Burnt Offering Page 17

  The police car bucked the gusty northwest gale—staggered in it. Forniss, being unable to swerve because a small car was approaching, hurrying southward, drove through a miniature lake which had collected in a depression of the roadway. Wings of water rose high on either side of the police car; into this inverted waterfall, the southbound car plunged and momentarily disappeared. Forniss, his hands tight on a wheel which the resistance of the water had wrenched at, said it was quite a night.

  “A little melodramatic,” Heimrich agreed. “Keys people up, a storm like this. Have you noticed that, Charlie? Makes people jumpy. Animals too. Too much noise, too much going on, for the nervous system.” He looked at Forniss’s undisturbed features. “Some people,” he added.

  “Yep,” Forniss said. “You know, I rather like them, myself.”

  “Makes it hard to be rational,” Heimrich said. “To do sensible things. Perhaps we’re all a little afraid of big storms. Not especially of being hit by lightning, or by falling trees. Just of the—violence. I knew a dog once used to bark at thunder. Rational dog other times, as dogs go. Knew a cat swelled up her tail and, far as anybody could tell, began to see ghosts.”

  “Static electricity,” Forniss said. “Maybe.”

  “Take a person already excited,” Heimrich said. “Or, call it frightened. Otherwise, other times, a sensible person. Rational, as people go. Add a storm like this—”

  He did not finish. They drove through The Corners. The Purvis garage was dark.

  “Lights out here, now,” Heimrich said. “Be out all over if this keeps up. Do things they wouldn’t do otherwise. As people, when a house is on fire, throw mirrors out of a window and carry mattresses downstairs. At least, they’re supposed to.”

  The wind had momentarily halted the wiper blades. Forniss leaned forward to peer through the blurred glass. The blades again took up their task.

  “Another mile or so,” Heimrich said. “Have to watch we don’t miss it. Explains Mrs. Faye’s actions, perhaps. Very foolish, naturally. She did remember to get Crowley up to the house. Remembered to take the back way out. All to do something no rational person would do.”

  “If you’re right,” Forniss said. “We still don’t know.”

  “No,” Heimrich said. “But I think it was that way, don’t you? I think she worked it out and went off, all keyed up, to—do something about it.”

  “Because the character fitted the crime?” Forniss asked. He had to raise his voice to ask above the storm.

  “Now Charlie,” Heimrich said. “It does, of course. It—and other things.”

  “And your catalytic agent?”

  “Oh,” Heimrich said. “We’re riding through it, aren’t we? Here’s the turn, Charlie.”

  Unjustly assaulted from below when a passing car spurted water from a puddle on the roadway, Susan Faye’s little car coughed indignantly. It caught its breath, and coughed again. It gave indications of going into a fit of strangulation. Susan Faye said, “Damn,” removed her foot momentarily from the gas pedal, and put it back on, hard. The car coughed once more, but as a car which clears its throat. It continued, which had seemed doubtful.

  She turned in at the Old Stone Inn, stopped at its doorstep—it wouldn’t matter on a night like this—and left the car, its motor running. She left her automatic on the car’s seat, having to turn back to do it. She went the short, necessary distance through streaming rain, and dripped across the little lobby to the desk. Miss Wentworth, who assisted in management, was immaculate behind the desk. She was also dry.

  “You poor thing,” Miss Wentworth said to Susan Faye. “Whatever brings you out on a night like this?”

  “Captain Heimrich,” Susan said. “He is staying here, isn’t he?”

  “Of course,” Miss Wentworth said. “Where else could he stay, Susan? Only I’m afraid—I know he didn’t go up and I think—but Harold will know, won’t he?”

  “Probably,” Susan said, and went to the taproom, went across it to Harold at the bar.

  “Evening, Mrs. Faye,” Harold said. “What brings you out on—”

  “I’m trying to find Captain Heimrich,” Susan said.

  “Gone out,” Harold said. “With the sergeant. Like it says, neither rain nor sleet nor—”

  “I know, Harold,” she said. “Please. It’s important. Do you know where he went?”

  “How’d I know that, Mrs. Faye?” Harold asked. “Got in the car and drove off’s all I know.”

  “You don’t know which way?”

  “Oh,” Harold said. “Sure. Up toward The Corners.”

  “They didn’t say anything? You didn’t hear—”

  “You know I don’t listen, Mrs. Faye. Nobody can say I—”

  “Please, Harold,” Susan said. “Of course you don’t. But—it’s very important.”

  “Well,” Harold said, “the captain said something about they’d better get going. To where somebody else had gone. Tell you the truth, I thought—mind you, I didn’t listen—but I thought he said where you’d gone. But I guess it wasn’t that, because you’re here. See what I mean?”

  “Yes,” Susan said, and went back through the taproom and across the lobby. “My dear,” Miss Wentworth said, “you’re not going out again? In this?”

  “Yes,” Susan Faye said, and did. The car’s motor was still running. She completed a circle and drove north. She got past The Corners and approached High Road. She drove through the miniature lake in the roadway’s depression. Water shot out from the little car’s wheels; it also shot up under the car.

  This was too much. The car coughed violently and the motor stopped. There was momentum enough for her to reach the shoulder, softened by the rain. The car seemed to snuggle thankfully into the wet earth.

  It was, Susan realized, going to have one of its spells. Although gloomily sure that no good would come of it, she stepped on the starter button. The starter came to life, with reluctance. If she insisted on playing games, the car would so far play along. But it would play no further. After five minutes, with the starter grinding more slowly, Susan gave it up.

  There were almost no cars on the road; driving to the inn she had passed only one, driving north again she had encountered no one. She did not suppose there would be no other cars, but another might be long in coming. And it was doubtful if any car would stop. She looked through the windshield, through the car’s windows, at the sheets of rain.

  But I can’t just sit here, she thought. I told Michael—I told Michael— And then she thought, I’m sure the trooper came; I waited until I was sure. But in the process of this self-reassurance, she became less sure. I’ve got to get back to Michael, she thought. I shouldn’t have left Michael. I can’t just sit here.

  She tried once more to get the little car started. But now the starter turned the motor only once and then, as again she pressed the button, there was only the dull sound of metal (somewhere) making contact with metal. There was no movement under the hood of the little car; the only movement was the vibration of the car in the angry wind.

  She pushed at the door nearest her. As the car faced, the northwest wind hammered at that side of the car. She got the door a little open, and the wind forced it back again. It took minutes, and seemed to take much longer, for her to force the door open against the wind, to hold it open, now using all her strength, long enough to slip through it, and stand on the highway. Momentarily, then, the wind was so violent that it whirled her back against the car, as the door handle tore itself from her hand. The door banged closed, and she was alone with the wind and rain.

  She lowered her head, so that the wind would not snatch all breath from her, and walked into the storm. The belted raincoat flattened against her body, the wind drove rain through the coat, so that within minutes it was no longer protection, but only a clammy constriction of her movements. By then she was cold, and her breath came in gasps, and to walk into the wind was like climbing a great hill.

  She crossed the highway so that she would walk
facing any car which might come toward her. But no cars came.

  Words beat in her mind, in cadence with her steps. “I’ve got to get home. I’ve got to get home. I’ve—got—to—get—home.”

  She was about a mile from the house (which had been a barn; where a boy and a big dog waited) when she left the car. A quarter of a mile on the highway would bring her to the High Road fork; three-quarters of a mile, or a little more, up the winding, climbing road would bring her to her own driveway. Once on High Road it would be easier to fight the storm; parts of the twisting road were sheltered by the rising hills, by great trees. (But lightning would be leaping among the trees. Lightning leaped everywhere; it seemed to tear venomously at the earth.)

  She was at the fork almost without knowing it. She turned up High Road and the lights of a car, yellow in the swirling air, came down the road toward her—came slowly, questingly. She stepped off the road, onto the soft shoulder, to let the car pass, but the car slowed still more and then, when it reached her, stopped. It was a station wagon. The driver leaned across the front seat and rolled the window partly down. She could not, at first, see the driver’s face. The driver raised a voice above the storm.

  “Hey!” the driver called, across a few feet of seething rain. “Trying to drown yourself? I say—trying to drown yourself?”

  Susan moved toward the car. A few steps brought her in the car’s lee, and then she could wipe her face with a wet hand, open eyes which had been half closed against the beating rain. Then she could see the driver’s face.

  Her recoil was involuntary. She could not stop herself from drawing back; lifting both hands, palms toward the stopped station wagon—lifting warding hands.

  “What’s the matter with you?” the driver asked, and now they were close enough so that the voice was very little raised. “Come in out of the rain. You—”

  “No,” she said. “No!”

  “I don’t get—” the driver began, and then stopped speaking, as she spoke again.

  “He didn’t say anything,” Susan Faye said. “He didn’t. He didn’t! I told you. He didn’t tell me anything.”

  And then, suddenly, she threw herself toward the car, toward the now opening door.

  “Michael!” she called. “Michael! Are you there, Michael? You—have you got Michael in there?”

  A strong hand closed on her arm. Partly from the impetus of her own movement, partly wrenched forward by the hand, she fell forward, into the car. In an instant, she was lifted farther in, hauled up to the seat. She swung herself, instantly, and looked into the rear of the station wagon. Michael was not there. She turned back to the driver.

  “So,” the driver said, slowly, and reached across her to the door, and slammed it shut. “No—you took care of the boy.”

  She reached toward the door, to force it open.

  “Clever girl,” the driver said. “Much—too—clever.”

  Mike’s gun! she thought. I left the gun on—

  Her whole body jarred; for an instant the lightning seemed to be in her head—

  She slumped on the seat. The driver put down the revolver which had been used as if it were a hammer, and started the car rolling again. At the stop sign the car halted, obediently. It started up again.

  At first, the big house had appeared dark. But as Forniss drove the police car up the drive, they could see dim lights behind downstairs windows. Forniss parked the car at the side of the drive, behind an elderly Ford coupe. “Got company,” Heimrich said, and they walked a flagged path to the front door. The beam of a flashlight guided them. In the light from the flash, the air seemed water.

  They stood on the porch, rang a bell, and waited. Heimrich took his hat off and upended it, and water cascaded from the hat brim. The beam of a flashlight fell on them through the glass panel of the door. It moved from one to the other, inquisitive. Then the door opened. Cornelia Van Brunt looked up at the two solid men and said, “Well?” without approbation, and without welcome. But, as the swirling wind found the opening and leaped at it, bringing rain, she pulled the door toward her abruptly and said, “Don’t stand there,” and stepped back so that they could go into the house. Forniss pushed the door closed behind them, against the angry wind.

  “We’re looking for Mrs. Faye,” Heimrich said.

  “She’s certainly not—” Mrs. Van Brunt began, and broke off. “Looking for her?” she repeated. “Does that mean—”

  “She’s disappeared,” Heimrich said. “Under rather odd circumstances.”

  Mrs. Van Brunt said, “Oh,” with a certain inflection. She said, “You’re dripping on the carpet. Both of you,” and Heimrich said they were sorry. They took off raincoats, and Mrs. Van Brunt watched them without objection. “The power’s off,” she said. “It goes off every time there’s a little storm.” She turned and walked toward the doorway which led to the drawing room, and they followed her. “You’d think somebody would do something,” she said, and went into the big room where candles did not precisely illuminate, but moderated the darkness. “These men are looking for Susan Faye,” Mrs. Van Brunt said into the gloom. “Although why they look here—”

  Myra Burns was very small in a large chair. She stood up—it was rather as if she hopped up.

  “Oh dear,” she said. “Why, it’s Captain Heimrich. The detective!” Her quick glance darted to Cornelia Van Brunt. “Looking for poor Susan?” she said.

  “That’s what they say,” Cornelia told her. “That’s what I said.”

  “But it’s storming,” Myra Burns said. “I’m afraid I don’t really understand. And why look here, as you said, Cornelia? Of course, she wouldn’t come here.”

  “We don’t know where she went,” Heimrich said. “We’re merely trying to find out. Making the rounds.”

  “Captain,” Mrs. Van Brunt said, “are you saying that it was she who—that she is the one you’ve been looking for?”

  “Now Mrs. Van Brunt,” Heimrich said. “I haven’t said that. She—left her house rather hurriedly, not long ago. In spite of the rain. After a couple of shots had been fired.”

  “How dreadful!” Myra Burns said, and appeared to be hopping up and down, although actually she merely vibrated, and that slightly. “And her poor little boy!”

  “Oh,” Heimrich said, “the boy’s taken care of, Miss Burns. It’s Mrs. Faye we’re—”

  “Captain,” Cornelia Van Brunt said, and her tone was firm, commanding. “Are you telling us poor Susan has been—hurt? You said there were shots.”

  “I hope not,” Heimrich said. “Yes, somebody fired twice. We don’t know the circumstances. Is your son here, Mrs. Van Brunt?”

  “My son?” she said. “Why do you ask me that, captain?”

  “You and Miss Burns seem to be alone,” Heimrich said. “It’s rather a violent storm.”

  “Henry had to go to New York,” Mrs. Van Brunt said. “On business. I still don’t know why you ask.”

  “And the servants?”

  “It is Florence’s day off,” Mrs. Van Brunt said. “As for the Hansels, I told you. They don’t sleep in the house. I assume they are in their quarters. Isn’t this a little absurd, captain?”

  “But Cornelia,” Myra Burns said. “Don’t you understand? There’s somebody around shooting at people. The captain merely means—”

  “I hardly think,” Mrs. Van Brunt said, “that you and I are likely to be molested, Myra. Please don’t—twitter so.” She turned to Heimrich. “Well,” she said. “You can see Mrs. Faye isn’t here. I imagine that this is the last place she would think of coming.”

  “Why?” Heimrich asked.

  “‘Why?’” Cornelia Van Brunt said. “Why would she? We aren’t friends. Hardly acquaintances. If she’s running away, as you say she is—if she wanted some place of concealment—surely—”

  The sound of a bell interrupted her. It surprised her, Heimrich thought. Perhaps there was more in her expression than surprise.

  “I’ll go, dear,” Myra Burns said. But S
ergeant Forniss had gone. He used a flashlight in the hall, sent its beam through the glass panel of the door, as Mrs. Van Brunt had done. He came back with a tall man ahead of him.

  “Samuel!” Cornelia Van Brunt said. “Whatever—”

  “Sorry, Cornelia,” Sam Jackson said. “I didn’t know you were entertaining the police.” But he looked at Heimrich, and his eyes narrowed. “Looking for something, captain?” he said.

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “Susan Faye, Mr. Jackson. And—a murderer, naturally.”

  “Poor Susan,” Myra Burns said. “Just for a little money!”

  They all looked at her.

  “She’s run away, Sam,” Myra said. “Isn’t it—dreadful?”

  Jackson regarded Heimrich.

  “It was Mrs. Van Brunt who suggested that Mrs. Faye was running away,” Heimrich said. “She has—disappeared. But you know that, don’t you, Mr. Jackson? Because you were at her house. Why have you got a gun in your pocket?”

  “When I go a place where there’s shooting,” Jackson said, “I often take a gun, captain. A properly licensed gun. You’re looking for Sue here?”

  “Shooting?” Heimrich repeated. “You mean at Mrs. Faye’s, Mr. Jackson? Then you knew shots had been fired before you went there, naturally.”

  “Heard them,” Jackson said. “You know where I live?”

  “On Van Brunt Pass,” Heimrich said. “About—what is it? A mile from Mrs. Faye’s house?”

  “Less than that,” Jackson said. “Considerably less, as the crow flies. If crows flew in straight lines, as they don’t. A quarter of a mile—and across a valley—and to the south, and the wind’s blowing from the northwest. You ask a good many questions, captain.”

  “Now Mr. Jackson,” Heimrich said. “An occupational hazard, wouldn’t you say? What brings you here?”

  “Looking for Sue,” Jackson said. “I—I thought I might get Henry to help.”

  It was the first time Heimrich had heard Sam Jackson speak hesitantly, without a deep, if quiet, assurance.