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“Told—” she began, and stopped again. Merton must have told him that—that there was something other than the design, something she couldn’t remember. Why? Why? There must have been some reason—

  “That’s right,” the man said. “Think. You’ll remember. If you remember you’ll be all right.”

  But that was a lie. She wouldn’t be all right—not any way it worked out. If she had something to remember, she could not be left alive to remember. If she couldn’t remember—

  A kind of hopeless rage filled her. He—he—had done this to her. Lied, for some reason of his own. Left her—left her holding a lie which was shapeless in her hands. And—left her to this man with a gun. I’ll never forgive him this, she thought, and then, I’m thinking as if I’ll live to.

  “There wasn’t anything else,” she said. “Only the design. He—he fooled you.”

  And me, she thought. And me!

  “Mrs. Faye,” the man said, “this isn’t getting us anywhere. There was something else. I think you have remembered what it was. I think—”

  She started to speak.

  “Wait,” he said. “It may be something quite trivial. Something of no danger to—anyone. Or, something for which there’s an entirely reasonable explanation. Then—then we could all quit worrying, couldn’t we?”

  Think of something, Susan told herself. Think of something trivial enough, meaningless enough. Something that will get me out of this, so I can tell him how I hate him for this. Please, somebody, give me the right lines to speak. Please—

  The ringing of the telephone was a shattering sound in the room. Instinctively, she turned.

  “Let it ring,” the man said. “Just let it ring.” The gun, which seemed to have a life of its own—a sharp and savage life—lifted a little.

  The telephone bell rang. She had never known it rang so loudly. It rang again and again.

  “You expected somebody to call?” the man said, over the ringing, in the momentary pauses between the bell’s clamor.

  “No,” she said and then, quickly, “Yes. I—”

  And knew she had been too slow in catching honesty by the tail. He laughed. The bell kept on ringing, as if it would never stop.

  She still stood by the table which held the lamp. The useless lamp. And—a bronze figure of a crouching leopard. A thing big Michael had seen somewhere and liked and brought home and—and an object heavy for its size. A thing the hand could close on.

  She could not look down at it. That would give its existence away, give her hope away. Her hand dangled near it; she moved her hand. The light from the window lay across only half the table, did not lie on the crouching leopard.

  She moved her hand into the shadow. He did not seem to notice this. He seemed to he looking beyond her as he waited for the telephone to stop ringing. Her fingers touched the leopard. It was cold under her fingers. She left them there. There would be a better time. There had to be a better time.

  The telephone bell stopped ringing. He would concentrate again on her with the ringing over—the ringing which had, somehow, been an intermission. He must not look at her hand in the shadow. She looked at him, beyond him, as if she saw something behind him. Where there was nothing—nothing but windows and wall, and glass-paneled door. Where—

  Who had telephoned, Susan wondered. Not that it mattered. Not now. It might have been Merton—the one who had got her into this. Calling to—to what? Make sure she was having a peaceful evening? Tell her a pleasant goodnight?

  “To get back to it,” the man said. “We may as well get back to it. There’s no great hurry, but—”

  The only chance was to make him believe the truth. Not the lie he must have been told. Why? Why? Heimrich must have had—

  Of course. A trap. With her as bait. I’ll kill that man, Susan thought. I’ll get my hands on that man and— Her mind jerked to a stop.

  Behind this man in leather jerkin, leather boots—this absurdly costumed menace—there was movement. Susan had been looking beyond him, her eyes unfocused. There was movement—no, had been movement. She had missed—

  There was a shadow against the glass panel of the door. A shadow moved, was gone. It seemed to move downward, as if someone had been standing at the door and then had crouched below the panel.

  “You saw something that you thought was wrong,” the man said, patiently, explaining it all over again. “All I want you to do is to tell me what it was.”

  “Mr. Dale,” she said, “there wasn’t anything. I told you, Captain Heimrich lied to you. I don’t know why. To—to make you do something, probably. Something like this. Something that would—”

  “No,” he said. “You overestimate him, Mrs. Faye. He isn’t very bright, you know. Anybody can see he isn’t very bright. He wouldn’t think of anything like that. He—”

  The front door opened inward. It opened then—opened behind the man—opened with sudden violence.

  He had been there waiting. He—

  A lithe shadow came through the door. A shadow with a white blur of face—a slight figure—a—a girl. A girl all in black, dark hair hanging loose.

  The costumed man whirled and the girl said—cried—“I knew it would be—” and the man had her arm, was twisting her toward him.

  As he turned to the girl, grabbed at the girl, he turned partly away from Susan. In that instant, Susan threw the bronze leopard—threw it with all the strength of a tennis-hardened right arm, and threw it at the man’s head.

  And—missed his head. But the little statue, so heavy for its size, hit his right shoulder and must, for a moment, have numbed the hand which held the gun. Because as he turned back toward Susan, and released the black-clad girl, the gun dropped to the floor.

  The girl spun away, off balance. And Susan ran toward the man, toward the gun on the floor—crouched and threw herself down for it in a kind of dive.

  The man clutched at her. His fingers slipped from her bare shoulder. But they caught in the elastic inset of the strapless halter and the halter pulled away and down and his fingers slipped from it.

  Some reflexes are fatal, some betray. Without realizing what she did—then realizing too late—Susan used the hand which might, which just might, have reached the gun to clutch at the slipping halter, pull it back where it belonged, cover breasts with it. And, as the man kicked the gun from her reach, Susan made a shuddering sound, half a sob, of realization—of the realization of utter, reflexive—idiocy. The man used his left hand then to hurl her back, and she went down in a sitting posture and slid helplessly on the floor. And the man picked the gun up.

  He moved the gun back and forth, pointing at the girl in black, at Susan. They shared the gun; the gun instructed. They moved as the gun ordered, stood side by side—a slender girl absurdly in black; the taller woman in brief shorts and briefer halter. But halter in the right place, now; modesty restored, now.

  And Susan, standing, looking at the man, half seeing him, raged at herself—raged at all the idiocy, the reflexive responsiveness, which had somehow (without her knowing, without her willing) been built into her. Die, but die modest. Be killed, but keep covered.

  There ought to be dignity, her mind screamed at her. It shouldn’t be—funny, grotesque! So that your mind screamed with hating laughter at itself, while it drew back in fear.

  “You wouldn’t have got it anyway,” the girl beside her said, in a voice that, curiously, vibrated. “He’s very strong. Too strong.” It was oddly as if she read lines. “And evil,” the girl said, in the same voice, but more or less, it seemed, as an afterthought. And then, in an entirely different voice, a child’s pleased voice, she said, “Anyway, I got his beard.”

  And she held out, in long and slender fingers, a neatly pointed beard.

  “It was like you to wear the beard,” the child said, in the other voice, with dark contempt. “So like you.”

  But then—not Francis Dale? Because—but why had she been sure Dale’s beard was real? Why—of course! He had worn the beard when she h
ad pointed him out to young Michael, had said to the boy, “That’s Francis Dale.” But then Dale had not been in costume, had been wearing polo shirt and slacks. The beard was part of costume. Then—

  “But—who?” Susan Faye said, and the girl beside her said, “But of course—”

  The man said, loudly, “Be quiet, Chris! Shut up, Chris!”

  The gun added to the order. The girl stopped.

  The man looked at them, back still to light, face still shadowed by the grotesque hat. But I wouldn’t know him anyway, Susan thought. All I know about them—except that I saw Dale once or twice and knew him—all I know is what he told me. And she thought of the man she meant when she thought “he” and there was a kind of curdling inside her, a welling sourness.

  “As for wearing the beard,” the man said. “I wanted to give her a chance, Chris. Only, I’m afraid you’ve loused it up, haven’t you? With your—play acting. Because now, obviously, I’ve got to do something about you and—” He shrugged the shoulders under the leather jerkin.

  “The reason for all this,” he said and, with his free hand, indicated jerkin, leather boots. “Give her a chance to tell and not know who she told. See, Chris?”

  “You’d have done it anyway,” Chris Waggoner said, and now, again, spoke in the lower voice, the voice which vibrated—vibrated again with contempt.

  The crazy kid, Susan thought. Doesn’t she—realize? And then her mind was suddenly dark, groping. Do I?

  “Not without reason,” the man said. But now he did not speak in the assumed voice; it was as if, with the falseness of the beard snatched away, he had had himself stripped away the other falseness. As no longer sustainable? No—more than that. As no longer necessary. Which meant—

  It was harshly clear what it meant. And the incongruity, the almost farcical element, remained. Because the voice this costumed man now used was one which Susan had never heard before. Disguising it had been the theatrical device, meaningless. To die in the midst of costumed farce! There ought to be dignity—

  “Never without reason,” the man said, in the deep voice, the unknown voice.

  “Moth—” Chris began and the man said, “Be quiet, you little fool!”

  And then he sighed, as if in deep regret.

  “Determined, aren’t you?” he said. “Determined to get the lady killed. Because—”

  And then he stopped, half turned. Susan moved, but the gun moved more quickly, pointed with finality, and she stopped. She looked again toward the door, open now, only a screen between the room and night.

  There was no movement. But something had distracted, disturbed, the costumed man. She listened. She heard nothing.

  Fifty yards from the house, beyond the terrace, hidden because there the ground pitched down, Colonel had gone to sleep beside the friend who refused to play. He had heard dimly, as in a dream—even when awake he heard most things as in a dream—the familiar voice of the one who lived with the little god. She had been calling him. But he was already there. He whimpered briefly to his friend and, getting nothing for his trouble, went back to sleep. It was some time before he was again awakened.

  A sharp sound awakened him. (It was the sound of metal against wood as a gun dropped; to Colonel only a harsh and unaccustomed sound.) He moved his ears first, focusing on the sound. It was not repeated, but he heard other sounds and raised his head and turned it. People making their sounds. He listened. Not the sound that was important, not the little god. So—

  He looked at the unresponsive friend. He reached forward and, wetly, licked the face.

  And Trooper Raymond Crowley, who also had been dreaming vaguely, came awake. He came awake with a headache, at first with fog in his mind, then with sharp awareness which turned into alarm, anxiety. He remembered it clearly enough—the big dog leaping at him playfully, putting paws on shoulders; the loss of footing on the sloping turf, the effort to catch himself, the failure. Hit his head on something, obviously. Knocked himself out, obviously. But— How long ago?

  He stood up and for a moment was dizzy. He fought the dizziness away. He looked across the terrace toward the house. It was dark. But on either side of the doorway a man stood—each a shape only, a dark shadow outlined against the lighter background of the house.

  Crowley got his gun out. The men had only to look across the terrace to see him. They did not seem to be looking across the terrace. Crowley crouched and began to work his way around the terrace. The slope of the ground helped. Circle the terrace, get between the lurking men—why two men?—and their car, then close in.

  Colonel sat up, interested. The game was on again. Not the usual game. Still—

  Colonel followed his moving friend. Crowley swore silently. All he needed now, was this stupid great dog, who would be likely to bark at any time. Who would surely bark if spoken to, told to get the hell out of there; told to find a good place for it and drop dead.

  There was a panel truck at the bottom of the drive. It was an outline in the dim light. Near it was another man—the shadow of another man. He would have to be got first. If Crowley could get up behind him, crouch in the shadows of bushes, use the gun as a hammer—

  There wasn’t anything to hear. There wasn’t anybody coming. This was it. We’ve had it. Face it—bring truth and dignity back to this farcical charade.

  “You killed them,” Susan Faye told the costumed man. Her voice was steady. “Killed her. Then Brian. To make his look like suicide. I don’t know who you are. But you killed them.”

  He merely looked at her.

  “It’s you who’re the fool,” she said. “A silly, dressed-up fool. A—”

  The girl came to her, then, the gun ignored. The girl clung to her.

  “Don’t let him,” the girl said, and the voice was a child’s voice— the voice of a terrified child. “Don’t let Paul—”

  Susan put an arm around the trembling child.

  “There,” Susan said. “There, Chris. He won’t. He’s done, now—all done. Washed-up. He’s had it, Chris.”

  And that wasn’t true. It was the other way around—all the other way. But face it; bring dignity to it.

  “He can’t get away with it again,” Susan said.

  “Why?” the man said, as if he were interested. “It worked before. I got away with it before.”

  “You didn’t. That’s the whole—”

  “When they find you,” the man said. “And the gun in Chris’s hand. That will be enough. They swallowed the other until you found—whatever it was you found. Coat it enough, they’ll swallow anything. I learned that on the Coast. And what you found doesn’t matter now, does it? Because—”

  He whirled at the sound, and was almost quick enough. He got one shot off as the two men came through the door, and George Latham made a grunting sound but kept on coming. It was Heimrich, trained for that sort of thing, who knocked the gun from Paul Marley’s hand before he could fire again, and then knocked Marley off his feet.

  Marley lay on the floor and looked up at Heimrich.

  “Thanks for telling us,” Heimrich said.

  Chris Waggoner said, “Oh. Ohl” and was out of Susan’s protecting arm, running toward George Latham.

  “He hit you!” she said. “Hurt you. I’ll—I’ll kill him. George. George.”

  There was blood dripping, but barely dripping, from the side of George Latham’s head. He held the dark-haired girl close, made soothing sounds to her.

  “You’re brave,” the girl said, in her deeper voice. “So brave.”

  Susan Faye stood unmoving and, for all the shimmering whiteness of her arms and legs and shoulders it was as if she drew a cloak around her, a dark cloak.

  She looked at Heimrich; looked long at him. Then she turned and walked away from all of them—walked the length of the room and into her bedroom. She closed the door of the bedroom and, in the sudden silence, all of them could hear the click of the lock as she turned the key.

  XIV

  Heimrich had got to bed at
a little after six in the morning, and told himself that tomorrow was another day—had to be another day. He slept; he has learned to sleep when he can. But he dreamed—dreamed of eyes which were cold, unseeing. It is not usual for him to dream. He called Susan Faye for the first time at eight-thirty in the morning. She hung up as soon as she heard his voice.

  Heimrich looked at the telephone and swore at it—swore wearily. He was very tired; it had taken almost all the night. He had driven back from Carmel in the morning’s daylight, and should have been satisfied. Confronted with it at a little after three in the morning, Paul Marley—kept awake and waiting for some hours; given ample time to worry—had, after it was laid out for him, said, “O.K. Now for God’s sake leave me alone,” and then, rather unexpectedly, “It was a lousy trick you played, captain.” Which was a strange moral judgment from a man who had killed three people and planned to kill two more.

  The district attorney, like Heimrich himself, was convinced that Marley would, worked on enough, be more communicative. Not that it mattered particularly. He had been communicative enough, explicit enough, in the hearing of four people—two women he had a gun on, two men who waited and listened outside a screen door. A full and signed confession is always a convenient thing to have, but would hardly, in this instance, be necessary. They had enough.

  Aside from the most immediate thing—that Paul Marley had walked into a set trap and, being in it, unknowingly squealed, as trapped things do—they had had rather more by the time Heimrich drove through the night from Van Brunt Center to Carmel, the county seat, where Marley was locked up, waiting.

  It did not matter that they were still some distance from proving that Paul Marley had begun his killings—his killings staged as suicide—by killing his wife.

  “I know he did,” Chris Waggoner said. “I think I always knew it.” She used her deeper voice for that. George Latham was sitting beside her, a brief bandage on his scratched head. He held her hand. Heimrich was not sure, but he thought the tall young man—the “brave” young man, a judgment with which Captain Heimrich had no reason to quarrel—pressed the hand he held. At any rate, she said, “All right, George,” in her younger voice, and in a tone of contentment—of contented trust. (Which had given Merton Heimrich occasion to wince, and again to see cold eyes, hear a lock dick.)