The Late Clara Beame Page 11

  “Then how could you remember Carr? He isn’t unusual-looking; he doesn’t stand out.”

  She frowned. “That’s true,” she admitted thoughtfully. “He’s the sort of man you’d overlook in a crowd, unless you knew him well.”

  Henry scrutinized her closely. “Think, Laura. You didn’t know him before that time, or meet him afterwards?”

  “I told you I didn’t. I honestly don’t remember meeting him anywhere. If it hadn’t been for Alice mentioning that party I wouldn’t have recalled it. And, I don’t even remember seeing him at the party, though that’s the only place I could have seen him.”

  “Never at the club? Never in New York? Never at friends’?”

  She was so absorbed in trying to remember that she did not see the reluctant suspicion in his eyes. Then she said, “I give up! I can’t recall a single time I ever met him. Yet, he’s familiar in a way, as if I had known him for years. It could possibly be that I’ve met someone who looked very much like him. Don’t you ever meet people who remind you of other people?”

  “Yes. Quite often.”

  She noticed his expression. “Henry! Is there something wrong about him?”

  “I don’t know. I thought you could help me — by remembering.”

  She was dismayed. “But, Henry, you knew all about him two weeks ago, didn’t you? Mr. Bancroft’s client?” She paused. “Is he an impostor?”

  “Of course not.” Henry tried to sound reassuring. “It’s just that I remember him faintly, too.”

  “But what would an impostor want here? Have you told Alice and David about your suspicions?”

  “Laura, I haven’t any suspicions. It was just something that puzzled me.” He saw that she was tense again, and he bent and kissed her. “I’ve got a legal mind; I just like everything orderly and neat, with no loose ends, no little mysteries. That’s all. Now, be quiet, or you won’t be able to come down this evening.”

  After he had comforted her, he went downstairs slowly buttoning his mouton-lined leather coat. He was sure, now, that Laura had never seen John Carr before. She was incapable of pretense. If he hadn’t been exhausted this morning he’d never have permitted David to arouse any suspicions in him. Damn David! He felt for the woollen cap in his pocket. Alice was waiting downstairs, wrapped in her thick coat with the seal collar, a blue scarf tied over her blonde hair.

  “How’s our precious little invalid?” she asked.

  “Fine, now. But you don’t look well, Alice.” She was indeed very pale; her light lipstick was a startling note on her face, and her eyes appeared sunken. She shrugged. “With all the alarms you have around here, who could be placid? I remember years going by when I was a child, and nothing ever happening. Do you do this sort of thing regularly, Hank?” She smiled briefly.

  “We live a very quiet life,” he answered in a tone of mock gravity. “Where are the others?”

  “They’re both stretched out in the living room, fast asleep. I tell you, Hank, the city is never as rugged as this; we’re all exhausted.”

  He took her arm affectionately. “Let them sleep.” Together they went to the garage where they fitted on snow-shoes. The air was cold and sharp, stinging their faces. Alice was silent as they began their first few awkward steps on the snow. It was well packed and very deep, and they hardly sank into it. Alice floundered a few times until Henry took her arm. She laughed at their awkward progress; a yellow strand of hair fell across her forehead, and all at once she was young again. They walked with care, at a slow, steady pace.

  “It’s wonderful,” Alice murmured. “I’d forgotten a country winter, the pure air, the way the sun shines so blue on the snow, the still conifers like a mass of big white hands hanging down, the clean wind that sweeps out your sooty lungs, the quiet. The blessed quiet!”

  The wind brought out color along her smooth cheeks and brushed her lips with red.

  Henry’s square, kindly face smiled down at her. “You aren’t too tired?”

  “No. I feel renewed. Just bursting with oxygen.”

  They had left the house far behind, and as they climbed uphill they stopped to get their breath at the edge of a copse of frozen trees. Alice looked back. The big gray house stood in the snow, its windows winking, its chimneys smoking against the greenish light of the sky. Alice’s smile disappeared.

  “I always loved it,” she said, as if speaking to herself. “I always thought it would be mine. Even the barns, and the old chicken run. Once we had a cow. That was for Laura. Fresh milk. It was all for Laura, after all. It was the first home I ever had, and the last. Never once did I think, until Aunt Clara died, that it wouldn’t always be my home.”

  Henry fumbled for his pipe and carefully lit it. He did not look at Alice for some time. Then he said, “You can still consider it your home. But you never come. God knows we’ve invited you often enough.”

  “You don’t understand,” she told him sadly. “I’d only be a visitor. I don’t want to be a visitor in a house I’d always thought of as my own.” Her voice broke. “Dear God, I used to imagine myself living there always, with a husband. And children. I planned what to do on all these acres. I’d have a swimming pool where the natural spring is, I’d have arbors, and glades. I’d never leave even for a day, unless it was necessary. You can’t imagine what it’s like, to love every inch of land, every tree, every shrub, to hold it in your thoughts, so that it becomes part of you. I used to touch the tree trunks. They knew me, just as I knew them. It was like a death to me, when I learned that Aunt Clara had left it to Laura, all those green cool orchards, the brook, the spring, the fences, the brick chimneys, the fires, the waking in the morning to a day like this!”

  Her lips trembled; there was a hint of tears on her cheeks. “And in the warm, rainy June nights; the smell of the roses in the air, and the scent of the pines and the grass. I’ve been driven away, Hank. It’s not so much the actual owning of it, not really. It’s as if my whole self is there, and what is with me in New York, and what was with me in Chicago was the real ghost.”

  “I understand,” Henry said gently. “I love it that way, too.”

  “Does Laura?” she asked, with sudden sharpness.

  “I think so.”

  “But not the way I do?”

  He hesitated. “Perhaps not exactly. I don’t think Laura has the imagination you have, Alice. And sometimes I do think she’s lonely here.”

  “I wish I had the money to buy the house from you and Laura!”

  “And live here alone?” His tone was affectionate.

  And then they were looking into each other’s eyes with enormous intensity. Both were silent, unable to turn away. Alice’s breath rose in a faint plume from her mouth.

  “No,” she whispered. “Oh, no, Hank.”

  She reached out and put her hand on his arm. “You know I love you, don’t you?”

  His lips opened on a quick sound. He took her hand. “Yes, Alice,” he said, “I’m afraid I do.”

  “And you?”

  He turned away from her.

  “Why did you marry Laura, Hank? When you loved me, even before I married Sam?”

  There was no answer. Her fingers dug into his arm. “Was it the money, Hank? The money and the house!”

  He shook his head. “Alice, you know it wasn’t that.”

  “What was it then?” she demanded. “Tell me!”

  “Would you believe me if I said it was love?”

  She pulled her hand away from his. “No, I wouldn’t believe you.”

  “Not even if it’s true?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t believe it. How could you? A man like you — and that stupid child? What have you in common? What can she be for you but a clinging vine? How can you possibly stand her!”

  “You hate her.”

&
nbsp; “Yes,” she admitted. “I do. I’ve never concealed it. I wish she had died last summer! I wish she had died.”

  “Alice!”

  “I do! I do! Then you and I — ”

  “What about Sam, Alice? Why did you marry him?”

  She turned away. But he caught her arm. “What about Sam?”

  She would not look at him. “I loved Sam, in a way. I saw it was useless waiting for you. I’d been waiting most of my life for you, and you weren’t even aware of it. When you met Laura, I knew it was all over, the waiting, everything. I was fond of Sam,” she added dully. “I thought we could be happy together. He didn’t want to leave New York, but I did. I couldn’t stay here, thinking of you and Laura in that house, the house and you not belonging to me.”

  The sun was gone suddenly, and the sky grew full of ominous, purple-shadowed clouds. A strange light filled the air, gray but clear. Alice’s misery was obvious as she turned to Henry. “I’m sorry I said that I wished Laura had died last summer,” she told him. “That was cruel of me.”

  “But you meant it?”

  She sighed. “I suppose I did, when I said it. I don’t, now.”

  Large flakes of snow began to fall, and the wind rose, swirling the flakes around them. Alice asked, “When did you know I loved you, Hank? Not before I married Sam!”

  “That’s true,” he admitted.

  She smiled at him sadly. “And you haven’t yet said you love me.”

  “Do you want me to say it?”

  “Not unless it’s true.”

  He looked at the sky, and felt the sting of the wind on his face. “I’ve been absolutely faithful to Laura, Alice. I intend to remain faithful. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “All?”

  “All.”

  “Very well.” Alice sounded tired. “Let’s go on to the Ulbrich house. It’s still a quarter of a mile from here. And forget we ever had this fascinating conversation. What makes you think the telephone might be all right there?”

  “I thought I’d find out.” He stopped suddenly, as a thought occurred to him. “Damn it! I’d forgotten! We have the same party line! If we’re out, so are they.”

  The wind was growing stronger. Henry groaned. “Better take my arm, Alice. It’s getting dark. We can easily lose our way.”

  They stumbled in the growing dark of the storm and the almost blinding snow. They didn’t speak again; when Alice stumbled into a snowbank, Henry shook her coat and brushed the snow from her head. The way back was longer and more arduous than the way they had come. They wiped the snow from their faces. Their tracks had already been smoothed over by the wind and then the house was before them, looming like a dark shadow. Henry led Alice to the door, then stopped. “Go on in. I have something to do before I come in.”

  She put her hand on his arm; her face was a mask in the gloom. “Hank, please forget what I said, won’t you? I don’t know why I said it at all.”

  He pressed her hand. “I’ve already forgotten, Alice. Go in, now.”

  He turned before she had reached the door and made his floundering way to the woodshed. He found the door, and reached up for the bullet which had been fired at him. There was nothing there. Incredulously, he took off his glove and felt for the hole. It was a round hollow, but the bullet was gone. It could not have fallen. Only the end had protruded from the wood. It had been removed.

  Stunned, Henry Frazier stood for a moment. Then he was terribly afraid.

  Alice went into the quiet hall, where the only sound was the old clock ticking majestically. Wearily, she removed her coat and wiped her wet face with her handkerchief. Then she started. David stood at her elbow, watching. She read the question in his eyes.

  “Yes,” she said. “That’s all I can tell you. Yes. I’ve got to lie down. I’m exhausted.”

  Her brother watched her slow progress up the stairs, her hand on the bannister. He waited until she shut her door, but couldn’t see her collapse on her bed or her terror as she stared into the darkness.

  David returned to the living room, where a big fire burned brightly. John Carr sat forward on a round stool, smoking and staring into the fire. He looked up, and David nodded. Both men regarded the fire in silence. Then John Carr asked: “Where is he?”

  “He didn’t come in with her. I have an idea — ”

  They heard the hall door open, and felt an icy flow of air. In a moment Henry Frazier came into the room. Both men turned to him, and David yawned. But Henry paused some distance from the fire.

  “Have either of you been out today?” he asked.

  “Who? Me?” David sounded surprised. “No, indeed. I’m not a polar bear like you. And John’s been here all the time, with me.”

  “Are you sure?” Henry advanced a little farther into the room.

  “What do you mean?” David asked. John turned his head again.

  “I wasn’t out. Why? Is there something the matter?”

  “Only that the bullet that was shot at me was taken from the woodshed door.” Henry walked to the fire and looked down at his guests.

  “Fell into the snow, probably,” David suggested.

  “No. That’s impossible. It was taken out. I felt the edges of the hollow. There were splinters.”

  “Bullets usually do make splinters,” David said easily.

  Henry’s pale face flushed with anger. “Don’t be funny. The bullet’s gone. And now I have nothing to show the police but the hole.”

  “How about your handyman with the girlish name?”

  “He wouldn’t take it.”

  “Why don’t you ask him? Maybe he collects souvenirs.”

  Henry looked from one smiling face to the other. He felt frightened, for there was not only mockery but hatred in the room. They were so tangible that he stepped back from the fire. The men continued to smile at him.

  “Or perhaps Mrs. Daley or Edith?” David suggested.

  Henry moistened his lips. He looked at the windows, which were freshly covered with snow. He had an unfamiliar but desperate urge: to flee his own house.

  “There’s something wrong,” he said, feeling his heart beating too fast, too painfully. “Evelyn wouldn’t take the bullet. Let’s not be stupid. It couldn’t have fallen into the snow. Someone took it out.”

  “Alice?”

  Henry’s voice rose. “Don’t!” he exclaimed. He swung to John Carr. “Did you take it out?”

  “Why should I?” John’s voice was hard.

  Henry paused. “Do you have a gun?”

  The smile was gone. “No,” he said emphatically. “Why should I? What would I need a gun for?”

  Henry stared at John. Then he said, “Dave, I’d like a word with you.” He walked out of the room and stood in the hall. David looked at John before he rose and went out to his host. Henry spoke quietly, “I told you he had a gun. And now he’s taken the bullet.”

  “You should have removed it when you had the chance, yesterday.”

  “I was too — ”

  “Scared?”

  “All right! Wouldn’t you have been, damn it?”

  David shrugged. “I suppose so.” They could hardly see each other in the darkness. “You don’t seem very concerned,” Henry remarked resentfully.

  “I think you’re making a mountain out of a molehill. You’ll find the bullet in the snow, come spring, if it’s ever spring around here.”

  “I’ve lost my evidence. For the police. Can’t you see that?”

  David didn’t answer. Henry glanced through the archway into the firelit living room. John Carr was smoking, and studying the fire.

  “Can you keep him here?” Henry asked. “I never thought of it this morning. I’m going to empty his gun.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, He
nry!”

  “He denied he has a gun.”

  “What would you do under the same circumstances? Admit it?”

  “Why does he have a gun at all?”

  “Why don’t you ask him? Why don’t you tell him you found his gun in his suitcase?” David’s eyes caught a gleam from the leaping firelight.

  “You didn’t tell him I found it!” Henry’s throat felt tight; he could hardly breathe.

  “Of course not. Didn’t you ask me not to?”

  Henry rubbed his chin. “I don’t know.”

  “He’s your guest, not mine. You know him, I don’t,” David pointed out. “By the way, did you get to a telephone?”

  “No. No.” Henry spoke absently. He looked again at the man by the fire. “Keep him down here. I’m going to look for his gun and empty it.”

  “He’s not going to like that, when he finds out, and he will just as soon as he goes to his room.”

  “I can’t help that!” Henry said, his frustration growing.

  “What’s to prevent him from killing us, if he’s insane or something?”

  “I’ll keep him down here,” David promised.

  Henry ran up the stairs quickly. He felt almost as though he were being pursued. He heard Laura singing a Christmas carol behind the closed door of their room, and welcomed so normal a sound in the midst of his fear. Tiptoeing to John Carr’s door, he felt his way along the wall in the dusk. He opened the door silently, then entered the warm, neat room. Faint light reflected from the snow filled it. The suitcase was where it had been that morning. Henry held his breath, then went to it and released the catch. The gun was not there.

  He opened all the drawers of the single chest in the guest room. They were filled with the few things John had brought with him. Henry ran his frantic hands over the garments, and in the corners of the drawers. Nothing. Opening the closet door he made a fruitless search of the pockets of the suit, which was still damp. In his frenzy he even explored the comfortable wing chair in the room, lifting its cushion, feeling under the frilly chintz of its skirts. He lay on the floor and ran his hands over the polished bare boards. He stood up and flung aside the heavy draperies at the window and looked at the broad window sill. He was finally satisfied that the gun was not in the room. But wherever it was, there was danger. John Carr had discovered, in some way, that his gun had been found by someone in the house. But where had he hidden it? The house was large; there were hundreds of hiding places.