Foggy, Foggy Death Page 19

  “The library!” Heimrich said. He started toward it, and now his eyes were accustomed to firelight. He got around the circle of chairs; he and Forniss got to the library door almost at the same moment. But the door resisted; Forniss spent a second pulling at it before they both realized that it was locked against them. They went back then, went the long way around, the length of the East Room, back through the hall. In the hall the darkness was almost complete. They had to go slowly, creepingly. They found the other door into the library and went into the smaller room and lighted matches. There was nobody in the room.

  They went back to the East Room, and now all of them except Scott Bromwell were on their feet—all except Scott and his mother, who was not there.

  “Flashlights!” Heimrich said, to Scott. “Where are they?” Scott only looked toward him. “Damn it, man—” Heimrich began, and dropped it. It wouldn’t do any good. He couldn’t expect it to do any good.

  But by then Forniss had got a flashlight from his coat in the hall closet, and found another there for Heimrich. After that they could begin to search the big, dark house; after a little several troopers, also with flashlights, were helping—and Stephen Nickel was helping. But Scott Bromwell, who knew the house better than any of them except his mother, sat in front of the fire in the East Room, not moving. And nobody asked him to help.

  Nor did Karen help. She walked to the end of the long room nearest the entrance hall; she stood there in the darkness, by a window, and looked out at darkness. She felt as if all that had supported her for twenty-four hours and more had suddenly melted; she felt, physically, as if she could hardly stand. She looked out dully and heard the others moving around her; saw now and then the moving finger of a flashlight. Someone was shining a flash through an upstairs window on the front of the house, moving it from side to side. It showed only that the fog had lifted; the beam was clear in the darkness, but it found nothing.

  Men with lights began to appear outside then, three or four of them, ineffectually surrounding the house, throwing sharp channels of light this way and that. Someone came down the stairs, moving rapidly—a heavy man moving rapidly. The beam of a flashlight caught Karen, outlining her against the window.

  “Miss Mason!” Heimrich said. “Where would she go?”

  She merely shook her head.

  “You don’t want it this way,” Heimrich told her, and was beside her. “Nobody—”

  Then it happened. The car had cleared the garage, was on the driveway swinging from it to a juncture with the main drive below the big graveled turnaround, before its lights went on. They went on glaringly then, and as they went on the car swirled, skidding on the ice. It went almost half around, so that its lights were blindingly in their eyes; then it swung back, still on the ice-sheathed drive.

  Heimrich wrenched at the casement fastening, pushed the window open, shouted into the night. A flashlight beam near the drive danced from side to side, in frantic signalling. But the car went on. At the last moment the flashlight described an arc as the man jumped away from the car. He fell on the ice, and was up again, slowly. But they could see only the light.

  The car was beyond them now, going away from the house; it was on the drive and its twin tail-lights were red, retreating eyes. At a twist in the drive the car skidded again, came out of it again. It was moving faster now.

  Men were yelling outside, and above other men were running, converging on the staircase. But nothing could stop the car; it was beyond the reach of any of them. As it went down the drive it went faster and faster.

  “God!” Heimrich said. “She’s—she’s not even trying! You see that?”

  Karen did not answer; he was not, in any actual sense, speaking to her. Then he was not beside her; he was running across the room toward the hall, and she heard him and others at the door. She saw them come out of it, their lights stabbing uncertainly into the darkness as they slipped on the ice. They went slowly, yet about their grotesque, clumsy movements there was a feeling of desperate urgency. Down the long drive, the red eyes receded, each moment seeming to gain speed in their retreat.

  The car had dipped with the drive, so that Karen did not see the end. But she heard it through the open window—a great crashing of metal, a tearing of metal. There was that crash first and then, after an instant, another crash, different in texture—less shrill, heavier. Karen Mason put her hands over her eyes to shut out what she could not see.

  After a second she turned away from the window and looked back down the room. Scott Bromwell had not moved. He had only covered his face with his hands.

  XIII

  Now the sun shone. It poured in the south windows of Karen’s room; in the morning sun the trees darted light from ice-covered branches; it was a very bright, new world. It was as if, after a tragedy played out, the house lights had come up, promising that it had all been make-believe. Fog and rain and death—nonsense, the new day said. It was a bright world, with an unnatural glitter; it was so bright that it was painful for human eyes to look at. Awakened by the light, Karen Mason for an instant could see nothing else, think of nothing else. It was as if she had escaped from a nightmare in the dusk.

  But it had not been a nightmare, and those who were dead had not died in make-believe. Marta was dead, and the little man named Higgins, and Lucretia Bromwell, who had killed them. These things might not concern the bright new day; the sun might laugh at them. But to Karen, after that first instant, they blackened out all the tinsel brightness of sunlight on glittering ice. She was not afraid, now; there was now an end to that long period of foreboding. Now she felt only a kind of deep hopelessness, as if now no good could ever come of anything. She closed her eyes against the light, remembering.

  Heimrich had come back alone up the drive, come slowly, with heavy care on the glaze. He had come to tell them that Mrs. Bromwell was dead in the big Cadillac and, he thought, dead by intention. Several of the troopers had been in time to see the end. They agreed that Mrs. Bromwell had not tried to put on the brakes; that the car was still gaining speed when it started on the last dip toward the road. When it reached the road the car had skidded, possibly because there had been a final effort to make the turn. It had skidded sideways across the road, crashed into the low wall on the road’s far side and, after hanging an instant, gone over it to the rocks below. Mrs. Bromwell was dead in the car when they reached it.

  “I don’t think,” Heimrich said, “that she was trying to get away. I think she did what she wanted to do.”

  Scott Bromwell, after Captain Heimrich had finished, had got up and gone out of the East Room, wordlessly. After a little, Karen had gone too. She had gone to her room numbly and had held fast to numbness. In bed, she had gone to sleep almost at once, and had slept heavily, making sleep a curtain surrounding her. But now the curtain was torn open. It was, she was surprised to find, almost nine thirty.

  And now it came back, harshly. Scott’s mother had killed Marta, because she had believed that Scott planned to kill her—and so she had, finally, acted for Scott, to protect him from himself. She had killed again, perhaps the second time—as Heimrich had told her—at least partly to protect herself. And all that she had done had been needless—horribly needless. Scott would not have killed Marta. Marta had been planning, without being bribed, without being in any way persuaded, to go away. Probably—although of that they could never be entirely certain—with Stephen Nickel, and the child she had had by Nickel. (That much of Nickel’s story Karen believed, and thought Heimrich believed.) If not with Nickel, then with Rudolph Haas, as Haas would (Karen thought) always believe. Mrs. Bromwell had acted with decision, as she always did; with that dreadful assurance (but dreadful now only in retrospect) of hers and she had been hideously, fatefully wrong. She had broken everything.

  Scott must now go through the rest of his life knowing that his mother had killed for him, to protect him; that, to a degree, he had shared in murder. He would never, Karen thought, free himself from the darkness of that k
nowledge; nor would he let her—perhaps let anyone—share it with him. So Mrs. Bromwell had broken whatever might have been between Scott and Karen. Mrs. Bromwell had broken it and, certainly, Karen had herself broken it. It was because of what I did (Karen thought), of what I remembered, that Heimrich found her out, and so because of what I remembered, and what I said, that she—killed herself. Without that, it might never have been made clear. With so many to choose among, Heimrich might never have been able to make a final choice—or, at any rate, a final choice with which a jury could have been brought to agree. If I had not remembered the blouse, remembered the sleeves dangling, the cuffs open, there would never have been the crack into which he could force his mind, playing one of us against another until—

  There was no use thinking about it. There was only one thing to do. Karen got out of bed, showered quickly—all her movements were automatic—and dressed. Then she went to the closet and began to take her clothes out of it, laying dresses beside one another on the bed. She would have to have her trunk brought up, and the big suitcase. She would go some place, any place—she would go to New York and find some sort of work there and, after a time, some sort of life. This was ended. She laid a suit beside the dresses on the bed. And then someone knocked at the door.

  She looked at Sergeant Forniss blankly. For an instant, she felt a reawakening of fear. Surely—surely—it was all over. Surely there wasn’t anything else.

  “It’s all right, Miss Mason,” Forniss said. “We’re just about to go along. But—the captain would like to see you for a minute or two.” He paused. “If it’s convenient,” he said, and this time, she realized, the request was not an order, the qualification was real.

  “But—” she said. “But why? What more is there?”

  “I think he wants to tell you something before we go,” Forniss said. “Clear things up a bit.”

  It was all clear enough.

  “All right,” Karen said. “I’ll come down. The library?”

  “If you don’t mind, Miss Mason,” Forniss said.

  He did not wait for her this time, as before he had waited for each person he summoned. He went on and, after a few minutes in front of her dressing table, Karen followed him. Once again she went the length of the East Room (but this morning the East Room was crossed by sun) and into the library. Heimrich was there—and Scott Bromwell was there. Karen said, “Oh!” and stopped at the door. “Come in, Miss Mason,” Heimrich said. “I was just talking to Mr. Bromwell.”

  Karen went in. She said, “Hello, Scott.”

  This time he looked at her.

  “It’s all right, Karen,” he said.

  The complete weariness was still in his face. But his face was not set, contorted, as it had been.

  “Sit down, Miss Mason,” Heimrich said. He waited until she did. “You two are blaming yourselves,” he said. “You— shouldn’t. You can blame me, if you like. You can blame a storm which put out the lights, naturally. But not yourselves.” He looked at Scott Bromwell. “Not even you, too much,” he said. “Although—”

  “I know,” Scott said. “I was—” He broke off. He shook his head.

  “Not wise,” Heimrich said. “Not—sensible. It’s sometimes hard to be, naturally.”

  “In one way or another,” Scott said, “I killed Marta. Even Higgins. Even—”

  “No,” Heimrich said. “Don’t be a fool, Mr. Bromwell. Killing isn’t that easy. And—responsibility doesn’t run that far. Your mother did what she—decided to do. It was her decision, not yours.”

  “For me,” Scott said. “Because she thought I was planning to kill Marta. Because she didn’t want—wouldn’t let me be a murderer.”

  “No,” Heimrich said. “It isn’t that simple. Think about it, Mr. Bromwell. Think about it.”

  Scott said he had, but Heimrich shook his head.

  “Not that simple,” he said. “Suppose she did think that. Probably she did. Almost certainly she did. Would that make her kill—if she didn’t want to kill? Think about it. She could have argued you out of it; done half a dozen things to stop you. She could have gone to your wife and warned her. She could have insisted on driving Miss Mason herself; she could have insisted on going along with your wife and Miss Mason. A hundred things, Mr. Bromwell. Think about it.”

  But Scott shook his head.

  “It was still for me,” he said.

  Heimrich closed his eyes.

  “Now Mr. Bromwell,” he said. “Things aren’t like that. Your mother hated your wife. Marta was everything she would hate. There was truth even in what Haas said—that she hated Marta because Marta might make you all ridiculous. She hated her because she loved you—loved the children. You think she didn’t fear your wife’s influence on Pethy? On the little boy? As you did? Your actions merely fixed the time. They weren’t the cause”

  “I don’t know,” Scott said. “How did you know how I felt about the children? Did I tell you?” He was puzzled, Karen thought.

  “Not directly,” Heimrich said. “But it was true, naturally.” He paused. “You didn’t know your mother very well, did you? Perhaps men never know their mothers very well. She was—arrogant, you know. There was arrogance all through it. Particularly in the case of Higgins. You see—your mother thought he was insignificant. As she did—oh, Haas. In a sense, your wife. She didn’t bother to hide it. From me, from anyone. Arrogance is one of the things that make killers, naturally. I think you ought to face it, Mr. Bromwell.”

  “I don’t know,” Scott said. He spoke slowly, as if now he were thinking of it. “I—I didn’t see her that way.”

  “To the end,” Heimrich said. “It might have been hard to convict her, you know. There were so many other—possibilities. A good lawyer would have used them all. But—your mother would have found arrest and trial—well, I suppose she would have called it, impossible. And—embarrassing. It would have come out that she made a mistake about you. A mistake of—well, call it inexperience. An—inappropriate mistake.”

  He paused and looked at Scott, and Scott looked at him.

  “You’re sure it was a mistake?” Scott said.

  Heimrich closed his eyes. After a long moment he said, “Yes.” He opened his eyes.

  “You see, Mr. Bromwell,” he said, “murder isn’t in you. I know they say it’s in everybody. I don’t think so—not really. Not for more than theory spinning. I don’t think you’d have killed your wife.”

  “But,” Scott said, “you’ll—never know. I’ll—”

  “I know,” Karen said. “I know.”

  Both of them looked at her.

  “I know,” Karen repeated. “I’ll—I’ll always know.”

  Then, for the first time since he had reached the monstrous house, Captain Heimrich smiled.

  “There you are, Mr. Bromwell,” he said. “There you are.”

  Scott was looking at Karen. His eyes were a little narrowed, as if he were studying her from some new knowledge. But it was no good, now, Karen thought. It was too late. Because he would remember, finally—would never be able finally to forget—that because of what she had said, Lucretia Bromwell had killed herself. If he came to accept what Heimrich said—and he might—even that wouldn’t make the difference; wouldn’t make enough difference.

  “—and then bungled it,” Heimrich said. “That would have come out too. Embarrassed her too, naturally.”

  He spoke with his eyes closed, beginning the sentence in the middle, speaking almost reminiscently.

  “Gave herself away so obviously,” he said. “She might as well have admitted it then.”

  Karen looked at him. He could not have seen her do that, but he opened his eyes.

  “About Miss James, Miss Mason,” he said. “Didn’t you get that? When Mrs. Bromwell forgot the fog?”

  “Oh,” Karen said. “But that was—” Heimrich nodded. But he turned to Scott Bromwell.

  “You see, Mr. Bromwell,” he said, “your mother claimed to see something she couldn’t hav
e seen. Miss James walking toward the garage. Following your wife, your mother said she thought. Stopping ‘almost at the garage’ to look around. To see if she was observed, we were supposed to think. The trouble is, of course, your mother couldn’t have seen that far. Not in the fog. She forgot that. Probably described Miss James as doing what she’d done herself. When she followed your wife to the kennels. Persuaded her to go for a walk. We’ll never know how. When she forgot the fog she gave herself away.” He turned back to Karen. “I thought you realized that, Miss Mason,” he said.

  She should have. She realized that now. She had idly watched Marta walking away from the house toward the garage. After fifty feet, Marta had vanished in the fog.

  “No,” she said. “But then—it wasn’t the cuff links? Wasn’t what I said?”

  “Now Miss Mason,” Heimrich said. He closed his eyes. “This sort of thing is my business,” he said. “I’m—reasonably good at it. The cuff links didn’t prove enough, naturally. He could have stolen them from an empty room. It’s when people lie to incriminate other people that—well, that you get the shape. Find the character to fit the crime. Which—”

  He stopped. He stood up.

  “Well,” he said, “that’s all I wanted to see you two about. Didn’t want you to blame yourselves too much.”

  He walked around the table, headed toward the door.

  “By the way,” he said, “Haas has gone on. The roads are better now. Nickel’s going. An odd man, Nickel. But he’ll make no trouble about the little boy, Mr. Bromwell. I—persuaded him he wouldn’t.”

  He went to the door.

  “Well,” he said, “think about it.”

  Then he was gone.

  Neither of them spoke for a moment. Then Scott got up and went to one of the windows. The sun slanted into it.

  “It’s beginning to thaw,” Scott said. “They’ll make it all right.”