Authors: Louis Trimble
L
INK
turned at the sound of the hoarse voice, and Idell felt a rush of relief that threatened to take the stiffness from her knees and throw her to the floor in absolute helplessness. But strength poured into her and her natural coolness returned. Once more she had a grip on herself; she felt completely capable of handling the situation.
Chunk Farman stood in the doorway. He swayed so he had to hold to the side of the door with one hand. In the other he held a gun. The trickle of blood still ran slowly down his chin from the right corner of his mouth. His lower lip was purple and swollen and his eyes were glazed with pain.
“Get out,” he said thickly. Idell realized the gun must have come from Maybelle’s room. She recognized it by the pearl handle. Chunk had either got up and gone in there or Maybelle had come out. She didn’t know nor care right now. It was enough that he had come.
“Get out, Link,” Idell said very quietly. She looked at Link as he hesitated, his eyes swinging from one to the other of them. “Go to your room,” she said.
Farman stood aside as Link moved slowly and silently from the room. Idell could hear his footsteps receding. “Are you all right?” Farman asked her in the sudden quiet.
“Thank you,” she said. “He hurt you.” She did not let him see her deep concern or genuine feeling for him. Things just couldn’t be that way. Not now.
“Not badly,” he said, trying to grin. The pain made him wince instead. “He won’t bother you any more. He’ll go as soon as he can.”
“No,” she said. “He’ll stay. He was too drunk to know what he was doing. He won’t even remember this tomorrow.”
“He doesn’t need anyone to apologize for him,” Farman said. He looked closely at her. “You aren’t still going to—” His face was white against the dark of his eyes. There was more than physical pain on it now.
Idell stepped forward and touched him gently. “I am, Chunk,” she said. “I still am.” There was no way out of marrying Link, she knew. Really but one way. She dared not think of that now.
“I don’t think you will,” he said very quietly, very stiffly. “Get some sleep, Idell.” He closed the door, and she heard his footsteps patter along the hall toward his own door.
She locked the door, threw off her negligee and fell across the bed. She could hear muttered voices; one sounded like Clint Jeffers’, another like Maybelle’s. She heard Farman’s answering words to questions she could guess at. She heard a sharp, barked curse from Jeffers, and then silence.
Exhaustion claimed her and she slept. Outside, daylight was growing swiftly, and the first rays of the sun were already stifling hot. It might as well have been darkness. Death did not need cover to strike.
• • •
Idell awakened quite slowly and luxuriously. She knew by the feel of her body she had slept well but not long. Her eyes opened wide enough for her to see the time by the little electric clock on the bed stand. It was just a few minutes to eight.
It seemed impossible she had slept for such a short time. Wearied as she had been, she had expected to awaken somewhere past noon. She stood up and walked across the floor, cool against her bare feet, to the French doors, slipping on her negligee as she did so. Outside, on the balcony, the air was breathlessly hot, but as yet there was no sun on that side of the building.
She blinked in the morning light, bright from a harsh blue sky. Directly beneath her the swimming pool, set in the midst of palms and lush semi-tropical plants, gleamed blue-green. Grant had said he was going to drain it today, and it would be nightfall before it would be cleaned and refilled. She decided to take a swim while she could.
She went inside, closing the doors against the hot, still air, and rummaged in her dresser drawer for a swimming suit. She found one, a backless white lastex that hugged her supple figure as closely as her skin.
With a pack of cigarets and matches rolled into her towel and a white rubber cap swinging from one hand, she went into the hallway and started down the stairs. But for the ticking of the big clock on the landing, the house was clothed in complete silence.
She passed the clock on the landing as it bonged eight soft notes. From behind her came the sound of a softly closing door. She did not stop, but went into the hall and through to the living room and out to the patio. Resolutely she kept her mind from the happening of a few hours before. It was over, and as far as she was concerned it was done with.
Almost gaily she skipped across the patio and deposited her red and white striped towel and cigarets on a folding canvas beach chair. She drew the cap over her head and spent some time tucking her black curls beneath it. She went to the eight foot end of the pool and walked the length of the low diving board. She was poised on the end, flexing her knees to gain limberness, when the patio door leading to the living room closed sharply.
Idell relaxed and turned. It was Leona. She walked forward with her peculiar, rhythmic gracefulness; a close-fitting green hostess gown enhanced the smooth glide in her walk.
“Did you sleep well?” she asked.
Idell smiled faintly. She would have preferred almost anyone to Leona the first thing in the morning. But she was the hostess, officially now, and it was her duty to be pleasant to a guest, to all guests.
“After a fashion,” she said. “The first attempts were quite unsuccessful.”
Leona sat in a beach chair, leaned over and took one of Idell’s cigarets from the chair close by. She lit her cigaret carelessly and blew the match out with smoke. “I heard some disturbance,” she said.
Idell only nodded. There was no point in continuing this. It was beastly hot out here, in spite of the sun not having yet reached the patio. And the water looked too cool and inviting to waste time simply staring at it. She jumped once, hit the edge of the board perfectly and jackknifed into the water. Its coldness cut her flesh thrillingly. After the first shock she opened her eyes and swam downward. She would go down until she reached the bottom of the ladder, climb it and get out. Her arms carried her forward in smooth, swift strokes.
But she never touched the metal rungs of the ladder. The water was calm before her, and quite light even at that depth. For a moment Idell thought it was an illusion; then she knew differently.
The face stared at her. Hair streamed out from the sides of its head and moved like the gently writhing snakes on the head of Medusa. The face was colorless beneath the water and contorted hideously, as if by strangulation. The open eyes watched her balefully, unwinkingly. The rest of the body was almost vertically inclined alongside the ladder.
Idell wanted to scream. She opened her mouth involuntarily, and the rush of water sent her choking and sputtering to the surface. She grasped the sides of the pool, and drew herself to the tiles surrounding the edge. She lay and coughed until air replaced the water she had swallowed, and then she turned away and was violently sick in the bushes. When she faced the pool again her face was deathly white and her eyes tremendous and dark against the pallor.
Leona, across the pool, had not moved. She spoke with slow amusement. “Take a bit down the wrong pipe?”
Idell crossed the pool toward her. She collapsed into the chair, strength completely leaving her knees with startling suddenness.
“Someone is drowned in the pool,” she said. Her voice sounded odd and far away to her ears; she felt strangely impersonal. “It’s Link.”
Leona’s hands tightened on the sides of her chair and she drew herself straight. Her eyes held surprise; it was the first time Idell could remember having seen more than a fleeting expression on her usually impassive face.
“Drowned? In the pool?” She sucked in her breath. “It can’t be! It’s impossible!”
“See for yourself,” Idell said. “I came face to face with it—he’s horrible.” She shuddered. “Why is it impossible? Last night you told me how everyone hated—” She stopped. “We have to get him up, and call a doctor or something.” She didn’t feel calloused, unemotional toward this thing, just in an impersonal sort of daze, sick from the shock and the vomiting and still moving wholly without volition of her own. It was an odd, distant feeling, and she would never forget it.
Leona rose. “Yes, I suppose we had.” She was herself again, capable, aloof.
They went around to the far side of the pool. Idell paused by the ladder. “He must have hit his head diving or something,” she said. “I think he’s caught in the rungs some way. I’ll loosen him and try to pull him to the top. Maybe we can drag him out together. I’ll push and you pull.”
Leona seemed wholly unconcerned; it was as if she were discussing an inanimate object rather than a man who had been breathing, talking, drinking a short while before. “If you can drag him across to the other side it will be easier,” she said. “There’s more space to work there.”
Idell looked down at the narrow path that ran between the edge of the pool and the bushes on that side, and nodded. How odd she felt, how distant from all this. She took a deep breath, fought the icy chill that threatened again to make gelatine of her muscles and dove deep into the water.
Trying to keep her mind from it, her eyes from the staring, horrible face, she turned and swam toward the ladder. She circled, so she came toward the body from the side, away from the face. It was then she saw the rope. It was lashed around his waist, holding him against the ladder, tied to a rung. The realization of the meaning of that rope was not long in reaching Idell. It was almost as if she had expected it all along!
Not accident, but murder!
Her fingers fought with the water-soaked knot of the common cotton rope. She gave no thought that this was evidence, that she should leave it until the police took charge. She gave no thought to the police. She only wanted to get Link’s body from the pool—and then get as far from it as she could. She wanted to wash her mind of the clinging mould of death, and her body of the water which held that death.
The knot came loose at last. She left the rope about his waist, the ends which had been tied to the ladder rung trailing free. She grasped him beneath the armpits, and thrust herself upward.
It was not until her head broke the surface and air rushed into her lungs that she realized how long she had held her breath. It was a moment before she could force herself to lie on her back and kick her way across the pool, with Link’s cold flesh against hers.
She thought almost idiotically, “It’s a good thing I was a girl scout once. I never could do this otherwise.”
At last she reached the side of the pool where Leona waited and, after a struggle that took most of her strength, managed to turn him so the ends of the rope were uppermost. Leona reached down without comment and grasped them. Idell thrust her hands against Link’s belly. Leona pulled, and slowly, sluggishly, his tremendous weight lifted from the water and rolled over the lip of the pool and came to rest on the tiles. Water dripped soggily from his hair and body.
Idell pulled herself over the edge and rolled away from him and lay there, gasping for breath, allowing strength to flow again into aching muscles. It was an effort to turn toward him.
Leona’s voice helped her. “He’s quite naked,” she said. “I suppose we should cover him or something.”
Idell realized for the first time that Link was nude. She had touched his flesh, carrying him, yet until now the fact had not struck her. She rose a strifle unsteadily.
“I don’t know,” she said. “There might be a spark or something …” Artificial respiration kept thrusting itself into her mind. She knew it was foolish. He must have been in there some time. He was quite dead, she was sure. But the words persisted, and she knew she must try, satisfy herself. Then there would be no recriminations, no gossip, no accusations later.
She went to him, stretched now on his back, his horribly contorted face staring upward at the harsh blue sky. With a shudder, she bent and turned him over and arranged his head so it lay on one arm and any water that was in him would drain through his mouth. She kneeled between his legs and forced her hands to place themselves in the right places along his ribs, forced herself to ride forward, pressing, and draw back. His flesh was icy cold, clammy. She felt she was going to be ill again.
“The Schaeffer method, I believe?” Leona said with amusement.
“Do something useful,” Idell snapped suddenly. “My God, don’t just stand there and—” She broke off, her strength gone. She rose unsteadily. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m all shot to pieces.”
“I’ll get a drink,” Leona said. “You need it.”
Idell watched her move lithely across the patio and into the living room. She turned again to the body. No water had come from his mouth. She dropped to one knee to make sure. There should be water, she found herself thinking. There must be some water. A man doesn’t drown without getting water inside him somewhere. And she had done it right. She knew she had done it automatically and quite correctly.
Her face was close to his horribly contorted countenance. Suddenly she drew in her breath and straightened. For the first time the true horror of the situation struck her, and she drew back. Once more the strength went from her legs, and she found a chair just in time. She lay there, her head back, her arms dangling loosely at her sides, but her eyes fixed in staring horror at Link’s body. That faint, bitter smell had told her the truth. The real truth!
He had not drowned; he had been poisoned. Cyanide poisoning, she knew with irrevocable sureness. The apparent appearance of strangulation should have told her that. She turned as Leona glided back, a bottle of whiskey and two glasses in her hands. She set them down on the umbrella-covered table beside Idell and poured two fingers into each glass.
“Drink it,” she said almost sharply.
Idell drank, and the warmth of the liquor felt good in her chilled stomach. She relaxed a trifle, knowing now her nerves would not run away from her, that she had a grip on herself. “Thank you,” she said. “I suppose we should—I mean, they cover the dead, don’t they?”