advanced on his wife. His face was bleak. There was a flush on his cheekbones. It showed darkly in the clouded mirror. He seized the wrist of the hand holding the scarf.

  “Gertrude. Gertrude, for God’s sake—”

  “Harry, let go of me. Find that dog and put him out before someone comes. I’ll explain later. . . . Don’t look at me like that.” Gertrude Belding was on the verge of hysteria. “You never tell me anything,” she cried. “I ask you what you think and you say you don't know, and you do nothing. You'd let us be ruined and never raise a finger—”

  In the depths of the mirror a figure was advancing from the direction of the hall. A glint of gold on dimness—it was Colonel Eden.

  Harry dropped his wife’s hand and stepped back. Gertrude started for the kitchen regions with the tray. The swiftness of their return to normal was shockingly abnormal. How long had the Colonel been in the hall? How much had he seen, heard? He stood just over the threshold, tossed his cap on a chair and nibbed his hands together. “It’s almost cold. There’s a real bite to the air. Elizabeth anywhere about, Belding?”

  Harry’ Belding was lighting a cigarette. He snapped the lighter shut. “I think she's resting.”

  Elizabeth wasn’t resting. She was coming into the room. Eden has a telegram for her. “They gave it to me at the Chalet as I came past.” Elizabeth tore the message open and read it. Her hand fell to her side.

  “Tomlinson isn’t coming.”

  She was dismayed, distressed. Both men were looking at her. After a moment she said, “Harry, go and find Tom, will yon, and send him into me?"

  Holding loft the room. Elizabeth and Eden went on looking at each other. Now was the time for her to get up and disclose her presence in the distant shadowy corner, Rose thought. Before she couhi stir, Eden spoke.

  “Wait for Tomlinson, Elizabeth. You'll have to wait. You’ll never bo able to manage yourself. You don’t know what they can do to you, what they might try to do."

  Elizabeth shook her head. She gave a long sigh. It echoed softly through the shadowy spaces. “I can’t wait, Hugh. Tomlinson doesn’t know when he can get here. An emergency at the last moment—he may not be able to get away until next week."

  Eden moved closer to Elizabeth. He took her hand. “Listen, Elizabeth, pay attention. It’s important. I called Peters today. They’ve got a new lead. Peters is distinctly hopeful."

  “Peters," Elizabeth said with weary scorn. “No. I’ve waited long enough, too long. It’s going to be tonight. If—"

  Eden silenced her with a gesture. Harry Belding was re-entering the room.

  Harry said that Tom was up at the Chalet getting the dinner menus. Again that abrupt reversion, emotion instantly erased; Elizabeth and Eden might have been discussing the weather. Elizabeth said indifferently, “It doesn’t matter. I shall dine here. Tom can bring me something. Look after the others, Harry, please, and see that they have everything they want. Come on, Hugh, let’s go outside for a walk, I need a little exercise."

  They started towards the hall. Harry Belding stayed where he was. He was looking after Elizabeth, at her straight receding back. And that was the worst of all, Harry’s look. Rose’s scalp prickled. Harry’s face in profile in the mirror wasn’t too clear. It was clear enough. She had always taken his devotion to Elizabeth for granted. She was wrong. Harry Belding hated Elizabeth with a black deadly hatred. It was there in his long slow glance from under his eyelids . . .

  Elizabeth and Eden were out of sight. The front door closed behind them. Harry didn’t go away. He began looking under sofas and chairs. He was looking for the poodle. He whistled softly as he stooped . . . He was advancing inexorably towards the corner in which Rose sat.

  A completely unreasonable terror took possession of her, a conviction that she mustn’t be discovered, that if she was discovered would mean annihilation. She shrank from it as she might have from a raised axe. Harry mustn’t find her, he mustn’t. Surely something would happen to stop him, the dog might bark in another room, someone might
come in . . .

  The dog didn’t bark. No one came in. Harry was closer to her. The soft whistle was almost in her ear. In a second now . . . “Breathe, you fool,” she told herself frantically, “close your eyes and breathe. You’re asleep. Keep your eyelids down. Don’t press too hard, don’t let them flutter.”

  Harry Belding was there. He was standing over her, looking down. She could neither see nor hear him, but she knew. In, out, in, out, her breath was catching. She was going to cough. One more breath, one at a time, just one more . . .

  THIRTEEN

  “Harry, did you find him?”

  It was Gertrude Belding who spoke, from the far end of the room. A gesture of warning probably; Harry Belding didn’t answer. He moved away. Rose knew that too, and then, in a few seconds, she was alone.

  Deliverance. Her whole body was bathed in perspiration. She was shaking from head to foot. She tried to sit up and couldn’t. Her bones were water. The mirror was empty, the room was empty. But they might be waiting outside, watching. Stay where she was until she got some strength.

  Watching the mirror she felt for a cigarette, lit it. After the first few pulls she was steadier. She thought, “If I hadn’t given my chair a shove when Elizabeth asked me about Nils I wouldn’t have seen . . The terror was receding. The memory of it began to lose focus, outline. What after all had she seen, heard? The Colonel asking Elizabeth not to say something about something? That wasn't new, she had heard practically the same thing the night before. Elizabeth hadn’t killed Davidson, or the Frenchwoman—she closed her mind firmly to anything else. And Gertrude and Harry Belding? Gertrude had been upset because the poodle knocked over the eggnog, maybe she secretly hated dogs. As for the look Harry Belding had thrown after Elizabeth it could have been the mirror, a distortion and nerves—her nerves.

  Her fear began to seem ridiculous. Why should she be afraid of either Harry or Gertrude? She had known them both for years. There was nothing sinister about them. Moreover, what could either of them have done to her here in the lodge in daylight? Kill her? She half smiled. And what would they do with the body? Imagination had its uses, but once you let it take command you w’ere done for. If she didn’t watch out she’d go completely to pieces. Five minutes later, giving what she hoped was a good imitation of someone roused from sleep, she was in her own bedroom with the door closed preparing for an evening she looked forward to with dread.

  Rose wasn’t the only one who contemplated the onset of darkness with something less than pleasure. Todhunter watched the light go and the stars come out with a mournful eye. Inspector McKee wasn’t in when he called the office at shortly after 4 p.m. and rather than send a message from the Chalet, which was already buzzing, he drove down to Field.

  According to the desk clerk, Madame Flavelle had posted a letter shortly after her arrival at the Chalet the previous afternoon. She had bought a stamp from the clerk and he had showed her the mail box, a large wooden contraption outside the front door. Under ordinary circumstances there were two collections a day, at 11 a.m. and 3:45 p.m. That day there was no 11 a.m. collection, the truck had broken down. Todhunter had badly wanted a look at the letter. He didn’t get it. The manager’s nerves had been sorely tried; he was outraged at the very suggestion.

  “Her Majesty's mail!” He threw up his hands in horror. “Certainly not. On no account, no account whatever.” He made a movement as though to protect the key with his life.

  There were more ways of killing a cat than by choking it writh butter. Duvette had gotten a glimpse of the address in the Field post office, where the mail was sorted for east and westbound transmission.

  Madame Flavelle’s letter was addressed to J. Bimini, 1156B Lexington Avenue, New York City.

  Todhunter had whistled soundlessly at that. 1156B Lexington Avenue was across the street from the building in which Davidson’s apartment was located. Todhunter used the phone again. McKee was still out. He talked to Lieutenant Jackson.

  In addition to the name and address of Madame Flavelle’s correspondent, Todhunter gave Jackson another item of interest for the inspector. He had picked it up in the barren cut in the mountains with the few small streets running up from the dry river bed and the Canadian Pacific station, which was what had created Field and kept it alive. The second item was a piece of information Duvette had no trouble getting from the telegraph office. Long distance was handled through a switchboard. Half an hour earlier Colonel Eden had put through a person-to-person call to a Mr. Stanley Peters of the firm of Ward, Kaplan and Peters, at Gramercy 9-6541. Ward, Kaplan and Peters was a New York detective agency in good standing. It would be interesting to know who the Colonel was having investigated, and why.

  Back at the Chalet, Todhunter prepared for dinner by shaving and changing his tie. The dining room was open from six-thirty until eight. Before going to dinner he took a swing through the Questing grounds. He was there during the fuss over Augustus, Candy Font’s pink poodle.

  The poodle was lost. The poodle was found. There was quite a little uproar in between. It was wonderful in terrain like this what you could hear through open windows, see from behind intervening greenery in lighted rooms. The Fonts and Loretta Pilgrim were preparing to go to the lodge for cocktails before dinner. Daniel Font was late, he had gone for a tramp. The two women were dressed and waiting when he got back. At his appearance without the little dog, Candy Font threw a fit. “Daniel! Where is he? Where’s Augustus? You said you’d take care of him. Is this what you call taking care? If anything’s happened to him I’ll never forgive you. My poor baby—”

  Daniel Font thought the animal was with his wife. He looked tired, white. He showed great patience and restraint. “He must have left me somewhere, Candy. I’m sorry."

  Nothing had happened to the pup, except that he had eaten something and gotten sick. When Candy Font opened the door and began calling him he finished evacuating his stomach in some bushes near the path and staggered up the steps.

  "He’s dying! My little Augustus is dying. Loretta!”

  Loretta Pilgrim was calm, and competent. “Don't be foolish, Candy. Bears, you know, I thought of bears, or a wild cat. Berries— or perhaps garbage. Naughty boy."

  She got a saucer of water and Augustus drank greedily, wagged his tail, jumped up on a cushion, turned around three times and collapsed into a ball and went to sleep.

  Presently the Fonts and Mrs. Pilgrim went over to the Questing lodge where they had cocktails with the others on the terrace. Elizabeth Questing was the only one missing. Harry Belding gave her apologies. Elizabeth was a little tired, would be with them later, when she’d rested. The entire party proceeded up the hill through the beautiful night. The moon had just risen.

  Trailing along behind them Todhunter continued not to like any part of the set-up. Why wasn't Elizabeth Questing dining with her guests this evening? Had it any significance? “I’m giving a little party tonight . . . about nine." She had hesitated before the word party, as though in search of another, and had then pronounced it deliberately, with an ironic compression of her fine lips.

  He was wrong about the entire party being out in front of him. Just beyond the gates to the Chalet grounds, Gertrude Belding hurried past at a half-trot. Belding had fallen behind and was waiting for her.

  “My bag ... I forgot my bag. A handkerchief." She sniffed. “I’ve got a slight cold." She was clutching a small evening bag ostentatiously.

  Todhunter almost turned back then. But one man couldn't watch all these people all the time. . . . He trudged on.

  As soon as she was alone in the great sprawling lodge her guests had left, Elizabeth Questing went on with her preparations. She had rehearsed everything in advance so many times that she moved with economy and precision. The suitcase was well concealed at the back of the immense closet. She got it out, laid it on the rack and opened it. It was old and shabby. All the better. She took clothes from hangers, a plain black dress, slips, added shoes, a robe and slippers, and packed quickly.
The last thing she put in was the small package Rose had brought her from New York. She closed and locked the suitcase, glanced at the windows and put it back in the closet, and checked her wallet.

  Her hat and coat and the plain dark suit she was going to wear were ready to hand. There was plenty of time. Food and drink were on a tray on a table beside the broad low couch, a silver cocktail shaker of daiquiris, a sandwich in a napkin and a vacuum jug of coffee.

  Gertrude Belding had almost surprised her, coming in like that with the coffee after the others had gone . . . Elizabeth Questing smiled faintly. She went over and sat down on the couch and poured herself a cocktail . . . Hugh had mixed the daiquiris. The aromatic bite of the cold liquid was good. The lightness was spreading inside her again, the beginnings of shakiness. Better take one of her pills. The bottle was beside the tray. She swallowed the capsule and sat listening. It wouldn’t be long now.

  On top of the hill, in the big crowded dining room, Todhunter went on not liking the shape of the evening. He sat facing the distant Questing table. What the deuce was Nils Gantry up to with young Mrs. Font? You could see with half an eye that he and Rose O’Hara had quarreled, but did he need to make a dead set at Daniel Font’s wife? It was out of character, and Font obviously didn’t like it. . . . Tinder and a spark—there was enough without that. George Langley was in high spirits, like a kid expecting a birthday treat. He had hoisted more than a few. Mrs. Pilgrim, pink-cheeked and vivacious, laughed and talked gaily, Gertrude Belding’s glasses flashed; the more silent members of the festive gathering were Font, Belding, Eden and Rose O’Hara.

  In the middle of dinner Todhunter was called to the telephone. It was the inspector. McKee said, “I couldn’t get much out of Rocky Peters, he plays it close, but—” The people Colonel Eden was having watched by Ward, Kaplan and Peters were Harry Belding and his wife.

  Todhunter and the Scotsman talked for some time. Harry Belding had managed Elizabeth Questing’s affairs for six years, ever since Humphrey Questing’s death; he was in a position of trust and had had the handling of a great deal of money over a long period —it was suggestive, and that was all it was. McKee didn’t believe Rocky Peters had dug up anything definite yet. As far as Madame Flavellc’s correspondent went, the inspector had gone himself to call on Mr. J. Bimini at the Lexington Avenue address. Todhunter had been right. It was directly across the street from the tavern above which Davidson had had an apartment. Bimini wasn’t home. McKee hadn’t been able to get much information about Bimini except that he was married, and that his wTife was away. From the super’s description Bimini’s wife was almost certainly Madame Flavelle. The couple were quiet and well behaved, had moved there in January. They were out a lot. The super thought Bimini was a waiter, sometimes he wore evening clothes. He was a thickset man —“nice looking feller”—in his thirties. The wife was older and foreign but not bad. There was nothing informative in the two rooms and bath the Biminis rented furnished. The letter wouldn’t arrive for at least a couple of days. The Scotsman had left a man on the place. There was nothing yet on the woman slaughtered in the courtyard of the Questing house on Murray Hill; McKee remained cheerful. He said, “I've got a feeling we’re going to get a break soon, Todhunter, I can feel it in my bones.”