Danger in the Dark (23 page)

“I went to my room after I heard the shot,” he said. “And the next morning I was told of the murder when I came downstairs. Maggie had found the body in the doorway of the library.”

It was, though Daphne did not know it, something of a feat for the detective to keep them there, questioning them tirelessly, swiftly, constantly through those dreary, cold hours—hours when resistance is low, when human ingenuity is weakest. When truth comes out and wears a mask and garments of foreboding.

Occasionally, too, one of the men with him would take up that role of inquirer—once when Jacob Wait asked Daphne something of the light in the southern corridor and the distance from her door to the turn of the corridor and disappeared, presumably to see for himself, for they could hear him walking in that direction. And again, when he went into Archie Shore’s room and remained there a long time and a detective they called Tillie—fat and shining with little, piggish eyes and a suave manner—asked them a number of questions about Archie Shore. Gertrude, reluctantly and with a kind of harried indignation, answered most of them—pressing her hands to her temples and saying a number of times that she knew nothing of him in recent years.

“But I never,” said Gertrude spitefully, “knew anything good of him.”

Rowley gave her a cold look and murmured, “Demortuis—”

“Nonsense. This is no time for French. Or evasions. The truth,” declaimed Gertrude falsely, “must come out,” and put her hands on her head with a little moan.

“It wasn’t French,” said Amelia. “You are talking erratically, Gertrude. Pull yourself together.”

Rowley shot an uneasy glance at Gertrude and said, “Now, Mother,” warningly. Johnny said quietly, “It’s one of her headaches. Look here, Mr—er—Tillie—”

“Tillinghouse,” said the detective with a snap.

“Tillinghouse,” said Johnny and rubbed his hand through his tousled blond hair. “Look here, can’t you let my sister go now and rest? She’s ill.”

“You’ll have to ask Wait,” said Mr Tillinghouse.

“Let ’em go,” said Wait from the doorway. “But don’t let any of ’em leave the house. That’s an order.”

Tillinghouse looked at them and said, “Hear that? It’s an order. You can go now.”

It was then five.

They filed in a weary little line out of the room. Daphne, cold and exhausted, felt Dennis’ hand for an instant on her arm.

“Keep your chin up,” he said and tried to smile. It didn’t reach his eyes, however.

In the hall Daphne heard Tillinghouse talking to another plain-clothes man.

“He’s got to make the arrest,” he said, and the other nodded.

They were both looking over her shoulder, and Daphne turned to follow their gaze. Dennis was talking to Amelia—answering some questions and nodding.

Dennis? Or was it Amelia they meant?

At another time the questions—answered either way—would have been sheer absurdity.

But she thought again, People do change. And she knew in her heart that, when all was said and done, Amelia was the man of the family.

She reached her own room. The light was still burning as she had left it—how long ago?

She closed the door. The fire in the little hearth was completely burned out. The radiator was hot, however; Laing or someone had seen to that. She crossed the room and sat beside it for a while, staring into space. Finally she got up and went to the closet and found the yellow velvet gown, still hanging where she’d hidden it. It was not possible that she’d left such horribly betraying evidence for so long. She took the dress and rummaged in sweater and coat pockets until she found a package of matches and went with them to the fireplace. It took a few moments to rip the bands of mink from the shoulders. It took longer to get a wavering blue flame to crawl up the sleek folds of velvet.

It was a stubborn little flame; it would burn a few inches and go out. She held the dress up with the small brass poker, turning it this way and that, so that the flame would follow the draft upward. It took a long time to burn the thing. And she felt curiously guilty and as if the dress had a living quality as she watched the flames creep upon those artfully stitched folds of yellow velvet.

That long-ago night when she’d worn it—it seemed months, and incredibly it was only a few days. Two nights. Well, and there was another day to be faced. He was going to make an arrest, the detective had said. “He” meant Wait, of course. And they had looked meaningly at Dennis and at Amelia, standing together, when they spoke.

She was too tired to think coherently. Her hands were trembling. She felt actually ill and drugged with fatigue.

Desperately tired of that inexorable round of speculation. Who
had
killed Ben? And now—who had killed Archie Shore? She had been so sure, all at once, that Archie Shore was the murderer.

Rowley couldn’t have killed his own father.

Rowley was thoroughly selfish; he was and had always been secretive; you never knew what he was thinking, what he was planning to do.

But he couldn’t have killed Archie Shore.

She turned the dress so the flames spread a little and thought suddenly that she didn’t really understand Amelia—or Gertrude. Knowing them so well, she still failed in that instinctive understanding she ought to have had. Well, that was because—one of them though she was—she was not actually of their blood. She could not really understand them because she was not like them. Because underneath she had not the same impulses, the same weaknesses, the same strength. She was one of them, certainly; never more closely a part of that family than now. But she lacked the inherent accord, the deep knowledge of each other which those of the same blood share.

Dennis had said, the crime—the murder of Ben Brewer, that is—was “like” Gertrude.

But Amelia was the one who had strength and will.

And Amelia had brains.

Were there really any clues to the murders? Any, that is, besides those that with such dreadful fatality heaped themselves up to involve Dennis?

She turned the dress again. Even after it was burnt it had a dreadful tendency to remain in stiff folds, showing clearly the soft nap of velvet. She was obliged to beat the crumbled brown heap with the poker, scatter it—for didn’t they find all sorts of clues from things that had been burnt?

She was sitting there when her father came to the door and proved once and for all time that those who called Amelia the man of the family were wrong.

When she heard the knock she thought first it was Dennis and sprang up to answer. And then a second thought came to her, and she was afraid to answer—afraid to open the door. There were policemen everywhere, of course—yet Archie—and Maggie had talked of a hammer …

Then Johnny said, “Daphne!” and she ran to the door and opened it.

“Good God, it’s cold in here,” said Johnny. “You ought to have a fire. Look here, Daphne—I thought I’d better tell you before—you see—Well, I’m going to confess. To the murder. Murders, that is.”

He looked at her, blinked, and said hurriedly, “There, there, now, Daph. Here—sit down.” He pushed her into the little slipper chair. “Don’t look like that. Dear me, I’ve got to.”

And as she still did not speak, he said simply, “There’s nothing else to do. You see, Daph—Well, now, my dear, if you’re going to take it like that I won’t. That is, well—”

He sat down on the end of the chaise longue and put his hands in his pockets. His blue eyes were puffy from lack of sleep; his face was not pink and healthy-looking as usual, but wore instead a kind of gray mask of fine wrinkles. He said abruptly:

“It’s so simple, Daph. There’s Amelia and Gertrude. There’s Rowley. There’s Dennis. There’s nobody else. Daphne, answer me something truly. Do you love Dennis?”

“Yes,” said Daphne.

“H’m,” said Johnny. He looked at her lingeringly and then turned away and put his chin in his hand. “What have you been burning?” he said after a moment. “Smells like—”

He sniffed. Daphne said, “A—dress. Father, what are you saying! I don’t—I can’t think. I don’t know—”

“I was saying,” said Johnny, “that I’m going to confess.” He was looking at the bands of mink lying on the cushion beside him in a puzzled way. “We can’t go on like this. There’s nothing else to do.”

“But you—” Gradually she was beginning to understand that he really meant it. “Why, you can’t do that. They’ll—they’ll arrest you—charge you with murder.”

“No,” he said, smiling a little. “I’ll charge myself with it. What dress was it, Daphne? It seems to me I remember those little bands of fur—” Recognition dawned in his face.

“Why, my dear—that was the dress you wore—”

“The night Ben was murdered. Yes.”

He looked once at her, turned abruptly away and rose and went to stand before the fireplace.

“I see,” he said finally, still not looking at her. He sighed lightly. “Well,” he said, “that settles it.”

“Do you think,” cried Daphne past a suddenly throbbing, aching throat, “that I’ll let you sacrifice yourself for me! That I’ll—”

“No, my dear, don’t. I’m not sacrificing myself for you. For anyone. Listen to me. It’s all quite simple. Amelia and Gertrude are my sisters. They have been too sheltered; they do things in a headstrong, unthinking way. They cannot understand that there are certain penalties; that the world can reach out and grasp them. That—you know, my dear, how they are; they both have a kind of empress complex. It’s partly my fault. I’ve always agreed rather than struggle with them. Amelia, of course, is smart—too smart for her own good. Neither of them is showing to very much advantage in this affair. Both of them were crazily determined to get rid of Ben Brewer. I didn’t know they had gone to such lengths.” He sighed again. All the debonair, social manner which was a part of Johnny Haviland was for the moment fled, and he was only an oldish, weary, helpless man with the look of blond handsomeness blurred and indescribably aged. “Don’t mistake me, Daphne,” he said. “I’m going to confess to it. Not to save Amelia or Gertrude. Not to save Dennis for you. Not to”—he turned, and his blue glance strayed to the mink bands which Daphne clutched in her hand—”not to do anything highfalutin. But it’s obvious Rowley didn’t do it—Rowley wouldn’t have killed his own father. At least—” He paused and thought and then shook his head. “No; Rowley’s mean, and he’s always been cold bloodedly cruel. Remember the bird—”

“Don’t,” said Daphne, remembering after all those years too well.

“Yes. Well, of course, he was well trounced for that. And he was just a boy; lots of boys have sort of instinctively savage moments.”

“I won’t let you.—”

“Hush, my dear. You can’t stop me. I’ll phone my lawyers at once. I’ll arrange the most perfect defense that a man ever had. I’ll fix it. I’ll be through with it, and the thing will be ended—”

“You can’t do this. You are trying to make me think it will be all right. But I know. A confession—just the mere confession—is enough to convict you. I know that. No matter what kind of defense you could arrange, there would still be the confession. And you—” Without warning she began to cry, great sobs tearing through her throat.

“Now, now, Daph. Don’t.” He waited and finally came over to her. “Now listen, my dear. Stop crying and listen. I promise not to do anything right away. But in the meantime, Daphne, think this over: I’ll confess to the murders; just say I did it and offer no details or what would be incriminating evidence. I’ll have my lawyers get me the best defense lawyer in town. Or—see here—construct the thing so there are loopholes—so it couldn’t possibly happen that way—so it doesn’t square with the evidence.”

“It wouldn’t,” said Daphne, still sobbing, “work.”

He gave her his handkerchief, and she wiped her face.

“Well, then, I’ll talk to the lawyer first. The whole thing is this, Daphne: the first thing you know Amelia or Gertrude or—or you—is going to be taken off to jail. We can’t have that.”

Havilands. The family—the company.

“What about the company?”

“I don’t know,” said Johnny rather bleakly. “But we’ll fix it somehow. Who’s that?”

It was Dennis. He looked relieved when he saw Johnny.

“I got to thinking about Daphne being off here in this long L alone. You ought to change your room for a while, Daphne. Move in to that couch in Amelia’s dressing room—What’s the matter?”

She told him, expecting his immediate agreement. But he looked thoughtful and to her dismay considered Johnny’s proposal thoughtfully.

“But,” said Dennis calmly, “it isn’t fair. Suppose we draw lots, Johnny. You and Rowley and I. The one that gets the short end confesses. We’ll get the lawyer to word the confession; we’ll fix it so—”

“Oh, you can’t, you can’t—”

“Be still, Daphne. It’s really not a bad idea.”

“But why?” wailed Daphne. “Why?”

“Because,” said Dennis suddenly stern—“because we think Amelia did it. And we know damn well you are in danger. That’s why. We don’t propose to have you dragged through a trial. And we don’t want to see Amelia spend the last years of her life in jail. At best,” added Dennis. He paused, took a fold of Daphne’s sweater between his fingers and looked at it thoughtfully. “Besides,” he said unexpectedly, “they’ll probably arrest me sooner or later. I don’t know why they’re waiting so long. If anybody confesses, it had better be me, because I do have, in a pinch, an out.”

“That little piece of wood!” cried Daphne stormily. “That’s what you mean. Oh, you are both stark, raving mad! How can you—Go away! Go away, both of you!” She was sobbing, furious, helpless. So terribly tired.

She flung herself in a very luxury of fury face downward in the cushions and let them plead and soothe and comfort her. Let them bring her water and handkerchiefs and cologne. It was the cologne that made her feel very silly. She stopped sobbing and sat up and pushed back her hair.

“I think,” said Dennis rather sheepishly, “you’d better rest awhile.”

“Yes, yes,” said Johnny. “Yes. We won’t do anything, Daphne, until we talk to you again. I promise you.”

“All right,” said Daphne huskily and wiped her eyes. “But I’m right. It’s too dangerous.”

“You may be right,” said Dennis. “It was only a thought. God knows I don’t really want to get in any deeper than I am now. Look here, now, my dear.” He bent over her. “You’re cold and tired. You’ve no idea how much better you’ll feel when you’re rested. Now I’m going to fix you up.”