CHAPTER TEN
“AMAZING how quickly the pattern of a life can change,” Cindy reflected aloud, as an hour later they drove away from the local bank. “I give you the Cinderella story, From Rags to Riches. You as Kenniston Stewart’s deputy, I for myself sign papers at Counselor Armstrong’s office; he goes with us to the bank, turns over the deeds and receives two checks in return. I deposit mine to my account and here I am, no longer living on an income that had its ups and downs, with the emphasis on downs, but a comparatively rich woman, minus Federal, state and local taxes.”
“And a happy one, I hope?”
“Not entirely till the Court grants me the right to resume my maiden name.”
“Will you insist on that?”
“Of course. Why the surprise?”
“It jarred me for a moment, you are erasing Stewart so completely from your life. You are right. Where shall we lunch?”
“Do we have to lunch now?”
“Certainly not. What do you want to do?”
“Just beyond here is a bluff that overlooks the ocean. It is a popular spot but likely to be deserted at this time of day. I’d love to sit there for a while and adjust my mental balance. At the moment my mind feels like a great empty attic which has been swept clean of the accumulations of generations. The last three years have been so packed with problems.” She brushed her hand across her eyes as if to clear them.
“I would ask myself, ‘With twenty thousand ways to pam a living in the U.S. why did Dad have to fall for oil wells?’ ‘Is it wise to do this?’ ‘Am I selfish to refuse to contract a marriage?’ Being shot to the top of the world when a well showed a streak of oil; plunged to the depths of discouragement when a rush of water followed.”
“Did that happen often?”
“Often? Eight out of ten times. ‘Will I be able to pay the taxes on The Castle this year?’ ‘Are the men who want to buy the oil holdings cheating me?’ No sooner would I mail a monthly statement to Ken Stewart than it was time to prepare another. Why are you looking at me so hard?”
“Better take time off to breathe. Pretty excited, aren’t you?”
“Positively balloonish. Those are only a few of my doubts. Lucky I took the course in accounting at college. It was something to which to hold tight. I had to work or I would have been dropped from the class. I was determined to be trained for a job in case the bottom fell out of the oil holdings completely. It can happen.”
“It not only can, but does. Do we turn here?”
“Yes. Stop at the end of this dirt road. My apologies for sobbing out my troubles on your shoulder, figuratively speaking. The recital has deepened the lines across your forehead.”
“That wasn’t what did it, it was the thought that Ken Stewart should be here in my place, with your head really on his shoulder.”
“What an awful thought. If it is all the same to you I’ll pick the shoulder, there is another I would prefer. I am just beginning to realize that with all that money I can make some dreams come true. I’ll endow a room at the Hospital in Father’s and Mother’s name; establish a trust fund to assure the minister of the church here a decent living salary; I’ll pension Sary and — but why not a hospital wing, it’s terribly needed. After that I will —”
“Hold everything. If you go on at this rate, that money will be spent before the check goes through the bank.”
She laughed.
“I told you I’m floating on top of the world. Leave the car here. We follow that path. Quite a climb, but it’s worth it.”
On top of the bluff was a sandy patch in front of a giant boulder. Cindy dropped to the ground, pulled off the pink jacket, and leaned back against the rock.
“A breeze! Isn’t this heavenly? For the first time today I am cool. Sit down. Share nature’s perfect seat. O.K., if you’d rather perch on that boulder, you look mighty uncomfortable, if you ask me. Isn’t the ocean beautiful? Shades of green and blue and purple swelling gently on and on until they meet the sky. The six identical sails on the horizon must mean a boat race. Now they are spreading out to windward, exciting to watch even at this distance, isn’t it? I wonder if the yacht headed this way is the one that anchors off Rockledge shore so often?”
“It looks impressive.”
“If it is the boat credited to Mrs. Drew it is. Hal gave me a summary of its outer measurements, interior and deck arrangements this morning. If you believe his fervid description it is sensational.”
“How come that he knows so much about the yacht? Is he a friend of the owner?”
“Not this owner. He doesn’t approve of her. Advised me not to call at Rockledge. He said he sailed on the boat when she belonged to a friend. I don’t understand Hal this summer. He used to be gay and charming, ultrasophisticated, of course, but he had a way with him that made one forgive that. Now he appears to be at loggerheads with the world in general and this spot on the Maine coast in particular.” She placed her hand over her mouth and stifled a yawn.
“I beg your pardon. I have the most curious feeling, as if my spirit really is soaring in space, as if I could close my eyes and sleep for an aeon or two now that the care of the oil property is off my mind. It won’t be really, though, till I make out the tax returns on the sale, for myself and Ken —”
“Ken will take care of his own.”
“That’s a break, I’ll tackle mine soon, hang a notice on my workroom door, WOMAN AT WORK, and —” She yawned again, this time she didn’t try to stifle it. Her eyes half closed. “I don’t understand —”
“I do. Stand up, Cindy. Quick.” He caught her hands and pulled her to her feet, held her tight in one arm as her eyes closed. Her head fell against his shoulder.
He glanced at the path which led down to his car. She had said this spot was a popular rendezvous. Suppose a party were to come along now? Would they believe that she had succumbed to mental exhaustion? Would they believe his explanation that many a time he had seen a man in his outfit released from hours of the strain of life and death responsibility go to sleep on his feet? He shook her gently.
“Cindy, wake up. Come on, darling, try to walk. I’ll take you home.”
No response except her limp body sagging a little in his arm. He must get her to The Castle. She might sleep for hours. This was nature’s reaction after the sudden release from years of responsibility. Only one way out, carry her to the car.
He picked her up in his arms and kicked the little pink jacket she had discarded ahead as step by cautious step he descended the path. Lucky she wasn’t heavier. Her weight pulled painfully on the muscles stiffened by the wound on his shoulder.
“Cindy, try to put up your foot, darling,” he pleaded when he reached the car, but her only answer was to settle her head more comfortably.
He lifted her and laid her on the back seat, pulled off his white coat and tucked it under her head for a pillow, covered her shoulders with the pink jacket.
“May the gods be with me,” he pleaded as he sent the car ahead, “don’t let us meet anyone who knows us. Lucky the top is up.”
“Hi, Colonel Damon!”
It was the predatory Fane girl calling, holding up her thumb as he passed the Country Club gate. The man beside her — Good Lord, it was Slade — stepped into the road as if confident he would stop, and called:
“Hey, take us —”
He pretended not to see or hear and drove on. That was a narrow escape. Had they seen Cindy they would have thought — Take it easy, they didn’t see her, common sense reminded.
Seth Armstrong, seated in a car in front of the bank, called to him and waved a sheaf of papers.
“Stop! Take these for your files —” He ignored the hail and stepped up the engine.
His collar was wilted to a wet rag when he stopped the car at the entrance door of The Castle. Now he would have co-operation. Sarah Ann Parker would help him get Cindy to her room, then tuck her into bed where she belonged He sprinted up the steps and pressed the button concealed in
the antique brass knocker. The bell resounded through the house. He pressed again. He must get Cindy into the house before anyone appeared. Was the Parker woman asleep? Damn! She had said she was going to the village to watch television! That tied that.
Now what? Only one answer. Get into the house. There was a key in the pink bag. Miss Parker had reminded Cindy of it when they came in from the patio. The patio! If he could get her there it would help. He charged down the steps and followed the drive around a comer. He could.
Back to the car. He glanced at the sleeping girl before he drove into the garage and shut off the engine. That path must lead —
“Hey, Cindy!”
The call came from the front of the house. A man’s voice. Which one of her stag line? She had said there was a shoulder she would prefer to Ken Stewart’s. Had she meant Tom Slade or that piker Harding? Perspiration trickled down his back. Now he knew how a murderer must feel when trying to get away with the corpus delicti.
“Cindy!” He could hear the ring of a bell in the house. “Hey, Cindy!” An instant of silence followed by a second shout, then the whirr of an engine, and the purr of a departing automobile.
He drew his hand across his damp forehead. Whew, it was hot. He investigated the path. It led through the garden to the patio. He must get her there before another swain showed up. He’d better go to it, not stand here thinking about it.
It seemed an eternity before he laid the sleeping girl on the chaise longue and dropped her pink jacket and his white coat on a chair. He returned and carefully closed the door of the garage. That would shut his car away from inquiring eyes for the present.
He flexed his stiff shoulder, he sure had given it a workout. Looking down at her he had an instant of panic. She was so quiet. She looked like the little girl who had spoken to him in Ella Crane’s shop. Ought he phone for a doctor? No. He couldn’t be wrong. This was the sleep of mental exhaustion. He had seen it scores of times. She would awake refreshed. Her color was good. He laid his hand on her moist forehead, gently picked up her wrist with the other. Pulse was normal. It was sleep.
Wilting day. Unbearably humid. Curled leaves drooped. A spike of delphinium bent double for all the world like an old man carrying a heavy load. Nothing alive stirred. His mistake. A cicada was on the job. The shrill call fairly sizzled. Those pillows must be hot. He withdrew one and settled her head more comfortably, drew off white sandals from feet covered by sheer nylons. If he had water —
Water. He looked toward the door to the house. Of course it would be locked and counterlocked, hadn’t Sarah Ann Parker said she would lock up? Water? What was coming from the fountain but water, gallons of it, tinkling back into the pool? Even the sight of it was cooling. He drew two handkerchiefs from the pocket of the white coat.
He wrung out one of the white linen squares in the cool spray, grinned as he realized that he had made the trip to the fountain and back tiptoe. Crime motif again. He bent over the chaise longue and gently bathed the girl’s face, dried it with the other handkerchief. She didn’t stir, her sleep was too deep, but she looked cooler.
He drew the wilted bachelor buttons from her belt and laid the stems in water at the edge of the pool, then dropped into one of the green cushioned chairs, drew up another for his feet, jerked off his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his white shirt. That somewhat relieved his discomfort. He lighted a cigarette and watched a hummingbird poised above a giant dahlia filching honey from its blush-pink heart. With the exception of spray from the fountain the fanning wings were the only moving object visible. Even the shrill cicada had succumbed to the heat.
I’ll relax for a few minutes, then I’ll make a stab at breaking and entering. Another downward step on my career of crime. This is what it must mean to be a baby-sitter, he thought as his eyes lingered on the sleeping girl.
“Will you let her go?” Alida Barclay's question echoed in his memory. “Of course I shall let her go,” he had answered. He hadn’t told her of his mental reservation, that if Cindy showed even the hint of a desire to marry Harding, he would hold up the annulment. Neither had he confided that with his sense of responsibility toward her, which had been roused by the P.A.S. letter, he had used part of his first day in New York to start an investigation on the trail of the playboy.
Yesterday he had received a detailed account of the man’s life to date. The most startling item was the statement that the two heavy alimonies he was paying made such inroads on his income that he had borrowed on his principal. Did need of money figure in his pursuit of Cinderella Clinton Stewart? Doubtless he had posted himself on the value of the oil holdings. “Sugar,” he had called her. Cindy had been puzzled by his use of the word, had declared it out of character for him. Curious. It would be interesting to know where he had picked it up.
It was evident that she was not in love with him. It would be unnecessary to antagonize her by postponing her freedom on his account. That was a break. Ally Barclay had been right when she had prophesied that sooner or later he would wake up to the fact that he had lost something he would give his life to keep. That realization had been quicker than “sooner,” it had struck like lightning the first time he had seen her.
Suppose I don’t let her go? Suppose I induce Armstrong to hold up the annulment while I try to win her love, his thoughts trooped on. No. No. She has a right to freedom. I don’t want the handicap of that contract marriage. Suppose she said “Yes”? I never would be sure her conscience hadn’t dictated the answer. Ally is wrong.
Ally. With the name came the memory of her confidence last evening on the Inn porch. The smuggling yarn was unbelievable. Was she being fooled? He had worked with her before being assigned to the airlift — there had been espionage problems there, too. She was keen at her job or she wouldn’t have been picked for this one.
“Willing to help?” she had asked. Willing to help with Cindy in possible danger? She couldn’t know how willing. He would have the credentials he had used before O.K.’d, then somehow, somewhere he would pick up a loose end that would reveal the identity of the receiver of smuggled loot.
His eyes rested on the sleeping girl. He’d better quit planning the future and make a stab at getting into the house.
It was amazingly simple when he tried it. He braced his shoulder against the door in the ell for a mighty push. It opened so suddenly that he clutched the handle to keep from pitching forward.
“Is my face red,” he said under his breath. “The dam thing wasn’t locked.”
He entered the kitchen darkened by half-drawn shades. Cool as a tomb. That last was a cheery comparison. An icebox suggested food. He glanced at the wall clock. Well past the lunch hour. He could toy with something to eat. He opened the door.
A whole chicken, roasted. Tomatoes, big, red, luscious and peeled. Looked like mayonnaise in a jar, must be bread somewhere, he had read that it kept fresher in a refrigerator. Right, there it was and sliced thin. He would make sandwiches. When they were finished he —
Confound that doorbell. Had everyone in town conspired to drop in at The Castle today?
He waited motionless until the second prolonged ring died away. He would make the sandwiches before he brought Cindy into this cool house. Moving her might waken her.
A few minutes later he glanced from the window, swore softly under his breath. Harding was crossing the patio. It must have been he who had rung the bell, had he left his car in the front drive? He was bending over the girl on the chaise. With the intent to kiss her?
Bill Damon opened and closed the door to the patio gently behind him.
“Don’t waken her,” he warned.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HARDING jumped as if the hand of the law had touched him on the shoulder, wheeled.
“Oh, it’s you again.” His angry eyes in a face drained of color met those of the man who had taken a few steps forward, dropped to the open collar of his shirt.
“Just what are you doing here, en négligé — and how?”
&n
bsp; Keep your temper, the man looking back at him reminded himself. You’ve got to. He pulled a cigarette from the package in the pocket of his shirt and lighted it.
“Let’s be civilized and not get into a row, Harding,” he suggested in a low voice. “You know what I’m doing here. I’m representing Kenniston Stewart. Cindy told you this morning that she and I had deeds to sign, that we were selling the oil holdings.”
“Did the sale go through? Two million was the price offered, I hear.” The inquiry was spiked with eagerness.
“Yes. It went through. After we left the bank she became sleepy, suddenly, in a minute was as you see her now. You’re an ex-Marine, I understand. You must have seen deep sleep follow prolonged mental strain.”
Harding looked from the girl to the man facing him.
“What mental strain has she been under? She’s the most alive, gayest girl in this town.”
“I have been told that she has carried the entire responsibility of the oil property that belonged to her father and Stewart’s; has been the court of last resort when there has been a difference of opinion among department managers. This morning after she signed the deeds that disposed of the property she declared in a frightened voice that it seemed as if she were floating in space, then suddenly she was asleep. This excessive heat did its part in her collapse.”
“That’s a slick explanation.”
“Maybe so, but a true one.” He buttoned the collar of his shirt, and knotted his tie in place. He repressed, “What can you do about it?” which his mind suggested as an effective wind-up. Harding turned suddenly, bent over Cindy and stretched out his hand as if to touch her arm.
“Sugar,” he said softly.
“I said, don’t waken her. And I mean don’t waken her.”
At the low, tense warning Harding thrust the hand he had extended into the pocket of his white slacks and straightened belligerently.
To Love and to Honour Page 8