It was that night that, besides the columns devoted to the inquest, a curious small story found its way to the newspapers.
A bartender in a little restaurant and bar on a back street not far from the Hatterick house claimed that on the day of Julie’s death a girl much resembling her pictures and wearing a plain brown hat and coat had come into the restaurant and had had two cocktails. The first one she had poured into the potted palm near her table; it was why he had remembered her. The second one she drank.
The story, it developed, had reached the police and the newspapers by way of an excited bus boy who had telephoned to both, saying that the bartender, seeing a picture of Juliet Garder in the paper, had commented on the likeness. But the bartender’s story, amplified under police inquiry, was actually not amplified but the reverse. He wasn’t sure it was the girl; the restaurant side had been dark because it was a dark day and, in the slack time between lunch and dinner, not lighted.
And she had been alone.
He told the police that and stuck to it. He wasn’t able, even, to make a definite identification of Julie.
Had he not surrounded his story with so strong an atmosphere of uncertainty it would have lent color to the suicide theory which, at that point, Guy said he intended to build upon when it came to a trial.
It was that night, too, that Rue asked Brule to send Alicia away.
She did more than ask, she demanded it — shaken by her own courage.
It was, really, because of Andy.
That night as she entered the little guest room Brule called to her from his study next door, and she went in. It was a small, shabby room with great fat medical books nudging the old leather couch and the chintz-covered chairs. A room Crystal and her decorator had not touched. Brule’s old desk was there, the one he used, worn, with cigarette marks on it.
Guy had just gone away after a long talk with Brule, in that little study, with the door closed.
Brule said abruptly: “Sit down. Rue — you’re not forgetting what I told you about not seeing Andy?”
She had not seen Andy, except at the inquest briefly, that day. Brule’s straight black eyebrows made a line across his face. He went on brusquely: “Not that Andy isn’t all right; he is. But just now —”
Again an unexpected current of rage caught her.
“Don’t you think then, just now, it would be better to send Alicia away?”
Instantly that impenetrable mask seemed to slip over Brule’s face; there was a moment of silence while he watched her. Then he said: “I see. So that’s the way the land lies. Who told you?”
It was like Brule. She would meet his own method of attack.
“You were honest enough about our marriage; I believed you. But you didn’t tell me you asked me to marry you because of — Alicia.”
His eyes narrowed a little.
“I suppose it was Alicia who told you. Well — you want to know the truth, and I’ll tell you the truth. I did marry you because of Alicia.” He leaned back in his chair and waited for what she might say.
A
nd there was enough she wanted to say. A very flood of fury, of accusation, welled up, clamoring to be spoken, to be cried out angrily. Humiliation has its own special cutting power, and she felt that keen edge so acutely that it was like a physical wound.
But there were things Rue had learned about self-control. She was strongly conscious of Brule’s steady, watchful look — a look that perceived so many things, was so deeply, habitually observant of the terms of life and living. She said at last, slowly:
“You’ve not failed in any way to keep the terms of the marriage you offered me. But now that I — know the truth, I cannot have Alicia in the house. If she stays here I must go.”
“Where?”
It confused her; brought her up short to regard the practical aspect of it.
“I think I could find work. I’ve done so before.”
“Not if I refused to let you return to the hospital.”
“I don’t think,” said Rue slowly, “that you would be so ungenerous.”
“In any case you’ve forgotten the police and our present situation. You can’t go away. Or at least if you did there would be a lot of to-do on the part of the newspapers — comment and speculation. And in all probability a policeman or two would go with you. You wouldn’t much like that.”
“It can’t — last forever.”
“Look here, Rue,” said Brule suddenly. “Are you in love with Andy? You’d better tell me, you know.” He paused and then went on: “He’s been making love to you, hasn’t he? I asked you that once before. Oh” — he put his hand up toward her in a quick gesture as if to check words of defense he felt were coming — “I know I’ve not exactly the right to ask you. Except — you are my wife, you know.”
“Alicia…” said Rue, half whispering.
“All right. I’ll — tell you the truth, Rue, so far as I can. Alicia must stay, if for no other reason than that she’s Steven’s fiancée and we’ve got to have her friendship.”
“Poor Steven,” said Rue. “He’s in love with her.”
“Well,” said Brule. “What about it? That’s all right… You think I’m inhuman, don’t you, Rue? Perhaps I am, but nevertheless, I expect you to go along with me in this emergency.”
“Exactly what do you mean?”
There was a sudden, amused sparkle in his eyes.
“You were always like that, Rue,” he said. “In the hospital, I remember; all
i
’s dotted and
t
’s crossed.”
“You —” she began and stopped, for it would have sounded friendly.
“I demanded it, I suppose you were going to say.” A shadow went over his face. “I’m responsible for too much, Rue. ‘Things we have done that we ought not to have done,’ eh? Funny how the Book of Common Prayer manages to put its finger on so many of humanity’s common failures. Well, just now, I mean — do as I say. Remain here yourself, of course, and Alicia will remain in the house. Don’t see too much of Andy just now. And be guided by what Guy tells you to do.”
Brule was always clever about getting, in one way or another, the thing he wanted. Even the shadow that was like wistfulness, and the trouble and anxiety in his face, might have been intentional — to arouse that sense of loyalty he knew so well how to arouse in his nurses.
“Why don’t you want me to see much of Andy?” It wasn’t jealousy. Rue knew that, therefore she could ask it.
“Newspapers,” said Brule promptly. “Talk. We are very much — too much — in the public eye just now.”
“But I should think Alicia’s presence here —” She checked herself. She leaned forward, fingers tightly interlocked. “Brule, why did you think Crystal was murdered? You must tell me that much. Why did you think it necessary to — actually to marry someone else in order to protect Alicia in case the inquiry into Crystal’s murder ever arose? What happened before Crystal’s death? What had Alicia to do with it? Why —”
“Wait a minute. Who told you all this?” He paused, and as she didn’t answer, he went on quickly and angrily: “It doesn’t really matter, of course, who told you. I can guess. But get these facts straight, Rue. I did not know Crystal was murdered — and thus there would be no reason at all for me to — marry you to prevent talk and suspicion touching Alicia. That’s sheer nonsense.”
“You went immediately to Alicia the night the inquiry began. The night we were going to the opera and you sent Andy to take me.” She said it with a kind of impersonal detachment; a mere stating of facts.
Brule rose, paced impatiently up and down the small rug and paused in front of her to stare angrily down at her.
“Now listen to me, Rue. I did go to see Alicia that night. And we had talked of Crystal’s death. But understand this: in the beginning, at the time Crystal died, I really thought she had either killed herself or had made what she intended to be merely an attempt at suicide — and the attempt had turned into the real thing and she died. That’s what I really thought.”
“Why—”
“Because Crystal — Crystal was extraordinarily determined about anything she wanted. It’s not a pleasant thing to say, but it’s the truth; if Crystal had decided that by using a threat of suicide she could get something she wanted, she would use it as a threat. Crystal — well, just believe me when I tell you that, for it’s the truth. Believe me and be patient with Madge, poor child… At any rate that’s what I thought; Alicia kept hinting at murder, but it didn’t seem possible — then. So when the police inquiry began and I heard about those confounded letters, naturally I went straight to Alicia to ask her why she had suggested murder when she did — right after Crystal’s death. I arranged to meet her about nine-thirty or so; she said she’d leave the opera, and I was to pick her up in the car, and I did. I didn’t see you and Andy; and I did send Andy to take you because I thought you’d be disappointed about not going, and yet I had to talk to Alicia — I had to find out why, when Crystal died, as long ago as that, Alicia had thought of murder.”
“And did you —”
“No. She — she either knew nothing or wouldn’t tell me. She knew — or said she knew — nothing of the letters. If I could only discover who wrote those letters! It’s got to be someone close to us: no one else would care. I suppose I have enemies, but I can’t think of anyone who would do anything just like that — who would know, even, the circumstances. There’s only Madge, Steven, you —”
“But I —”
“Oh, I know it stood to hurt you more than anyone else; and I know you didn’t write them. At first I thought it must be Madge; she’s resented your presence here, and she’s tried to make things as tough for you as she possibly can — don’t think I’ve not seen that, for I have. But I kept hoping that time and patience would smooth things over. When I talked to Madge about the letters, though, she convinced me that she’d never heard of them. Steven? Well, I can’t see Steven doing just that, either. Also it seemed to me he was genuinely astonished to learn of the police inquiry into Crystal’s death. There’s Andy — but it would hurt Andy. He was the attending physician; he wouldn’t stir up trouble for himself, or for me, for that matter. Andy’s loyal to me. And he rises or falls with me, and he knows it; he’s still dependent in a large measure upon my backing. I don’t mean Andy couldn’t go out and make a living without me; he could. But nevertheless he needs me. Besides, Andy — well, there it is again. Andy just wouldn’t do anything like that. Alicia would have no reason to write the letters. The servants, I think, are altogether out. There only remains, of the people who had opportunity to observe something of Crystal’s death and who are in any way close to us and thus might conceivably have a motive, Guy —”
“Guy!”
Brule shrugged.
“Why not? Guy’s been a friend of Crystal’s all his life. Mine, too, but he lived right next door to Crystal since they were both children. He handled all her business for her — and his father before him for Crystal’s people. She was an only child as Guy was. Guy is a good lawyer, but he has no conscience in particular; he’s a good friend of mine, I think — but if there was a choice between me and Crystal I think he’d cling to Crystal’s interests. But I may be wrong. I can’t exactly see Guy bestirring himself for any reason like that; to avenge anybody, I mean. It’s — well, in a queer way it’s the work of an idealist — letters like that. There might be several motives, but the first one to eliminate would be the desire to avenge Crystal’s death. Who then would want to do that — if you rule out some twisted, childish notion on Madge’s part? Who has that particular kind of — well, call it idealism? Conscience. Willingness to stir up all kinds of trouble, probably for himself, too, in order to get what he conceives to be the truth out in the open?”
“Steven —” said Rue slowly and then caught it back in horror. “Oh, no, not Steven. Steven’s too good —”
“I know. Too kind. Too — well, he’s a gentleman. Besides, he’s wrapped in his music; he hates anything that threatens to impinge upon him and thus hold up his work. Steven has the affection for laissez faire of any creative worker; he’ll do anything, submit to anything, for peace until he’s finished whatever he’s working on.” He paused, went back to the chair by the desk and looked at her thoughtfully.
“Yet,” he said unexpectedly, “he wouldn’t be likely to carry that desire for peace — into violent action.”
“I don’t —”
“I mean, he wouldn’t have been likely simply to murder Crystal if, in some way we don’t know about, she threatened his peace.”
“Steven — murder! It’s impossible.”
“Listen, Rue. After working in a great city hospital for eight years can you honestly say any-thing’s impossible?… I thought not. However…” He took a cigarette, lighted it slowly and looked at her through the little cloud of smoke. “However, I don’t think Steven murdered Crystal, I’m just explaining why I think he didn’t. I’ve had to consider Steven as a suspect — just as I’ve had to consider others. There’s one more person who might have written those letters — Julie Garder.”
That wasn’t exactly possible either.
“Why?” she said after a moment.
“I don’t know,” he said rather wearily. “But she’d be in a position to guess that Crystal’s death was murder. I knew Julie, really pretty well. All those years in the surgery. She was almost too conscientious. And she was starved for the kind of life that would have given her a real balance; I mean, in her loneliness events that another person could have taken in their stride would have with Julie loomed very large. There might have been an increasing perplexity and worry about having (as her action in coming here would indicate) actually some clue to that murder in her own possession. She might have worried and seethed secretly for months. And finally, as a sop to her conscience, written those letters. She wouldn’t have wanted to make a public accusation; she had her own future to consider and I,” said Brule rather grimly, “was in a position to make or mar that future. I think Julie wrote those letters. I think she had some definite clue in her possession, I think she came here (when because of her efforts the police inquiry actually opened) to talk to you about that clue. And — I think you have it, too. Except you don’t know what it is.”
“I don’t. There’s nothing —”
“There must be. Think well, Rue.”
“I have thought.”
“It must be some small thing; something that you remember of Crystal’s illness and death — or that you could remember. But something that was so natural, so completely a part of the routine of things that it means nothing to you. I mean it — whatever it is — must have no special significance in your mind. Or at least it wouldn’t have had until the fact of murder shed the — light of significance.”
“But I — Brule, there’s nothing.” He watched her anxiously for a moment. He had the faculty for commanding response, for drawing upon inactive reserve. But Rue had already traveled that path many times and found nothing at all at the end of it. He said at last:
“Would it help you remember events of that day if we could find the charts?”
She looked at him doubtfully.
“I don’t know. Perhaps. Where are the charts?”
“I don’t know. Somehow I don’t think they were destroyed. But Gross can remember nothing about them. I certainly didn’t take them away from Crystal’s room. Madge says she doesn’t even remember seeing them; I’ve even asked Steven about them, and he said, ‘Charts? What charts?’ I know Crystal’s medicines were thrown out; Rachel, I remember — or someone — asked me about them, and I said, naturally, throw them away.”
Rue said after a moment: “If you thought of suicide —”
“Crystal wouldn’t have put poison in her medicine. She would have taken it alone… And now it seems she didn’t do that.”
“Brule, who could have put the poison in the glass in my room?”
“Do you mean actually and literally, who
could
have put it there? Anyone in the house, of course; anyone who could have got hold of the stuff. That limits it. Madge, Alicia, Steven and I were in the house — rather I wasn’t actually in the house at the time. That’s another thing, Rue, that convinces me you must have some extremely important bit of evidence in your possession even if you don’t know it. For that attempt on your life — wasn’t really an attempt on your life. I mean it wasn’t meant to succeed.”
“You mean it was a — threat?”
“Exactly. You’ve thought that yourself, haven’t you? You see, even if you had poured water into the glass, you would have known at your first taste that there was something wrong. You’d never have taken enough to kill you.”
“It’s not been — exactly pleasant, thinking of it,” said Rue in a low voice.
“It was a threat. Think of it only as that.”
“Who —”
“I don’t know. Madge — so far as I know — has had no access at all to the stuff that was found in the glass. Alicia I don’t know about, but I’d say offhand she wouldn’t have had them with her, that night, for she had no chance to send for her things. Steven, of course, has a supply of practically everything there is.”
“Steven!”
“Certainly. He’s had neuritis for years; every time he gets an attack he gets scared about his hands. The only thing I can do for him is keep him supplied with all kinds of sedatives.”
“Then Steven had the poison that was found…” Her voice broke off. Brule nodded coolly.