With this ring, p.23
With this Ring, page 23
An equally wrathful male voice barked, “Police business! Let me in—I want to see Mrs. Farley! Is she here?”
“You’ll not get in by pushing, police or not. I’ll scream!”
Cynthia hurried to the living room doorway. Lieutenant Hunt, his face an apoplectic purple, swept Mary aside and advanced with extended hand.
“All right, Mrs. Farley—let’s have that gun!”
“It’s all right, Mary,” Cynthia said calmly, and smiled at the maid’s look of horror when she produced the pistol from her bag. “Certainly, Lieutenant. How did you know? I was just dressing to deliver it to you.”
Hunt eyed her suspiciously, weighing the weapon in his hand.
“Heard you had it,” he growled, “and thought I’d better come over before you used it again.”
His implied accusation caught her unprepared, and while she hesitated the half-open door was flung wide.
“Watch what you say, Hunt!” Alex Houston warned as he stepped in. “You have a bad habit of jumping to conclusions.”
“Keep out of this, Houston! I’m running things now!”
“Then I certainly should be here to protect my client’s rights,” he pointed out calmly. “Mary, you’d better get on with your work; you aren’t involved in this.”
The maid bristled like a gaunt bulldog.
“I’m not leaving the likes of him loose in here!”
Houston laughed. “Trust me to protect Miss Shaw’s property, Mary. He really is a policeman, so it’s all right. Better run along while we sit down and talk this over.”
“Well, then—!” With a final glare at Hunt Mary stalked away to the kitchen, the slam of a door registering her feelings beyond the possibility of misunderstanding.
It was so dark now that Cynthia switched on the lamp beside the couch and found that the cheerful glow improved her state of mind, especially when it made Alex’s comforting smile more visible.
“Now, Mrs. Farley,” he said, leaning on the back of a chair and dropping his light manner for his courtroom tone, “if you wish to make a statement to the lieutenant you may do so. If not, say nothing.”
“Of course I want to!” Cynthia had moved to shut the outside door, but turned to stare at Hunt while she considered how to begin. Somewhere above the elevator clanked to a stop and a man’s harsh voice echoed down the stairway.
“Going out, huh? No, you’re not! I’m coming in!”
“Beat it—I’m through with you!” Claire Herbert’s angry retort was easily identified.
Cynthia promptly closed the door; she had no desire to overhear another Eric–Claire battle. She came back to face the two men.
“I’ve only been trying to help,” she protested. “I was swimming at the lookout point beyond the hotel when Eric Crane drove up and threw the pistol into the water—”
“And you caught it in your teeth?” Hunt sneered. “You threw it in and—”
Houston shot out a long arm and jerked the officer around.
“I’m a patient man, Hunt,” he said with ominous calm, “but if you don’t stop these wild accusations I’m liable to forget myself and slug you!”
“Listen, you! I’m a police officer!”
“Then act like one! From the brawling I heard as I came upstairs anyone would take you for a thug. Cool off, man—be your age. Let Mrs. Farley explain.”
Cynthia looked her gratitude and was encouraged by a smile in return.
“I believed Eric must be trying to get rid of evidence which would show who killed his sister,” she said, “and thought I could recover it.”
“Never thought of notifying us, I suppose?” Hunt demanded.
“It would have been impossible for me to show you the right place afterward, Lieutenant. With the tide at a different height everything would have looked different.”
She went on with the sequence of borrowing Tommy’s equipment, recovering the gun and returning to the Annex. The story progressed slowly because of Hunt’s interrupting questions until Alex persuaded him to let Cynthia tell it in her own way.
“It seemed better to dress before I went to you with it,” she ended, “and then you burst in. That’s all.”
“It isn’t enough for me!” Hunt grumbled.
“Why not?” Alex demanded impatiently. “Use your head, man!” He turned to the girl. “At what time did this happen?”
“I left here about four-thirty, and swam a while—it must have been around five o’clock when he appeared. I went after the gun as soon as I could, because clouds were making it so dark I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to see under water.”
Alex nodded. “Does that time suggest anything, Hunt? Crane left us in your office about five and drove off in his car. He was still badly shaken by his sister’s death, wasn’t he?”
“Why ask me? You saw him—but yeah, he acted pretty nervous.”
“Especially,” Houston queried, “after you mentioned the new angle I’d given you—we didn’t bring Mrs. Farley into it—the possibility that the murderer shot the wrong woman?”
“You talked about that more than I did, kept coming back to it.”
“I did, because his reaction was interesting. He grew more and more restless, he was sweating.”
The lieutenant sat down, hands on knees, and stared at Houston.
“I didn’t catch that,” he admitted. “You don’t miss much, do you. He did leave us pretty suddenly, when you kept firing questions.” With grudging admiration he added, “I’d hate to be on the stand with you examining me.”
To Cynthia it seemed that he was on the stand, with Alex guiding his thoughts. She was grateful for such a competent defender.
“This is an unofficial conference, so rest easy,” Houston smiled. “Now I’ll ask you what we call a leading question—one which any judge would order stricken from the record. Does it occur to you that Crane was most upset by the idea that the police might start hunting for someone who wanted to kill Claire Herbert—not Miss Margaret Crane?”
Hunt slapped his knee. “You mean he was so in the clear for his sister’s death that we never questioned him—he’s been coasting along without a care—but now things don’t look so good!”
“They look so bad for him, that he leaves us and gets rid of the gun just as fast as he can.”
Cynthia could not repress a question. “Then you think he did hire someone—a gunman—to kill—?”
“Nuts!” Hunt snorted. “That’s the only part of your theory I can’t buy, Mrs. Farley. I want to question Crane—and fast. We’ll round him up now!”
“A few minutes ago,” Cynthia offered with reluctance, “I heard Claire Herbert upstairs telling some man he couldn’t come in her apartment—and it sounded like Eric.”
“Damn!” Hunt left his chair with a rush. “I hope she doesn’t try to pressure him again—if it was Crane.” He shut the outside door quietly behind him.
The increasing evidence against Eric gave Cynthia a sickly feeling, wracked her emotions with the many indications of his character which she had seen and ignored or weakly excused. What a fool she had been about him from the first! Now the very thought of him was a black cloud closing in on her, darker than the threatening sky outside.
If Alex hadn’t taken her part, stood at her side so steadfastly—! But why imagine dangers which had never come to pass—Alex had stood by her, as he would for the rest of their lives, she was sure, if she gave the word. Not yet, though, not until this nightmare was completely ended.
“Thank you again, Alex,” she whispered, as if she expected that someone might be listening, “for coming to my rescue. Lieutenant Hunt was so menacing that he frightened me. How did he know I had the pistol?”
“From one of your faithful O’Hara slaves. Tommy came home and heard that you’d gone diving alone—apparently the cardinal sin in that sport. He went to look after you, saw you come up with an automatic pistol, and wisely decided that it was the wrong plaything for a pretty girl. So he ran to town and told Lieutenant Hunt.”
“And where did you hear of it, to arrive in the nick of time?”
“At the police station; I returned there with some more news for Hunt and promptly trailed him. If he hadn’t been in such a hurry to gather you in his attitude might have been different. I left a man at the station eagerly supporting your alibi for the murder afternoon. Someone connected with the police saw you walking along the shore.”
“But I don’t know any policemen, except O’Hara, and he was at the Fenley tea.”
“I said connected with the police.” His smile was tantalizing, but then he took pity on her evident bewilderment. “One John O’Hara, grandfather to Tommy and Sam.”
“The ex-lifeguard who was watching us skin-dive the other day!”
“Right. And you would have been flattered by his testimony. When his son mentioned your connection with the case Grandpa remembered seeing you.” Alex rolled his eyes dramatically. “ ‘It was her all right, in a dress like flame, and striding against the wind like a goddess!’ was O’Hara’s description. As you said once, the Irish are fundamentally poetic, but even a frigid Yankee can agree with that picture.”
The conversation was taking a turn which could lead to the showdown Cynthia hoped to postpone and she seized his last words to make a diversion.
“Speaking of ice-cold Yankees, your cousin is a rock to cling to in my troubles. Since the first news of the murder she hasn’t turned a hair at any development, no matter how frightening.”
Alex laughed. “Cousin Eva reminds me of what Thackeray wrote in his verse about Werther’s death—
“Charlotte, having seen his body
Borne before her on a shutter,
Like a well-conducted person,
Went on cutting bread and butter.”
He checked any further words to tilt his head toward the hall. Cynthia, too, heard the feet pounding up the first flight of stairs and she walked expectantly toward the door. But the pounding passed and began the second flight. She looked out in time to see a bellboy from the Harbor House disappear on the run.
“Do you suppose Lieutenant Hunt sent for help?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Who was that?” Houston joined her at the door.
“One of the bellboys. I’m sure he went to Five.”
Alex snapped his fingers. “I should have gone along with Hunt; maybe there’s trouble.” He crossed the landing and punched the elevator button.
From above a boyish voice yelled, “Leave the car alone—the lieutenant wants it here! It won’t run anyway, I’ve got the door open!”
Without a word Alex dashed for the stairs and Cynthia followed. If there was to be any excitement up in Number Five she meant to see it. But it was a punishing climb and Alex easily outdistanced her. She was panting from exertion and excitement when she reached the top.
“What’s happened?” she asked the bellboy between gasps for breath.
“I dunno! The Lieutenant called the desk from Four—for a passkey to here in a hurry. And I brought it!” he said proudly.
Cynthia went into the apartment. Alex and the lieutenant were at a window, looking down the fire escape. The room was in disorder, a chair overturned, a crumpled towel on the floor showed ominous red stains. In the adjoining room a bed trailed blankets and torn sheets on the floor. With pounding heart Cynthia crossed to the window. Another smear of red on the white sill.
“Is—is that blood?” she whispered.
“Looks like it.” Hunt leaned out the window, swore under his breath and came back in, beating a fist on the sill. “It must have been Crane—gone clean crazy. Knocked out the Herbert woman, tied her up and lugged her down the fire escape. You can see tire marks down there in the grass—his car!”
“Never mind that!” Houston snapped. “Let’s get busy!”
“I have; called the station first thing from here. They’ll throw roadblocks all over the point. He won’t get away if he hasn’t too much of a start.”
He sent a rapid, searching glance around the room, then motioned them to go out.
“What a mess; she must have put up quite a fight. There’s nothing to do here now, I’m going back to the station.”
“Is she—do you think she’s dead?” Cynthia gasped.
“How do I know? Why the devil did she go and rile him again, after what he tried last time? And all the while I’m sitting downstairs, gabbing with you!” Hunt snarled. “All right, out of here—I want to lock up.”
He herded them out of the apartment, tried the door to be sure that it had locked, and brushed the boy away from the elevator.
“We’ll get him!” he promised grimly, stepping into the car and closing the doors. His shadow loomed on the glass like an avenging demon dropping slowly into the depths.
Cynthia and Houston went down the stairs, too full of thoughts to speak. At the door of Miss Shaw’s apartment the girl murmured, “Nothing to do but wait, now, and I can’t say I look forward to it!”
“You’re not going to wait here,” Alex corrected gently. “Let’s get away from all this for a while. Be my guest, Mrs. Sherlock Holmes, for dinner at Land’s End.”
“Please don’t call me that! I’d like to forget my part in this dreadful business—but how can I!”
“For a start, come on to dinner. I promise to talk of nothing but the latest plays and books, the prospects of a World Series in Boston—in short, be the perfect escort. My car awaits below.” His hand turned her toward the stairs.
Helping her into the convertible, he paused to scan the leaden sky.
“Still threatens rain, but I think it’s a false alarm. However, if you’d like the top up—?”
“No, the more wind blowing through my weary brain the better,” Cynthia decided. “Could we ride around for a few minutes before dinner? It might help get me back in the groove.”
“I could use a little orienting myself.”
Alex drove along the road to Newbury Harbor, skirted the town by a back street, and headed for open country. At once a police car darted out of a side road and pulled alongside. Officer O’Hara leaned from a window, recognized them with a grin, and waved them on as his car dropped back.
Houston was passing another side road lined with trees when he slowed to a crawl and pointed to it.
“Road to the air field, Cynthy—remember? What a lot has happened since we went up there that afternoon!” His warm smile was on her as he said softly, “A little heroine!”
“Careful!” she admonished half-seriously. “The perfect escort, please.”
“Excuse the slip.” Alex turned his head. “Sounds like a plane warming up on the field. Only a maniac would fly in this weather.”
Cynthia jerked erect when his words penetrated, her fingers clenched. In a blinding flash that dizzied her she guessed what might be happening.
“Eric!” It was almost a scream, and startled Alex into jamming his foot on the brake. “It’s Eric! He has a plane at that field—and he’s getting away!”
Houston reacted with a speed which stunned her. The car backed almost into the ditch and then leaped ahead in a whirling turn that snapped her head back. He went far over the other shoulder of the road, skidded, pulled out of the skid, straightened until they reached the airfield lane and took that turn in a screaming slide.
The tree-lined narrow road was so dark that Alex switched on the headlights, and in their yellow glare Cynthia watched the elm trunks flicker past with terrifying speed. The wind brought tears to her eyes, she clutched the side of the car as it careened on the rough surface of the road. When the lighter stretch of the open field showed ahead Houston shut off the lights. The car rocked across the uneven ground toward the hangar.
Cynthia saw the small plane beyond, its propeller spinning, but Alex’s motor drowned out its sound. Then the wing flaps moved, the rudder swung over and the wheels began to roll through the grass.
“He’s getting away, Alex!” she cried.
As though the plane could see them approaching its motor roared and the wheels rolled faster. Houston tramped on the throttle, careless of the rough ground, and raced for the plane. It swerved away and he followed, bounding across the field in front of it.
At the last instant the pilot cut his motor to avoid a crash, the roaring died, the wheels locked and the spinning propeller slowed and stopped. A dark figure dropped from the cabin and ran headlong toward a car beside the hangar. When Alex set the emergency brake and jumped out to intercept him, the running man changed course and disappeared among the trees.
“Let the police gather him in,” Alex said, as he opened the door on Cynthia’s side “If Claire’s alive she needs our help.”
They found her in the plane, slumped on the seat, strips of torn sheet wound tight around arms and legs and a nylon stocking gag pulling her mouth into a ghastly grimace. There was blood on the stocking from her bruised nose, and a bluish lump on one temple, but her eyes were open, glaring at them as they lifted her from the plane.
Cynthia tried to be gentle as she worked at the tightly knotted gag.
“Everything’s all right, Claire!” she soothed, regretting the tremor in her voice. Her hands were shaking. “I can’t untie this, Alex!”
He dropped the strip of sheet he was unwinding from Claire’s arms, ran his fingers under the nylon on her cheeks, and worked the gag carefully down under her chin.
Claire gulped and choked, shaking her head drunkenly.
“Thanks!” she mumbled, and then laughed so unexpectedly that Alex, who was unwinding her again, stopped and leaned back.
“Easy does it, Claire,” he cautioned. “No hysterics, please!”
“Never had ’em in my life!” she protested, the color coming back in her cheeks. “It just struck me funny to be saying ‘Thanks,’ as if you’d lit a cigarette for me. I’ll try to do better than that when I get my breath.”
She kicked loose the last twist of sheet and stood up. Then she swayed dizzily and clutched at Cynthia.
“Sit down!” Cynthia urged. “Better lie down!”
“Not me. I never played a fainting female—I’m not the type.” Claire set her teeth and straightened her shoulders. “Where did that rat go?” she demanded, peering into the plane.
