Hangman's Whip

by Mignon G. Eberhart

  “I didn’t murder her, you know,” he said. “You’re looking at me as if you thought—but I didn’t! I didn’t do anything except—except I told Bea I’d pay her to tell that story of seeing Calvin come out of the tool shed. I did do that. I had to.”

  How could he still pretend when she had heard him over the telephone only a few moments before? Why did he insist upon talking? Was it a vagary of nerves strained to the breaking point? Or was it actually to catch her off guard? All that flashed through her mind as she snatched at a question. “Eve,” she said. “Eve came to you, didn’t she? For advice, I mean, when she decided not to get a divorce from Richard?”

  He blinked, as if wrenched from something else in his mind.

  “Oh yes. Yes, she did. I told her he couldn’t get a divorce. Then I asked her why she’d changed her mind.”

  “And she told you?” She pretended to be about to sit down on a chair that was a good sixteen inches nearer the door and at one side so she was not nearer Howland. He watched her move, and something like recognition flickered in his eyes. But he said in a rush:

  “Yes, certainly. She’d just been to Avion. She’d found out the truth. So naturally she wasn’t going to give up Richard when he had all that money coming to him.”

  Instead of sitting down she edged around the back of the chair. It was dangerous; it brought her into a corner. But the chair was a kind of barrier. … She realized Howland had stopped talking and was watching her and she grasped for his last words, half heard. “Money? What money?”

  “Why, the Abbott money, of course. Isabel and John’s. The money that came to Diana. That’s it, you see. That’s the whole thing. Eve saw something—some keepsake—that Ludmilla has; Ludmilla told her it was sent to her at Isabel’s dying request. A fellow came along just after the accident, you see, and Isabel asked him to send this thing to Ludmilla; almost with her dying breath. Eve went up to Avion and found this fellow and got the whole truth from him.”

  “Avion—yes?” How much longer would, he talk? How much longer would it take him to nerve himself up to the thing he intended to do? “So Ludmilla knew too?”

  “Good lord, no. Ludmilla never saw what it meant. But Eve did see. It meant all the difference.”

  “All the difference. Yes.”

  “Don’t you see? It meant that Isabel outlived John. He was killed instantly. By the time the ambulance got there they were both dead. Everybody assumed they were killed at the same time. According to law in such cases the man is presumed to live the longer—failing definite proof that he did not. Consequently all that money went straight to John’s heir, Diana, when it ought to have gone to Richard. Legally it all belongs to Richard; he is Isabel’s next of kin.” He was hurling it all out so furiously that his words were almost indistinguishable. He went on: “So Eve hurried home, first to make her marriage with Richard good and solid; second to have this fellow—name was Gleason—meet her there and back her up when she exploded her bombshell. She told me the whole thing and I—there’s where I made my first mistake. I saw that if I helped her uphold her marriage to Richard I’d be doing her a needed favor. And I also—well, it struck me that there might be one or two ways of making what I knew pay. I needed the money. It’s perfectly true that I’m in a tight spot just at the moment. But I never meant all this. Good God, if they get me—you will intercede with the sheriff, Search—”

  He was talking feverishly, words tumbling over each other, eyes darting now and then around the room—toward the desk where the note was gone, toward the open window. It was almost dark; the sky beyond the open window was purple. She said quickly, aware of an abrupt silence, so his eyes darted back, suspiciously, toward her, “Yes, certainly, Howland. I’ll tell him.”

  And just then with horrible suddenness he came toward her. His long arms hung down, empty-handed, at his side. His blunt dark face was thrust forward. He said quickly, unevenly: “I’ve got to talk. I’ve got to tell somebody. I tell you I’m at the end. It was a crazy scheme from the beginning.” He stopped scarcely two feet away, so his big body seemed to hover above her. And he said, his voice all at once coaxing but still full of a dreadful anxiety: “Come over to the divan, Search. Come over here with me—I—I’m ready to talk. I’ll tell you everything.”

  She thought, he doesn’t quite know how to do it. He has to nerve himself up to it. But he’s in no hurry. He knows the police won’t come. Yet—yet he can’t delay too long. There mustn’t be too long a space between the time of his call to the police and the time when—

  She wouldn’t think of that. She clutched at the back of the chair and said: “Ludmilla knew. That’s why she was poisoned—”

  “Oh no. She didn’t know; that was the point. She had this thing of Isabel’s but she never stopped to think what it meant. She got it out and showed it to Eve and to—to somebody else—early in the summer, and that started everything. Ludmilla didn’t know what it meant, but she might realize it at any moment. That was the trouble. That’s why the poison attempts began—right away. But they’ll never be able to fasten down and fix the blame for that. It was too easy to do—and yet it was botched so she wasn’t killed. But anybody had the opportunity to do it. There’s no possible evidence they can fix about that. Eve didn’t tumble to the meaning of it until just before she went to Avion.”

  Something—some small discrepancy—barely stirred in Search’s mind and was thrust aside. She didn’t dare to look at the door; she moved a little toward it, along the wall, her eyes on Howland. “Then—then your alibi—the one you gave Calvin—wasn’t true?”

  “No. No, of course not.” He was so near she could see the queerly dull pupils of his eyes; she could hear his short hard breathing. “I tell you I was there at the edge of the woods. I didn’t leave until after you did. I left when it began to rain and Richard was still in the cottage. I saw him come too. I saw everything. That’s why that thing happened last night—that attempted attack upon me. I knew then I’d reached the end. I can’t go on. I’m—I’m armed now. In my pocket—”

  He patted the sagging pocket of his dark flannel coat.

  And as she tensed herself for another cautious move toward the door he sensed it, and one hot strong hand shot out to clutch her wrist.

  She was no match for him. And she was afraid that a struggle would end the thing; it would be like a match touching off a powder magazine.

  Time—it was all she could think of; time and escape. She forced herself not to withdraw her wrist. She realized dimly that he had not actually confessed to murdering Eve—Eve with her golden hair over her face; the man in the willows who’d stared at the sky with eyes that did not see!

  So she must play up to him. She must do anything in the world to gain a few more seconds of time.

  ‘Then—then the man under the willows was this Gleason?”

  “They’ll never fix the blame for that either,” said Howland thickly. He darted another quick glance around the living room as if he had to assure himself again that no one was there, no one was watching. She pulled a little away from him but his hand instantly tightened. “Come, Search—come over here—”

  “How was that done? Gleason, I mean. How was he murdered?”

  Howland’s wide shoulders lifted a little. “Nobody will ever know. It was easy—waylaying him on the path, a quick blow with the hammer, nothing else. It’s Eve’s murder that left evidence. It’s for that they’ll get—him. And—get me, Search, unless you tell them I came to help you. I came to—”

  Him? Who, then? … But nothing mattered but escape. Woman—suicide—window. It must have been Howland’s voice; there was no one else. Humor him, then. Anything to gain time. Anything to escape.

  “Who did it, Howland? Who killed her?”

  He hesitated. Then he said slowly, eyes fixed upon her own: “Calvin did it, of course. I saw him come to the cottage with Eve. I saw him leave alone. It was dark but not too dark to recognize him—and Eve and you and Dick. Did you—did you think I
did it? … Listen, Search, I’ll write it all out. You come over to the desk and I’ll—I’ll dictate a statement and you write it and I’ll sign it. That’ll show you my good faith. Come …”

  She couldn’t move while he held her wrist like that. Could she jerk away from him and make a dash for it? Now? She would have to try. There was no other way.

  And exactly then the bell at the door buzzed sharply.

  It buzzed and buzzed again, cutting the sudden heavy silence in the room like a knife.

  Then Howland’s hand left her wrist and went to his pocket; Search barely stopped a scream and flung the door open.

  Calvin stood there. He was bareheaded; he wore a gray worsted town suit. His face was pale and his gray eyes shone.

  “Calvin!” cried Search.

  He entered quickly and closed the door behind him.

  Howland’s face was yellow. He tried to speak and stopped, and Calvin said: “What are you doing here, Howland?”

  He did not seem to see Search. One hand was in his pocket, and as Howland started backward, still fumbling for the sagging pocket of his coat, Calvin said: “I am armed. I wouldn’t have come here to meet you, Howland, otherwise.”

  “You—you—” Howland’s face was a mask of fear. He cried: “You said eight-thirty. Twice you said to meet you here at eight-thirty. I got to thinking of how you managed with Eve—so when Richard came a little later he found her. So I thought you were trying to do that to me. I came early. You said you only wanted to talk to me, here in Search’s apartment. But I—I was sure it was something else. I can’t go along with you any more. You’ve gone crazy.” He paused to catch an unsteady breath. Calvin, his face fixed and still, did not move or speak, and Howland went on, jerkily, almost incoherently, as if he couldn’t stop. “You are out of your mind! There’s no telling what you’ll do next, what crazy risk you’ll take. I knew that last night when you came into my house. After me. Because I knew. I had to threaten you with the story Bea told; you refused to split Diana’s money with me. I had to scare you, to convince you that I was in earnest, and right away you left the sheriff waiting and you agreed to divide with me. In a word—there in the hall; I was waiting. You can’t go back on that. You got Diana and went back to the sheriff, and I came in then and gave you an alibi—to show my good faith. I’ve been square with you. I only put Bea up to that story to scare you. I knew that sometime that day before Eve was killed you had to get the rope from the tool shed. I guessed wrong when I told Bea to say it was just before dinner. But the fact was right, anyway. You must have gone after your swim—after Eve sat there on the raft and told you the whole story of Avion. Eve thought she was smart in going to you; she was afraid she couldn’t force Richard to stick to their marriage, and her next best bet was to tell you what she knew. You knew you’d have to go on paying for the rest of your life.” Howland’s voice was high-pitched and unnatural, his words breathless. He whirled to Search.

  “He married Diana for her money; he’s crazy with ambition! Without Diana’s money he couldn’t get anywhere; he had to murder Eve. It wouldn’t do any good to kill Richard; Eve would still know, and Eve would have inherited from Richard. There was no other way. I had to go along with him. I—you will tell the sheriff that I tried to save you! I came here, I told you the truth—”

  Calvin’s’ voice cut into Howland’s flood of protestations. He said: “He’s lying. He did it. He killed Eve and he killed that fellow under the willows. Can’t you see the guilt in his face?”

  “I didn’t,” cried Howland shrilly, terror in his face. “I tell you I didn’t. Search, do something. Can’t you see he’s dangerous?”

  “Don’t move,” said Calvin. “I’ve got him cornered and he knows it. Search—that green silk cord you found. What did you do with it?”

  “I”—her voice was husky—“it’s there. On the table. Calvin, he called the police. I heard—he said suicide. He—he said the window—ą woman—he meant me. And there was a note—”

  “I said nothing of the kind!” cried Howland. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His eyes went around the room like a frightened animal’s, and Calvin said: “Get that cord. I want to see it.”

  She hesitated and then crossed to the low table. She felt queerly defenseless, as an animal might feel leaving a covert and venturing across an open space. All at once she had a poignant sense of height and insecurity, as if she were perched upon a narrow cliff above a steep and measureless abyss. It was too near the truth. She shook the green cord and tiny green celluloid ball out of her bag and onto the table, where it lay—vividly green. It was only then that she realized she was still clutching Ludmilla’s letter tight in one hand. And she was horribly bewildered. Howland had been in the room; Howland must have telephoned the police; yet that cord—

  Calvin said sharply, interrupting her thought: “What do you know about that cord? Quick …”

  “It—it was oņ the table in the cottage. That night. Then it was gone.”

  “For God’s sake, what is that?” cried Howland, his eyes bulging. “Is that what he killed her with?”

  “There’s been no mention of that green cord,” said Calvin.

  “But it was there. I saw it before I left the cottage,” said Search.

  Howland cried: “It was gone when we entered it with the sheriff! It—” He jerked around again toward Calvin.

  “That’s what you came back to the cottage for! I saw you. After you killed her you hurried into the woods alone. Then Richard came and I waited and watched, and then Search came. And the light in the cottage went out. And after it went out you came sneaking back and went into the cottage very quietly and came right out again. It must have been while Richard and Search were in the kitchen. You came out, hurrying, and I saw you. I was close to the cottage. I knew it was you. You went straight home then and managed to get up to your room and get your wet clothes off before the alarm. You—”

  “Do you know what that thing is?” said Calvin, eyes on Search. She said falteringly: “I thought you’d got it. That day when you brought the kitten home …”

  “I did,” said Calvin. “Howland took it in order to cast suspicion on me. He took it and—and Ludmilla’s bathrobe cord and Richard’s handkerchief that night he tried to kill you. And my raincoat. All in order to cast suspicion away from himself. He left nothing to incriminate himself. All the false clues he arranged lead to other people.” He glanced at his watch and then at Howland.

  Howland cried: “But I didn’t do it! His raincoat was—was because he hated to touch her when he had to lift her. He’s like that. You know he’s like that, Search. And he—always plays for the grandstand. Can’t you see through him?”

  Calvin said: “Don’t move, Howland. Search, why did you come here tonight?”

  “I had a—a telegram.” She started to move away from the table and a little toward the kitchen door, but something in Calvin’s eyes stopped her. She was unutterably confused; she only knew that somehow, now, she must escape. That was still the uppermost thing in her mind. Let them accuse each other; let them do anything; she must escape.

  “From Richard, I presume,” said Calvin. “Is that all?”

  “No—no, a telephone message—” She tried again to move toward the kitchen door; from the kitchen was another door into the corridor.

  Calvin said quickly: “Message? From Richard?”

  “Yes.” Again, she thought fantastically, she must play for time. Anything to get away.

  “Then he knows you are here?”

  “No—he said to meet him at the Drake. I—I’d better go, Calvin.”

  “What’s that in your hand?” Calvin’s voice was sharp.

  “That—why, it—it’s a letter. From Ludmilla. She sent for me, you know. She asked me to come—” She was babbling, like Howland. She caught herself. Calvin said:

  “Read it. Read it aloud. Hurry.”

  Read it.

  She fumbled to open it, did so, had to move near
er the desk lamp to see, began to read. All of it in a nightmare.

  The room was perfectly still except for her own voice. “ ‘Dear Search:’ ” she read. “ ‘I want you to come up here as soon as you can. I want to see you. You must take a vacation.

  “ ‘There is not much news here. Calvin and Diana are well; Calvin’s running for state senator at last, if he gets the nomination; Diana will have him in the White House if he’s not careful. This place always reminds me of the old times, so much nicer than now. A few weeks ago I got out some of my little keepsakes and looked them over. Things belonging to the old life—your old doll (Betsy, remember her? With yellow curls?) and a gold case of Isabel’s and Richard’s ribbons from riding school. Calvin caught me looking at them and had me tell him all about each one and laughed, but I want you, Search dear. Please come. …’”

  Her voice dwindled and stopped. Calvin! Calvin had seen the case of Isabel’s too; probably when Eve saw it. But Calvin had known at once what it meant. Then Howland had been telling the truth. All along. Howland—

  Through a kind of mist she head Calvin’s voice, quite cold and sharp and assured. He said to Howland: “Listen; you will be arrested and convicted. All this you’ve told her—I heard you, I was in the kitchen—only goes to convict you. You haven’t got a chance—”

  Howland’s big body seemed to shrink. His voice was high and thin. He said: “But I came to help her. She’ll intercede.”

  “You fool, you. She can’t save you. You are in this with me and you can’t get out of it.”

  There was an instant’s complete silence. Then Howland whispered: “What are you going to do?”

  The whisper seemed to fill the room.

  Calvin said: “You’re afraid, aren’t you, Howland? You jeered at me when you thought you had the upper hand. Now you’re afraid.”

  Howland was babbling, half in a whisper, half aloud. “You can’t, Calvin, you can’t! She said something about suicide—the window. You can’t get by with anything like that!”

  “Oh yes, I can. It’s simple,” said Calvin. His eyes were hard and bright and strange, as if a different being had taken possession of him. “The window—a note she left on the desk saying ‘This is the end.’ I’ve a perfect alibi, for I telephoned to the police saying she was about to do it, giving them a number like this one—”