Danger in the Dark (11 page)

Dennis knew it. But if anyone else had come and found her there, would he have believed her? Would, say, Rowley have believed that she didn’t kill him? That she knew nothing of his murder? Well, Rowley had believed Dennis. Or had he? Was it belief that induced him to accept Dennis’ explanation, or was it for some dark purpose of his own?

Rowley was always indirect; Rowley had never really liked Dennis.

And Gertrude—she was thinking of Gertrude when the door opened and Gertrude came into the room.

“There you are,” Gertrude said. And glanced over her shoulder into the hall and closed the door with a suggestion of stealth. “I thought you might be here.”

She crossed to Daphne and pulled a small chair up near her. She was excited. Her tight, large bosom rose and fell jerkily, and there was a faint bluish tinge around her mouth and in her cheeks. Her very light blue eyes were still shiny and the pupils in them bright and black. She said to Daphne in a rather husky voice, as if she were trying to lower her habitually loud and forceful tones:

“I was looking for you. See here, Daphne, I’ve something to say to you. And I think this is a good time. There’s no sense in beating about the bush; I’m like Father, I come straight out with things. Never hesitate.”

This wasn’t true. But Gertrude had no notion at all of the subtlety and wiliness that lay under and dictated old Rowley Haviland’s purposeful brusqueness, his pose of heartiness and bluff directness.

“What are they doing?” asked Daphne.

For an instant Gertrude wavered and looked rather bleak.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Everything’s upset—men all over the house. That little detective poking his nose into everything—upstairs, downstairs—not saying anything.” She stopped and mused and said with a defeated air, “I don’t like him. But Amelia
would
have the wedding here. If we’d been in town there ‘d been the Chicago police force—much better.” There was in her manner a suggestion that, wherever they were, the thing would have happened. “But, of course,” she said, “there’s nobody can deny it’s a most fortunate thing.”

“Fortunate
—”

“For the company,” said Gertrude. “For us all. For the Haviland family. There’s no need to pretend, Daphne.”

The instant of bleakness and of defeat had passed. Her eyes were shining again, and as always with Gertrude there was something reverential about her when she spoke of the company. Gertrude loved exactly three things in life: the company and the memory of her father, which were bound up in each other; herself and the memory of her father, for she felt she was very like him, and honor paid to certain qualities old Rowley Haviland had had was next door to honoring Gertrude herself; and her son, Rowley, who was named for his grandfather, whom she expected to take his grandfather’s place, but who was, regrettably, not at all like Rowley Haviland. Or, at least, so Gertrude felt, for she was able to perceive certain hidden traits in Rowley Shore no better than she had observed those same traits in her father.

She leaned back in her chair and kept her eyes fastened upon Daphne and said slowly, “There’s no use pretending, Daphne.”

At first and inconceivably Daphne saw no danger. She was used to Gertrude; accustomed to the air of hidden significance with which she invested quite unimportant and obvious things.

She did not see danger except that she did see that there was something triumphant about that bright, light gaze, fixed and shining, as if two marbles had been set in Gertrude’s face.

Then Gertrude smiled slowly, as if she did not know she was smiling. She said, “Ben Brewer is dead. He’s dead, and the company is saved. Nothing can bring him back now. The way is left open at last for Rowley.”

“For—Rowley?”

“Certainly. Rowley ought to have been made president when Father died. Everybody knows that. He is the obvious choice—”

“My father,” said Daphne. “He—”

“Johnny!” exclaimed Gertrude, her eyes snapping suddenly. “Not at all! Johnny is no business man. Johnny can manage the social end of things—he always has done that and most successfully. But Johnny has no business instinct at all. Anybody can sway
him
when it comes to business. Oh, of course, he doesn’t realize that himself. I expect he thinks he’s a model of business acumen. But he isn’t, and it’s a good thing my father left no real responsibility to Johnny. He has no business judgment at all. Why, all this year, Daphne, he has done exactly as Ben Brewer said to do—voted with him always. With Johnny’s block of stock, he and Ben and the stockholders could always far outweigh my vote and Amelia’s. Most unfair, of course, but there it is. Now, though—” Gertrude’s bosom swelled a little, and a slow smile crept around her mouth again. “Now it will be different. Rowley will have the presidency and salary. Ben Brewer’s stock, I happen to know, was willed to you. Johnny’s stock—”

“To me!” Daphne sprang to her feet. “Ben’s stock to me! Oh no, no!”

Gertrude eyed her coldly.

“Didn’t you know that?”

“Oh no, no! I knew nothing of it. Aunt Gertrude, I—I can’t take it. I won’t take it. Nothing can make me.”

“Oh, come, come, Daphne. There’s nothing to get so upset about. After all, it was his will to his wife. Nothing more proper, I’m sure.”

“But I don’t want it. I knew nothing of it. I wasn’t—I’m not his wife. Are you sure, Aunt Gertrude?”

“Of course I’m sure. I don’t make mistakes. Sit down again, for heaven’s sake, Daphne. You’ll have the police in here.”

Police. Daphne sat down and looked at Gertrude. It wasn’t possible that Ben had done that. He had said nothing to her of his intentions; no one had told her. No, it wasn’t possible.

“Don’t act like a baby, Daphne,” said Gertrude. “He made the will about a week ago. Perfectly right and proper. Certainly, you’ll take it. Think what people would say if you didn’t. And it gives you—with Rowley—a controlling share of the company. That is, Rowley, of course, as president will have, sometime, my stock. The two of you—”

Gertrude was all at once trying to be subtle. She was floundering a little, watching Daphne with those shining light eyes.

But what was she trying to say? What on earth could she mean? Ben leaving her that stock because he had expected her to be his wife! And now she was not his wife, and there was that stock in the Haviland Bridge Company; a large block, a paying block. Well, there would be some way out of it; there must be. They couldn’t force her to accept it. She could give it away. She could—
What was Gertrude saying?
A word or two caught her confused thoughts and focused her attention sharply. An incredible word:

“… the way clear for Rowley,” Gertrude was saying. “So you and he can marry.”

She stopped and looked at Daphne, and Daphne stared back at her. Certainly Gertrude had been talking of Rowley. And she’d said something of marrying—but what it sounded as if she said was altogether impossible. She couldn’t have said that. Daphne pressed her hands to her temples confusedly.

“Aunt Gertrude—I—I don’t think I heard you. Who is Rowley to marry?”

“Who?” said Gertrude sharply. “Do pull yourself together, Daphne. You, of course.”

Gertrude had gone out of her head. The excitement and the inquiry and Ben’s death and—She was talking irrationally, as she did sometimes when she was about to have one of her nervous headaches. She—

“Don’t look like that, Daphne. There isn’t time for a lot of talk about it. But I want you to understand exactly how things stand.”

Daphne shook her head helplessly.

“But, Aunt Gertrude—”

“Hush. Look here, Daphne. I see you don’t understand. Rowley has always had an—an affection for you.”

That wasn’t true, either, thought Daphne. Besides, if he had had, Gertrude would have been jealous; would not have talked of it, granted it as a fact.

“Always,” said Gertrude. “Of course, during your engagement to Ben he was obliged to say nothing of it. But now—it will be an ideal marriage. You and Rowley. Ideal. Of course, we can wait awhile. It wouldn’t do to be too abrupt about it. But eventually …”

It was actually true. Her ears had not lied, and Gertrude was really saying all those things. Really meant her to marry Rowley.

Daphne stood up quickly.

“Look here, Aunt Gertrude,” she said, “if you mean that I’m to marry Rowley, you’d better know right now that I’m not going to.”

“Daphne!”

“I won’t marry Rowley. Never. It’s impossible. Besides, Rowley doesn’t want to marry me.”

Gertrude stared glassily up at her a moment; then rose slowly and rather ponderously.

“That,” she said, “has nothing to do with it. Your marriage with Rowley will practically insure the future of the company.”

You mean, thought Daphne, suddenly given a moment of insight, it would insure your control of it. Gertrude liked power; half of her hatred for Ben had been because he would have no interference. Because she could not influence him; because he belittled her business acumen.

She stood there facing Gertrude, so near that she could hear Gertrude’s short, panting breaths. So near that she saw again a curious little snap and flash in Gertrude’s eyes, as if something had opened and closed with the swiftness of the flash of a snake’s tongue.

“But I’m not going to marry Rowley,” Daphne said again steadily, and Gertrude’s eyes snapped once and she said, “Oh, aren’t you?” and laughed.

It was a queer, deep little laugh, as if she were really amused. Queer because Gertrude had no humor at all and laughed only when other people laughed.

But she laughed now. Laughed and said, “I think you are, Daphne. You’ll make him a good wife once you are married to him. I’m sure of that. You see, my dear—I know something—” She stopped and leaned nearer Daphne and said in a kind of panting whisper, “I know something the police had better not know.”

She came so close to Daphne that Daphne was pressed back against the chair. She said again, panting, “I know that you and Dennis planned to go away last night. To leave Ben. And I know that Ben knew it and tried to stop you. Who killed him, Daphne—you? Or Dennis?”

“I—I—we didn’t—”

Gertrude laughed again with a deep, jubilant note.

“I don’t care who killed him,” she said. “It’s good riddance. But it would be much better if the police did not know what I know. So I think you’ll marry Rowley, my dear.”

L
ATER DAPHNE COULD NOT
remember what she said. She knew she tried to deny it; she knew she had a confused but strong feeling that she must not say too much, must admit nothing, give Gertrude no satisfaction. She did attempt to question her, but it was difficult to question without admitting.

“I didn’t kill Ben,” she said once. “The police—”

“The police,” said Gertrude, “are already doubtful as to there having been any burglar. I myself wasn’t taken in for a moment. Not after I remembered that someone had been walking about in Ben’s room—
after Ben was dead.
Was it Dennis? It doesn’t matter. I know that Ben tried to stop you. So Dennis killed him. Or you. But I think it was Dennis.”

“That is not true,” said Daphne. (Had Ben come to the springhouse to stop that flight, not knowing that already she had realized it was impossible? And if so, how had he known? She had told him, in that last ugly interview, that she didn’t love him. He had known it was Dennis. But he hadn’t known what Dennis had persuaded her—momentarily—to do. Unless—unless it was Ben who had opened the library door.)

“Oh, isn’t it?” said Gertrude unexpectedly. “Well, there’s no use in talking of this. I know what I know. Never mind how.”

“Does Rowley know of this?” asked Daphne suddenly.

“Rowley,” said Gertrude, “will do as I tell him. That’s all, Daphne. You are a sensible girl. And a bargain is a bargain. The police are out there now looking for evidence leading to the murderer of Ben Brewer. Murderer,” repeated Gertrude lingeringly, holding Daphne with her eyes. “But, of course, I shall tell them nothing of what I know of the matter—”

It was just then that Amelia opened the door quietly, looked into the room, said: “Ah—Daphne!” and entered.

“I was looking for you,” she said. “The house is full of policemen—really—” She crossed to Daphne, took her hands and kissed her cheek. It was rather a remote and cold kiss, very brief, but it was a kiss. “I’m extremely sorry for you, Daphne,” she said, keeping to the letter of the truth. “This is most distressing. What do you know of the matter, Gertrude, and what matter were you discussing?”

She said it very quietly and turned and looked fully at Gertrude.

There was, actually, a kind of family likeness between the two sisters, although Amelia was dark where Gertrude and Johnny were fair like their mother. But there was a smallness and neatness of bones, a kind of delicacy of feature which was very like Gertrude’s, except that Amelia was very slender and looked frail—though no one had ever known of a day’s illness on her part. Her eyebrows were dark and heavy and came to a peak like Dennis’ and like old Rowley Haviland’s, thus shadowing her eyes a little so they seemed withdrawn and incalculable. Her hair was gray and curled; her nose unexpectedly strong, with thin, delicate nostrils; she dressed with the utmost care and elegance and liked fineness of material and cut and finish. Her voice was always very soft and very kind. It was particularly gentle and kind when she spoke to Gertrude then.

Gertrude flushed and blinked rapidly.

“About the murder,” she said.

“Ben’s death,” said Amelia, veiling it so gently that the word “murder” immediately took on its full measure of ugliness and horror.

But Gertrude was still triumphant. “Ben’s murder,” she said, “and also of Rowley’s marriage to Daphne,” and looked at Amelia.

There was a sharp silence. Daphne said, “No—no, Aunt Amelia—” and stopped.

For a moment Amelia and Gertrude faced each other without speaking: Amelia, delicate, frail, eyes withdrawn and thoughtful; Gertrude, flushed and oddly defiant. Then Amelia put out her small, lovely hand—soft and delicate in gesture as a butterfly’s wing—and touched Gertrude’s thick blue arm. And at the touch the strangest look came into Gertrude’s face, and she shrank back a little and said in a breathless way, “Amelia—”