by David Garth
She released his arm and turned away. But her father still looked in the direction of the car moving off down the drive. What kind of a code could Luce live by, anyway?
“Once in a lifetime,” he said in a slow, wondering voice, “you’d see a man like that.”
CHAPTER 11
The memorial window to Lucian Rhodes in the beautiful old Maryland church had lost its sense of newness. But it still gave little Miss Melissa Rhodes a catchy feeling in her throat when she looked up at it.
It had been impressed upon her that there really was no use going on as though Lucian was coming back—that would be an obsession, not faith. There was no sense to keeping the big Rhodes house open, warmed and alive by habitation and care.
John Hardesty had quite some trouble with her. The delicate, highly bred little lady could be so stubborn sometimes that she gave the impression of being an iron-jawed Amazon. He wanted her to rent the big house and settle down in the small cottage on the estate, which she had always liked. She would have been most comfortable there, with her faithful, black Jenny to attend her. But, no, she still refused.
Hardesty called to see her late one afternoon to make another attempt. He found her knitting busily on the flagged terrace, looking tiny in a big wicker chair.
“Look, Miss Melissa,” he said, “I have a chance to arrange a most attractive rental for you. A retired naval officer and his wife. Their youngest son is at Annapolis. They are grand people. You’ve heard of them—Rear Admiral Staples, retired.”
“No, John,” she said. “Not just now.”
Hardesty ran a hand over his hair.
“But, you’re so unreasonable, Miss Melissa,” he said. “You’re lost in this house and it’s an expense to keep up. That would lie all right if you would agree to use any of Lucian’s money when it is released to you, but, thunder, you still say you won’t touch a nickel of that.”
He nodded out in the direction of the small tanbark track and riding ring where the colored groom could be heard giving the horses a workout.
“And look at those horses,” he said restively. “That expense is absolutely unwarranted. I know Lucian raised those horses from colts, but Lucian—”
“I know,” said Miss Melissa quietly. “Lucian is dead. He was identified by two of his colleagues after an air raid.”
She set her knitting down in her lap and clasped her fragile, blue-veined hands tightly.
“I will not touch any of that strange fortune!” she said stoutly. “Two million dollars in four months! How could Lucian have made that much! It is not reasonable. I will not touch that money until I know more about it.”
“Well, but—,” said Hardesty helplessly.
“Now, listen to me, John,” Miss Melissa said in her soft refined voice. “I am not as young as I might be. There is not a great deal in the world I have to look forward to. A young man who might have made a great mark in the world was killed by his own recklessness as much as anything else. That has been established.
“But I just do not care to believe that. I wish to believe that he will come back. I gain happiness in keeping his house open for him, in seeing that his horses are exercised, in leaving this mysterious two million dollars in the bank for him to explain, or use or do with as he will. I wish to believe he will fulfill a bright destiny some day. You can call it wishful thinking. I prefer to call it hope. And, darn it,” Miss Melissa said recklessly, “I will hope and continue to hope.”
Hardesty bit the end off a cigar. If that was the way she wanted it, there was nothing he could do until time had changed her mind. He struck a match and raised it to his cigar, then looked up to see a man, pushing a wheelbarrow across the lawn, stop before the terrace.
He wore brown overalls and a khaki shirt open at the throat, a blond man with his face touched by sunburn. Respectfully he touched his forehead to Miss Melissa.
“Will you want me to start edging the drive tomorrow, Miss Rhodes?” he asked.
“Yes, Edward,” said Miss Melissa, with a smile.
He touched his brow again and, picking up his wheelbarrow, moved off toward the rear of the house.
“Who is that, Miss Melissa?” Hardesty asked, mystified.
“He is a young man I have taken on to help with the grounds,” said Miss Melissa.
“But Toby and Clay have looked after the grounds for years. You mean you’ve increased the staff?”
“Toby and Clay are getting old,” said Miss Melissa. “This young man can help them a lot. He came to me looking for work. He’s had a hard time. And I believe in helping people to work who really want to. He sleeps in the apartment over the garage.”
Mr. Hardesty looked at her and then jammed his hat down on his head. “Miss Melissa,” he said severely, “you are a trial to my conservative soul.”
Miss Melissa only smiled at him as he took his departure.
She had dinner alone in the big old dining room, the candles on the rosewood table casting flickering shadows about the paneled walls and gleaming in the fine chandeliers that had been brought over from Paris a hundred and fifty years ago.
Before retiring to her apartments upstairs she made her regular evening rounds to be sure that everything was locked up. She looked very small, walking through the spacious room, trying windows and testing doors. She ended her tour in the study, a comfortable, lounging room with a fireplace and deco chairs and trophies.
Her eyes rested on the case of French dueling pistols. They had belonged to Cary Rhodes, that keen, experienced duelist, who had once walked through these very rooms. French dueling pistols that had gone with him on that fateful morning over a hundred years ago. It was easy to visualize him standing beneath the oaks laced with morning mist, raising his pistol, those glinting black eyes looking down the silver barrel. The most famous dueling family America ever knew.
She had turned to retrace her steps to the front entrance hall when she remembered the small door of the study. It was jus: a private entrance from the rear lawns and it had not been unlocked for a year, at least. But with the exacting sense of the thorough little person she was, Miss Melissa walked over and tested it.
To her surprise, it was unlocked. She did not remember how that could have happened. Perhaps in the course of housecleaning. But it should have been locked again.
“Careless!” murmured Miss Melissa reprovingly, and sprung the lock.
* * * *
Once in a long time Richard Britton found himself thunderstruck. He listened to Berkeley without interrupting her once, sitting in the library where they had retired for an immediate talk. He sat very quietly while she told him every last thing that had happened.
“Perhaps—I don’t make a very good case for myself, Counselor,” she remarked dubiously.
He let out a breath. “Oh, I can’t blame either one of you,” he said. “You left yourself open to the situation that developed on you in Spain and you coped with it the best way you saw. And Luce, under the circumstances, behaved decently in every way.”
“You don’t blame him for walking out today, then?”
“What I said still goes. Robert Luce has a strain of chivalry, but he’s also hard as iron. I know my men. I’ve dealt with all kinds for many years. And I tell you, Berkeley, that man would be a terrific opponent on either a witness stand or a battlefield.”
Berkeley was silent. Yes, you struck steel very close to the surface in Robert Luce.
“This drug business,” she heard her father say, and abruptly she left the table to take a few restless paces.
“I can’t see how it could have happened anywhere but on the plane,” she said, “and in the last few hours of the flight, unless it was some especially long-delayed potion. I can’t remember drinking anything except water at luncheon and that was poured from a carafe into three or four other glasses besides mine. Or wait—”
She stopped and thought.
“I played some bridge,” she went on slowly. “And it seems to me I might have had som
ething to drink during the course of that time.”
“Was Luce in that bridge game?”
She shook her head. “I did not have anything to do with him the whole flight from Horta.”
“Who was in that bridge game?”
“The Grand Duke Feodor, Mrs. Deering, the American wile of a British naval officer, and an Englishman, member of some purchasing commission.” She pondered again, “Yes, I remember having something to drink. Once. Something innocuous. I had it on a small table in the aisle by the side of my seat. I don’t see how any of those people could have tampered with it.”
“But people frequently passed up and down the aisle?”
“Oh, yes, there was quite a bit of that.”
He nodded. “Chances are that’s when it was doctored,” he said grimly. “Did you drink much of it?”
Berkeley laughed slightly.
“You know how little I drink. I just sipped at it.”
A strange look came over her father’s face, something of the deep anxiety and strain he had felt stealing into those fine features.
“That might be the reason you are alive today,” he said brusquely. “That, plus your bouncing constitution.”
Neither of them spoke. He had voiced a sickening thought that she had tried to keep hidden away in the back of her min J. She stood perfectly still, her dark blue eyes intense.
“But why would anybody want to—to kill me?” she asked unsteadily.
“It would appear to be because you knew something that somebody did not want you to know.”
“But, great heavens!” she burst out. “All I knew was that vague message of Tresh’s and how could anybody have learned I knew that?”
Her father shook his head. Berkeley stood there, staring down at him confounded. And suddenly an icy chill swept all through her.
“Whatever you knew,” she heard her father say, “it was too much, evidently, and somebody was not taking any chances.”
If that was so, a terrible ruthlessness, something utterly without mercy, had struck at her. She and Tresh had known me same thing. And Tresh was dead.
She gripped her arms tightly.
“Can’t you feel it in the atmosphere?” she said in a low, strained voice. “Something fierce, something stealthy—”
Richard Britton looked up at her and sprang to his feet, taking her by the shoulders in swift, sure hands.
“Don’t think that way!” he said sharply. “You escaped it. You’ve put your information in the hands of the Department of Justice, as it must have been known you would do if you had the chance. There’s no reason to strike at you now. You’re safe!” His mouth straightened purposefully. “But I’m going to see that there’s a private guard around here, just the same. You’ve been too close to something deadly.”
Around her were those familiar things, the Burgundy red carpet of the entrance hall with the sun shining on it through the small panes around the wide front door, the satin-sheened pine paneling of the library, the old prints—and suddenly everything seemed different, as though the whole concept of home and security had been shattered.
Her father released her and when he spoke his voice had its usual quiet assurance.
“This has been a shocking experience for all of us. Your mother has not been well and the tension she suffered while you were abroad has not helped her any. I had planned to take her to the West Coast for a rest when my current case is completed. We’ll all go. And we can be near you when you take up your six weeks’ residence at Lake Truro.
“I’ll be able to get away in two or three weeks. In the meantime I think we had better keep the circumstances of your marriage a secret from her until she has a chance to get over this. I’ll iron out Luce’s absence for her, also.”
* * * *
Linda Baker’s visit later in the afternoon was a welcome surprise. Berkeley saw a modest little roadster draw up before the house and a tailored figure stepping out. She brushed past Cardon and answered the front door herself.
“I can stop only a short while,” said Linda. “I’m due in Boston early this evening.”
She looked smart and seasonal in light wool skirt and plaid jacket of autumn hues. “It’s beautiful here,” she said, as she walked with Berkeley into the living room.
Berkeley asked her to stay longer. Dinner, at least.
“I wish I could,” said Linda, sinking down blissfully in a deep divan. “Oh, this is a blessing after that jouncing chariot of mine.” She extended her legs in comfortable relaxation. “But I must press on. We’re trying to uncover another musical genius in my family. I thought I’d stop by to see you on my way up because on my way back we’re likely to have a carload of busted hopes.”
She did agree to stay long enough for tea, however. Cardon brought in a gleaming service on a massive silver tray and set it on a low table before them both on the divan.
“My dear,” said Linda, glancing about her. “This is the way to live. Everything is so perfect. By the way you’d better look for a visit from the Department of Justice. I was nipped at the airport and so was that owlish little Mr. Gayne—remember him? Something about a man named Tresh who died while we were in Valleron.”
“He was here this morning,” said Berkeley. “Mr. Winters.”
“Oh, really. Then you’re up on the crime news.” She lowered her teacup and looked over toward the grand piano in its alcove. “There’s my life,” she remarked whimsically.
“What are your plans?” inquired Berkeley. “Are you going to give recitals?”
“No,” said Linda. “I’m not sure enough of myself. Perhaps if I had been able to finish up in Paris I’d have been ready.” She set down her cup abruptly and rose to walk over to the piano. Standing there she reached down a hand and ran an arpeggio up the keys. “I’ll probably teach at the Mayhew Foundation. Or I may give private lessons. Nothing too complicated. She looked down at the keyboard and struck a chord with practiced fingers. “Beethoven’s Sonata Pathétique, Bach’s Solfeggietto, Chopin’s Mazurka. A reckless venture, perhaps, into Mozart’s C Minor Sonata.”
She looked up, smiling. “Grim mood, isn’t it? Sound as though I was disappointed in love. Mind if I try out your piano, Berkeley?”
“Of course not,” said Berkeley warmly. “I wish you would.” Linda sat down at the piano. Her hands flashed up the keyboard in a sweet diapason of chords. Then she settled herself a little closer and began to play. The strains of Beethoven’s Sonata flowed from her dexterous fingers with beautiful touch and assurance. Then, evidently, her mood crept into her hands and she struck off into Chopin’s Marche Militaire. It sounded vigorously from the keyboard with a swelling rhythm that seemed to conjure up a whole great symphonic orchestra and the beat of a conductor’s baton and the rapt attention of an audience.
As quickly as her mood had come upon her, she seemed to play herself out of it. She stopped abruptly, the strains of the great Chopin harmonies cut off. She brought her hand down on the keys.
“Damn the Nazis!” she exclaimed. “They’re in Paris instead of me. I really might have had a career some day.”
Berkeley sat forward. “You will, Linda,” she said deeply. “Why shouldn’t you?”
“Darling, I’m no genius. I needed somebody like DesLoges.” She suddenly noticed the time. “I’m going to be late,” she said. “I’ll have to get moving.”
“Won’t you let me have your address?” said Berkeley.
“I’d love you to have it!” Linda took a piece of paper out of her bag and scribbled something on it. “I hope you’ll use it soon.”
Berkeley told her she was going West. “For six—several weeks,” she added.
“I’d like to take a trip myself,” said Linda. “Might run into another Robert Luce.”
Berkeley started slightly. “Oh,” she said. “Luce?”
Linda Baker viewed her curiously. “You weren’t much impressed with him, were you?” she remarked. “Strange—I was quite taken with him. In fact,” sh
e said, as they walked toward the door, “I could have endured seeing more of him, if you get what I mean.”
“I think I get the general idea,” said Berkeley.
She waited by the car while Linda slid in behind the wheel. “Well, here goes for the battle royal,” Linda announced. “The Boston music critics versus my brother’s baritone.” She raised her hand in jaunty farewell. “Remember Valleron!” she called, and sent her little roadster off with a roar.
CHAPTER 12
Telephones began ringing that day and increased on the next. Friends calling to say how glad they were Berkeley had returned, invitations to the social rounds going full blast—hunt breakfasts, cocktail parties, tea dances, garden club meetings.
And a girl, still shaky from the attempt on her life within the last forty-eight hours, put off everything on the plea of getting settled and of her mother’s health.
Strange. She did not wish to pick up where she had left off. It might have been the poignancy she had often experienced in Geneva as she labored to find men in prison camps for their frantic families. It might have been the eerie feeling of something afoot and working in her country. She simply felt alien to the kind of thing she had known and liked before.
Nor did she like the idea of a private guard. There was one continually on the grounds, working in eight-hour shifts, unobtrusive, but never entirely out of her mind.
She was genuinely glad when Phil Courtney made his premised appearance. He phoned from the village to ask if she was at home to co-veterans of an Atlantic flight and arrived shortly after she said she certainly was.
“Man of my word,” he told her with his easy smile. “When I say I’ll be on the horizon early I’m practically there. And, besides, I have something for you.”
He brought his hand out of his coat pocket and held it out to her. Berkeley’s eyes widened with surprise. What Courtney held in his hand, she recognized immediately as the folded crumpled cable messages from her father, those messages, clipped together as always, asking her to see Tresh in Valleron.
“I found them right where you had been having your baggage examined,” he explained. “I couldn’t get out to flag you in time.” She took them, her voice saying, “Thanks, Court,” and her mind flashing back to the customs room of the New York Airport. So she had taken to dropping things now? Oh, of course, while she was getting the keys out of her bag to unlock her luggage—at least, that would be the most logical explanation. Too logical.