by Zenith Brown
CHAPTER XII
THE MOMENT of trauma paralysing Spig O’Leary there on the step seemed longer than it was. He sprang down and knelt, one hand on Ashton’s wrist, clammy cold, no whisper of a pulse, the other ripping open his tie and collar, knowing it was useless, the way his head lolled, totally inert. He swallowed a sharp wave of nausea and closed his eyes for an instant to blot out the hideous, staring face, still contorted with terror and the incredible recognition of death as it came. The image of Anita Ashton, poised in harpy-like rigidity, was so seared on the retina of his mind that the loud, rasping sound behind him was without meaning until he heard her voice, ice-edged but crisply controlled.
“Is Dr. Parker there? Then find him at once, please. Ask him to come to the Ashtons’, out by the bridge, quickly. It’s an emergency. My husband’s had an attack.”
There was silence again, taut and waiting. Spig O’Leary got slowly to his feet.
“It’s too late, Anita.”
“Too late for what?” It came swift as the flick of an adder’s tongue. “He’s dead . . . that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
Spig turned, shaking his head. “No. Not really.”
She was standing with her hand still on the phone, her face a strange, rigid mask. Grief, sadness, pity or compassion . . . if any of them were there they were too steeped in the gall of bitterness for their light to show.
“I’ll get something to put over him.” He crossed the hall into Ashton’s room, still darkened, the air foul with liquor-sodden sweat, turned back then and opened the cupboards along the panelled hall until he found the linen, took a sheet and came back into the living-room.
Not really. He repeated it to himself as he unfolded the sheet and laid it over the huddled figure on the floor, strangely moving to him now, the catharsis of death washing his heart of its own bitterness. It was the old Ashton he seemed to remember, not the one lying here, or the one over the mantel, still alive, still smiling down, deathless, on the ignominy of death and the empty house of clay.
The rasping sound came again.
“Sheriff Yerby, please.” Anita’s voice was brittle as spun glass. “It’s Mrs. Stanley Ashton. You can get him a message, can’t you? Tell him my husband is dead. It’s possible he’s been murdered. Get him out here at once, please.”
The phone clicked sharply into place again.
“Which of us are you accusing, Anita?” Spig asked quietly. “It’s my impression the coup de grâce was yours.”
“But not the threat. It wasn’t I who threatened to kill him, was it?” She was relaxed then, only the bitter line of her mouth left, and the bitterer embers of the fury that had been in her eyes. “And how do I know you didn’t strike him? There’s his hat and brief-case on the floor. No, O’Leary . . . I’m afraid you didn’t understand me out in the kitchen. I said if there was any way I could pay any of you people back it would be a pleasure. Even if I can’t hang you I can give you a little taste of the hell I’ve been through. And I told you . . . if anything happened to Stan, the place was mine.”
“And brother, would you love it. Let’s skip the tape recording.”
Her lips tightened, her eyes flashed angrily. “You’re licked and you don’t like it. Well, I’ll tell you, O’Leary. What Stan was going to do to your road is nothing to what I’m going to do to it. You don’t want a fine expensive gambling joint befouling Eden’s Neck. All right. I’m happy to oblige, O’Leary.”
She laughed without amusement, reached for a cigarette, lighted it and blew the smoke in a derisive feather towards the ceiling.
“Very happy to oblige. O’Leary, the evangelist of hearth and home. Beating the tom-toms. The slots. The taverns. The bars. The honkey-tonks. Okay. That’s what you’re going to get, O’Leary. Four solid acres of them . . . and whatever there’s room for on the other side of the road. Because I don’t have any contract with Stan’s buyers, and I don’t have any with you, O’Leary. I never signed anything. You never asked me for my word when I came down here. If you had, you’d have been all right. I keep my promises—including the one I’ve just now made. If you think Devon Death Strip’s a shambles, you wait till I get through with you here on Eden’s Neck. You just wait.”
She broke off abruptly, flashing around to the long windows open on to the flagstone terrace. Lucy was running down the steps from the upper level. She gave one swift glance of sheer terror behind her and flew to the screen, tearing it open, her eyes cobalt smudges in her white face.
“Lucy! Darling! What is it?”
Lucy halted, her body as stiff and rigid as her mother’s had been a moment before.
“It wasn’t me, Mother! It was Charlie! I didn’t have a thing to do with it! I didn’t! Honestly, I didn’t! It’s a lie!”
It came swiftly, all in one breath, from a throat dry with panic.
“Darling . . . what are you talking about!” Anita caught her by the shoulders, shaking her. “What’s the matter, baby?”
“The sheriff . . .”
“Oh, sweetheart!” Anita’s arms went around her, her voice suddenly warm with compassion. “Don’t, darling . . . don’t be frightened. I called him. It’s about . . . Stan, darling.”
Across her shoulder Spig could see Lucy’s rigid little face and blind, blue eyes. She was still taut, dry-lipped with fear.
“It’s Stan, darling. He had a heart attack. He’s dead, Lucy.”
“Dead? Stan . . . dead? Oh . . .”
The relief, the unutterable relief in the girl’s voice was like a horror story read in the lonely night. Spig stared at her, fascinated, watching her as the colour seeped back into her face, the taut coils of fear eased.
“Oh, Mummy! Poor Mummy . . . I’m so sorry!”
“It’s dreadful, darling. But you run away.” Anita’s voice was gentle. “You go and tell Arthur. Stay over there with him until they go.” She led the girl back to the window and watched her slip outside, as Spig heard heavy footsteps on the flagstones at the front door.
“That’s what you people have done to my child.” Anita turned back, the two bright burning spots searing her cheeks again. “That’s what . . .”
She broke off, hearing the front screen door open, and came quickly across the room.
O’Leary moved quietly over in front of the fireplace, more shaken by Lucy Bronson’s gifted opportunism than he had been by Ashton’s death. Perhaps it was reasonable. Personal fear was a far more intense emotion than any affection she might have had for a stepfather that even her mother had come to despise. But there was the business of “It wasn’t me . . . it was Charlie.” Honour among thieves of all ages . . .
“Oh, Dr. Parker . . . I’m glad you’ve come. Close the door, will you, Buck.”
They were both there, the doctor with an alarmed and bewildered look on his face as he hurried down the steps, Yerby stopping to look for a moment before he turned and closed the door. He came forward, his face darkly flushed, hard ridges along his jaws, not looking at O’Leary. When he did then, his deep-set eyes boring across the room, Spig shook his head. Yerby drew in his breath and let it go, his jaw relaxing, came down into the room and stood, watching the doctor slowly fold his stethoscope, drawing the sheet back into place.
He got heavily to his feet. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Ashton.” He was a crusty, taciturn, little man, but his voice was kindly then. “I told your maid last night that he had to stay in bed, no liquor and absolute quiet. The sheriff says you think he was . . . murdered?”
“You mean it’s a natural death?” Yerby’s eyes were fixed on Anita.
“Cerebral hæmorrhage, almost certainly. I’ll do an autopsy. But I’ve warned him several time the last three months.”
Yerby’s eyes were still fixed on Anita. Waiting. O’Leary watched her impassively, waiting too.
When she stood, silent and motionless, Yerby said, “You heard him, Anita.”
“I heard him.” Her voice was detached and calm. “I said it was possible my husband was murd
ered. It’s something I should imagine an inquest would have to determine . . . whether O’Leary, knowing my husband was ill, quarrelling violently with him, threatening to kill him in twenty-four hours unless he changed his mind about selling this place—in effect frightening him to death—didn’t murder him as clearly as if he’d done what he threatened to do.”
“You mean you want all this brought out in a public hearing, Mrs. Ashton?” the doctor asked sharply.
“Why not? It’s the truth.”
Dr. Parker picked up his bag, his face flushing angrily. “I’m the coroner in Devon County. Mrs. Ashton. I was here last night. I saw your husband in acute alcoholic shock. I’d have taken him to the hospital at once if there’d been an empty bed. If you want all that on the public record, it’s your privilege. But if you had a particle of decency or any respect for the dead you’d be ashamed of yourself, Mrs. Ashton. I’m leaving. Let me know what you decide to do, Yerby. I’ll prepare a certificate. You’d be well advised to accept it and be grateful, Mrs. Ashton, for your husband’s sake if not your own.”
He went up the steps and out, closing the door sharply behind him.
“You heard him,” Yerby said again. His eyes rested steadily on hers.
“And the fact remains that Spig O’Leary threatened to kill Stan if he sold this place.” Her voice was tight and bitter. “The place is mine now. I’m selling it. Is O’Leary going to barge in here and kill me?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Anita.”
“All right. You don’t understand. I’m charging O’Leary with assault if not battery. I demand his arrest. I know he’s a friend of yours. I know that’s the way things are run here in Devon County. But I doubt if the State’s Attorney will be so cavalier. Will you call him? Or shall I?”
“Look, Anita,” Yerby moved his hands helplessly. “You’re upset. You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re in shock and don’t know it.”
“It’s okay, Yerby,” Spig said. “If she wants me in jail, I’ll be happy to go. But she knows Stan had a contract with me; she has none. She plans to wreck the road. If she wants to make what she calls a shambles of Eden’s Neck, that’s another one of her privileges. But she’d better check on little Lucy first, unless she wants to make a shambles of Lucy, too. She——”
“Shut up,” Yerby said sharply. He caught Anita by the arms and pushed her down in her chair as she flared up into sudden incandescence. “You, too. Simmer down, both of you. Just keep your shirt on.”
He turned back to O’Leary. “Go on home and stay there. I’ll be over. If you want to call the State’s Attorney, Anita, go ahead and call him. But I’d call a lawyer first.”
“I shall.” She went swiftly past him to the telephone. “I’ll call my father. He’ll talk to your State’s Attorney. I’m not through with you, O’Leary.”
“Go on, Spig. Get the hell out of here, will you?” Spig went past him, past the supine sheet-covered heap all but forgotten on the floor. As he reached the door he heard the soft, swift scurry of feet on the other side. He opened it just as a small bare heel disappeared through the dining-room door, and he heard the sharp swish of the swinging door into the pantry. When he got to the front door little Lucy was coming out of the kitchen, saddle shoes on, very surprised to see him, the cornflower eyes said—wide and guileless until they remembered they should look worried about the trouble in the house.
“Uncle Spig, what . . . what’s happening? Is Mummy all right?”
“She’s just fine, Lucy. And nothing’s happened you haven’t already heard, my pet.”
O’Leary opened the screen door.
“Uncle Spig . . .” She came forward quickly. “I found out what happened at the Three D.”
“Did you, now.” He stopped to look back at her.
“Yes, I did. I called him up. He told me.” There was a tiny, almost complacent smile in one corner of Lucy’s bright red mouth. “A man—he’d been drinking a lot, Nick said—he backed his car into the wall. That’s what smashed the glass.”
“Luck, wasn’t it?” O’Leary said. “But I wouldn’t crowd it, Lucy. Comes the time.”
“Who’s talking?” The smile was open and mischievous then. “But if you wouldn’t mind, would you tell Art Dunning that Mrs. Twohey called him up? She wants him to call her. If he’s still over at your house, I mean. I guess he thought you’d be here a lot longer, when he hurried over to see Molly just now.”
“Lucy.” Spig had started on. He stopped, came back and stood looking down at her, speaking very carefully. “Those are dynamite caps you’ve got in your pretty little fist. And watch out for Charlie, honey child. He wouldn’t like it if he knew you’d squealed on him.”
“I didn’t squeal.”
“You damned near did . . . if your mother hadn’t been too upset to hear you. Watch it, baby. Like I say.”
He went on, not looking back, conscious of her standing in the door watching him, not smiling now.
The yellow midget was still in the drive. The blue glass splinter was gone. So was the fifty-cent piece on the red rubber mat. He looked back then, saw Lucy was gone, shook his head and went on to his own car, suddenly conscious that his heart was a little lighter. The yellow midget still in the drive meant that Molly hadn’t gone off for the day with Dunning. He drove out the Ashtons’ broad, new road through his own woods into the narrow, bumpy lane towards home, and stopped half-way. It was the pain that made him stop, the dull gnawing, no place in particular, harder for him to take because he’d been happy so long he’d forgotten what it felt like to be unhappy. It wasn’t Stan or the road. Granted the situation was a mess that O’Leary had done nothing to improve and a lot to worsen, all that really mattered was Molly. And that deal he had certainly fouled up.
He could hear Anita’s bitter voice. Including my old and sometimes constant friend falling in love with your wife . . . you haven’t a chance, my friend, when Art puts his mind to his wooing. He’s an enchanting guy . . . It was crazy, of course. Always some guy had been in love with her. It was all right during the war, because he hadn’t known anything about it, and he hadn’t minded it the last seven years. He’d got a kick out of it, as a matter of fact, knowing it was him she belonged to. So what was different about Dunning? He certainly wasn’t afraid that that little black-bearded rat would take his girl. Or was he?
And instead of sitting there groaning at the misery in the seat of his emotional pants, it would be smarter to get the hell home and do a little wooing of his own . . . try to refurbish some of O’Leary’s bedraggled enchantment . . . if any. A wry grin creaked along one side of his thin mouth. He started the car, thumping into a pothole he’d planned to fill every time he thumped into it, and grinned again. It was possible it wasn’t his enchantment that needed refurbishing. Perhaps just a little attention to minor details like the well pit, various leaks, various other domestic sins of happy omission, was all he needed to restore him to grace again. And maybe quit treating her like a plough horse, if that’s what anybody thought he was doing.
Because I love you, Molly. I couldn’t live without you, girl.
CHAPTER XIII
HE SAID that just as he came out into the open drive, just as the first faint chill of emptiness touched him, when no children came running from the garden, even before he saw her car was gone. It wasn’t in the circle and her space in the garage was empty.
He drove on around, parked, got out and stood listening to the suddenly desolate silence around him. He went into the house and listened again. It was so still he could hear the hum of the ice box out in the kitchen. Not even the cat came to purr and rub affectionately against his ankles. He went back outside and looked around. Then he saw the dog, sitting at Miss Fairlie’s end of the little white bridge across the marsh at the head of the Cove. That meant the kids were over at Eden. Miss Fairlie didn’t like dogs. There was nobody else in sight, except John Eden’s tame crow, hunched dejectedly between a couple of cedars along the drive. Then he saw the gnar
led, stooped figure of David’s cousin, old Currier, out hoeing the corn in the O’Leary’s garden, not as tall as it was.
He went across the field. The old man straightened up and pushed his hat to the back of his grizzled head.
“ ’Mornin’, Mr. O’Leary.”
“Good morning, Currier. I guess the kids are over at Eden.”
“That’s right. Mis’ O’Leary fix a picnic lunch for ’em to take with ’em, ’fore she an’ that artist fella lef’ for Bawpmur.”
“Thanks.”
He was a little sore until he got back to the empty house, felt the hollow, also empty, in the pit of his stomach, and realised suddenly he hadn’t even bothered to tell old Currier that Ashton was dead. He stood there in the hall in a moment of unbiased self-scrutiny, slightly grim and wholly sardonic. How long ago—not more than half an hour—was it he’d been appalled at little Lucy when the facts of Stan’s death relieved her from the pressure of the sheriff’s arrival? That was bad. Callous. So what about O’Leary’s lightened heart when he thought the yellow midget still in the drive meant that Stan’s death had relieved him of the pressure of Dunning and his day with Molly? Now the pressure was on again he hadn’t even paid old Stan the common civility of telling his maid’s uncle he was dead. So what was the difference between him and Lucy except that he was old enough to know better? He went out and stood there in the drive, looking down at the white bridge that the dog was guarding till the children came back. John Eden’s crow was still there with her, perched on the hand rail now, like a raven, a moulting symbol of doom, or of the dead end O’Leary had come to. He’d never been at a total dead end before. It was a strange feeling, like trying to chew a mouthful of old and bitter ashes. It wasn’t despair, or hopelessness, or even anger, just a total dead end. And he had one job left to do.